If you saw
yourself
in my lines
then
yes,
that poem
was about
the
fictional
you
in the eyes of a
Writer

You are the purest existence in this world, my love for you is unrivaled,
Your long purple, silky hair, your faint and subtle smile, your dreamy looking eyes.
Quiet you may be, but we all know you're just shy, not talking to strangers, but to close friends you will try.
The books you read are deep and meaningful, not just some children's farce,
your love for literature is strong, and so is my love to you.
A little bit edgy you are, at times, but you are no at all rude,
no evil intend residents inside you, although you're a little bit emo.
You're wonderful, beautiful, and marvelous no less,
your faint smile is what I pledge to protect.
The day of the festival, you came to my home, the sweater made me blush,
white and fluffy it seemed, and curved your outline well.
I still remember the feeling of my palm caressing your face,
smooth and perfect your skin was, how much I'd love to touch again.
Remember the time we first met, and read a book together?
Our hands touched, mind became one, and "how serene", I thought.
Then there was the time, I fed you a chocolate, you didn't even notice,
so deeply absorbed into your book, I've cherished this image forever.

Alas, my love for you will never be fulfilled,
the monitor is a long distance between us, our dimensions do not match.
You do not exist in the same world as me, you're fictional, not real,
but at least in my very fragile heart, we're not a screen apart.
To me, you are real, and that's is what matters.

Unicorns puke rainbows
Vampires puke blood
Zombies puke brains
the colors don't stop

A girl once told me
that if my colors seem to fade
I should think of the memories
in my life that were great

I want to lunge at it,
I want to tear it to shreds.
It drowns me with my own grief.
This false grief,
This false grief that fills my body with weight, that wasn’t there minute before.
I hate it.
I want to rip at the pages and re-wright them.
I want to change the damning end that sends the destructive words to my eyes.
I want to carve out his name,
I want to carve out the man’s name that shot the fatal wounds.
Yet
Yet, I see the bigger picture.
I see the ending gives justice to all that has happened.
I have given her the shock value that she has wished for,
And I love it.
-ALC

The knowledge of her death kills a piece of me.
I sit, light blaring at the page, hoping for her to wake up.
I sit, hoping this is all just some terrible hallucination she is having.
My stomach twists as I see his face in my head.
Him, the one that learned how to love her, then lost her.
Sadness, guilt and pity swirl through my body.
I can only imagine the deep pain and loss he is feeling.
All of it is to savior for me to bear
I laugh whipping away my tears
This is silly.
I have watched them from a far this entire time.
Their faces are made up,
Constructed, sculpted, from the words that burn into my eyes.
Yet I feel this pain,
This pain I feel in my being must be the same pain that he feels now,
Staring at her life less body
Limp,
Gone.
I want to lunge at the paper
I want to scream, cry, and laugh.
This is twisted
I hate it for sending me to this emotional place,
But I can’t help but continue,
Loving the action and thrills it sends along the ride.
Her death kills a piece of me.
-ALC

I imagine myself
A few gentle decades older.
Finally grasping the cusp
Of success.
Living in my own apartment
In New York City, nonetheless.
Wearing an Armani coat
(Whatever those look like.)
Walking idly yet prestigiously
Through winter in the city.
Taking care not to laugh too loud,
Talk to myself, smile too much.
A small, attractive female
Has to be serious to get ahead.
Customers will buy from a happy girl
Only if she is early 20's, at most.
That is Marketing 101.
I am a small fish in a large sea;
The principles of Darwinism
Still apply to me.
I've learned long ago to succeed,
I must stifle the welcoming smile.
So along the familiar concrete
I stride,
Carefully manicured hands
In pockets.
The Filipinos know better
Than to rush on the hands
Of a businesswoman caressing
A successful career.
She tips well and lives well.
I walk along with cool calm
And feminine grace.
I have regained the safety
To be feminine once again.
The criminals know better
Than to infiltrate
The Business district
And cause trouble
To working professionals
In Armani coats.
I imagine myself a few decades older.
Kissing snowflakes unenthusiastically.
Yes, I marvel in poetry, in Nature,
But I have matured
Much like the snowflakes themselves.
At the end of a cycle,
No matter how beautiful.
My actions flow gracefully and delicately.
I melt into New York City
Like a cell in a body.
Pumping fuel into the *****
To sustain the mass.
A tumor.
I smile subtly as I slosh along.
I recall, once upon a time,
On my lower-class youth.
***** jokes, crude dancing,
And cluttered apartments.
I approach the high-rise building
I call home and greet the doorman
With the obligatory disregard
For his innermost being.
Poetry truly is in the strangest of places.
Even in an enigma like me.
I enter the marble floors,
Wiping my feet,
My rent as sky-high as
The building itself.
Elevator. Comforting motion sickness.
This is success.
The pit of my stomach sinks.
I tell myself it's the motion sickness.
I return to my apartment,
With its symmetrical details.
My thoughts return to you.
You've never stepped foot in my home,
But you've always been here with me.
I get dinner started.
I set out the extra glass, like always.
Rituals like these serve
As my Sunday mass.
I drink your glass with my evening medication.
Dare I say like always?

I used to believe in Santa Claus
So jolly and red and so fat.
I was a big fan of Christmas
No holiday was as great as that.
Not Easter with those funny eggs
Not even Halloween with candy.
No, that thing about tons of presents
To me, that was fine and dandy.

And we even got two weeks off
Nobody had to go to school.
Then coming back with new clothes
That made me look so cool.
Nothing compared to Santa Claus
The flying reindeer, ** ** guy.
I used to try to stay awake
So I could see him flying by.

It was such a great reality
To know that dude was up there
In the frozen north pole air
Making stuff for kids everywhere.
That was the world I reveled in,
Where everyone celebrated.
I knew I was not the only one
Who sat by the tree and waited.

I don’t remember being confused
By the Santas in department stores.
Santa had lots of helpers, I knew,
And this guy was just one more.
I did have a problem with chimneys
And a bag that he could lift
That carried things for all us kids;
Every size and type of gift.

But kids have a way of helping folks
To maintain a pretty fantasy.
We just ignored things that didn’t fit.
We went about it very easily.
But one day, and I remember when
I got let in on the confidence game
And Santa Claus was quickly gone,
Never to come to our house again.

The sad thing is nothing can ever
Replace the joy I once felt.
Santa was not supposed to be
Like Frosty and too quickly melt.
So, I have to make do with having
The grownup toys I buy myself.
Oh, how I could use a flying sled
And the help of a brace of elf.