Some people think I'm dramatic,
"She's gotta be fibbing-"
I'm not sure why people won't take me seriously
I'm always "too sensitive," never impressive

They wonder why I choose to hide,
Stay inside and never visit
Because they don't accept who I am.
They throw me in the family box for misfits.

We're like the joy and the pain
My mom and I, we don't get along
We're like the peace and the storm
My mom and I, we don't get along

Find what you love
Live it, hold it like a long note
Behold it like still-wet art
and it becomes beauty to you.
It becomes magical.
Like family.

A portion of the wall, concealed deceitfully,
A portrait framed, superficially free,
Yet its distance from truth, painfully clear to see.

A painted smile, deceivingly grand,
But the cracks in the facade, I failed to understand,
A puppeteer's trick, I was caught in his hand.

Beneath the illusion, hidden in the shade,
Chains of despair, with scars never fade,
Unable to voice the anguish, in silence I stayed.

The colors of the photo, a deceptive hue,
Gray like the lies, only tears stay true,
A facade that crumbles, revealing the blue.

A picture of a dream, forever unreal,
A happy family, love he can't truly feel,
On the wall, a tragedy concealed.

In that portrait, lies a departed soul,
A family fractured, the lies uroll,
A better version, I yearn to console.

I am definitely no poet but I like to write and I wish I could capture in my poetry
(if it can be considered poetry),
the melancholy of changing seasons
and empty sidewalks and long secret
fleeting glances.
Longing and Desire burning in the flames of youthful passion.
Or true love if that exists, I am sure it does.
The afternoon silence or
the echoing laughter on a windy day,
my love for my family, the radiant smiles of my friends.
The way sunlight decorates the ocean
waves in summer, disappears in the
monsoon,
Only to return back with shades of golden
in autumn and peeking desperately,
Trying to warm the frozen earth in desolate winter.
The utter feeling of loneliness that
connects each and every one of us,
The emotional weight of saying a goodbye
to the last year at new year's,
My childlike sense of adventure and
wonder,
Or my dread when it comes to talking
about death.
But mostly and desperately I sincerely
hope that my poetry
(that on some days I am not even sure can
be considered poetry),
captures the essence of loving and living,
A life well lived and loved that would be
called mine.

all our money not my money not my life not my problem not my problem yeah I have time no problem, we have a problem
call your sister call your dad and then ring mom up
buy the groceries clean the fridge out find more blue bags and buy more blue bins and sort it all out just get yourself sorted and everything always works out for me but that popcorn seed is still in my teeth and my heart is screaming and yet scary unfeeling but you just have a sparkle to you, it's so great having you but we wish you never came and I wish I never came and we'll all wish to go somewhere else but we're still here smiling struggling to eat I don't like it but I'm eating it doesn't feel good but I'm eating finished the whole bag look I'm eating all these salt lines under fingernails forgot to cut them last week haven't touched my toes in god knows how long except for when I tripped in the shed big bruises on legs that don't feel like pulling their weight and I'm lost and stumbling and I'm not really falling because that would mean I was upright and I'm more of a horizontals kind of guy, I'm fine.

I asked a flute player
if he ever missed the melancholy of his tunes,
the way they twist and travel in the afternoon silence.
When he sleeps at night all lonely under a big sky,
the bag of flutes by his side.
He looks like the Almighty Krishna if Krishna was ever lonely,
for he spends too many restless nights.
He said that the grief of loving is what we carry home,
the grief of knowing that death takes away all.
The melancholy of life that we all feel under our layers,
the loneliness twisting and paining our restless hearts like the tune he plays every afternoon.
The tune reminds me of death and life
and my loved ones still alive.
I hope this grief of knowing
too much does not drive me to insanity.
I wish someone could come and listen to my heart.

The closest I'll get to almost opening
That infamous browser app
The one shaped like a stamp
On my LG enV Touch
The wavy blue thumbnail
That one
Or the rotating Earth
The one led by an arrow
On another LG
It's a flip phone
I don't know the name
But the first one I had
I might add
I just did
It's been added
Is probably opening apps
That alert other people
To my sleeping habits
It's five o'clock
I'm out back smoking
And check Instagram
Then remember my mom
Asking me why I'm up
On her schedule
And swipe up as if
She'd be charged for that ****
And she is
What an angel for paying
For me to have
PHONE
Not the same as it was
Frantically tapping before I'm punished
Or I have to say why I did what I did
Same and not in some ways
But as close as I'll get

the blood of my mother is sweet.
but the blood of my father is sour.

no wonder i am certain of nothing.
even my blood does not know
how it should taste.