Tell a little girl that her coily hair is beautiful when all of her playmates think otherwise. Marvel at a little boy’s drawings when everyone else he shows them to is too busy to spare a glance. Compliment someone’s floral dress in the subway; compliment someone’s smile, someone’s art, someone’s cooking, someone’s gumamela flowers soup they made especially for you. Thank someone for the songs they introduced, for the songs that now have become your shower jams and lullabies. Tell someone that you think they’re amazing and smart, especially if they don’t think so of themselves.
In a world where everyone looks past a street singer and ignores the old man painting sunsets in a park, be that someone who isn’t afraid to tell people about the beautiful things in them. Be that someone who isn’t afraid to be soft to others. Be that someone who isn’t afraid to be kind.
I want my love to remind you of the first stars you see during the nightfall, of the movie soundtracks you sing under the shower, of the words from a book you can’t put down, of the scenes you remember from a half-forgotten dream.
I want my love to remind of you the first sunrise we saw together from my bed, of the coffee blend that made you realize you loved coffee, and of riding buses during sunsets, and of the first flowers that came right from your soul.
I want my love to remind you that despite its harshness and sadness, there is something kind and soft and gentle in this world, darling — and that you can call it home.
I no longer dance
under a raincloud of poems
but if you let me,
I’ll pull you
under every tiny bit
of cloud I find
and we can dance under them;
condensing into raindrops —
melting with the petrichor —
as if a downpour of words
will wash away
the bruises and scars
and baptize our soul anew.
a clean slate;
like the soil after the storm,
like leaf patterns that
like a summer day,
death by burning knows no era
and my demons have long
set me on fire.
i feel like a witch burning at the stake —
burning and screaming for too long now,
but give it time and maybe
even my nerves can learn to be numb,
even the lick of flames can grow cold;
and maybe even the ashes can feel like home.
she is what
black holes look like
and in the deep space of her room,
she writes poems
made of meteorites
and sings to playlists
made of stars.
I will use the water
In your bowl
Lighting a fire in a cave far away
Flower your soil
Make it a garden of bouquets
Of petunias and water lilies bright as the dark lakes
In some functional world
Where we can be together
On the rivers,
By lake shores
There are plenty of chores
That water bowl is empty
As the heartbreaks are plenty
There are no chances of surviving in this
Fine, the old town of wars and running soldiers
That's the title of my next *** tape
As the wishes for borrowing instances from a stranger's eyes
And there is no choice of friendliness in the eyes of comeliness
Tempered by the bruises
By the brawning raucous youth
There is no race for money
There's only looking for plenty of currency
My sunset is lit
Like a fire
So is your stars lighten up
The blue sky
My heart is bright
Like a moon
So your smile radiants life
My universe is infinite
So your world stands out.
The things you do to please someone
The sacrifice you take to make someone happy .
Enough would be an underestimated word to please someone .
Putting yourself first isn’t selfishness
Through clusters of thoughts of you..
Star memories roll on shadow plains true..
Your light waves link to my very essence..
As I am connected in soul network to your presence..
Into the expanse of thoughts of you..
Endless moments of smiles and virtues..
Constellations inside of your eyes..
Moments of forever written in the sky..
You glance to me in streak of light..
Passing by my stars in this dream lit night..
My eyes absorb every bit of your shine..
Under this heavens vault dream sky of mine..
She passed on by in the sky....
Wish I was a cat
Agile legs of naïvety
Ignorantly shifting incongruity off
unsuspecting decorations of
the infuriated fireplace’s shelf
L s e i n to the commotion of s h a t t e r e d
i t n g
vases and idiot mementos that
very much costcheaply, but lookexpensively
Wish I was a cat
Defacing the beauty of toilet paper
miles of fragile, snowy roads
whilst overthrowing the throne that we
know as a freaking t i e that f l u s h e s
o l t
the—mind you, number 1 and number 2
very much dumbannoyingly, but hystericalhilariously
Wish I was a cat
Meow the life out of myself
Causing uproar of vexation endless hours of incoherent
and w n e r u l
o d f smiles of delight,
statements like a clash between two hard-boiled, e g g h e a d e d lawyers
very much mundanespeakly, but expressionfreely
(Please read this poem in landscape if you're on a mobile device.)
Cats are rambunctious.