In a secluded place
there's a little house of mine
where the wind
the rain
lightning and dark clouds
sunrise and evening stars
snails and orioles
sakura and snow
swallows and spring breeze
orchids and autumn
friends and foes
loved ones and strangers
all the people i know from the books
you and the flowers of dream
and time had come
and gone
like a little letter
carrier.

stagnation tastes bitter
with a spoonful of disappointment
and a cup of regret
but what right do i have to
complain about something
i consciously bring
upon myself
to taste unapologetically
every night
i am reminded
of how aimless
and pointless
i have been
coursing through the
days wasting time
fooling myself into
believing
i had moved an
inch forward towards
something worthy
to wake up to
but even waking up
takes so long
when every night is
like a clingy lover
that i tolerate into
not letting me go
until too much darkness
is enough
and it's time to part
and then it's time
to wake up
again and again
to a new set of stagnating days
aimless
pointless

My city... I was here before it was even one,
my toys are older than the high-rise buildings.
Yet all of my oldest dreams have long been gone,
this is where new people from far-away are dreaming.

People dream to visit here even for a day,
I can't count the years I've been trying to escape.
People travel here to have a sip of coffee,
yet even the taste of water here can tell that I am sick.

In the inner city, while everyone takes photographs,
I try my best to walk with my shoulders not dropped.
In the chic cafes where others strike a pose,
I knew I never wanted more, I had my dose.

My city, that many people dream of living in,
why, then there's me who's here and feeling livid in.
My now-larger-city that still feels like a small town,
I feel suffocated, as if all my life I'm in a tight gown.

I start my walk home with heavy feet after a long day at work. My earbuds are charged and ready to tug at my heart. The early summer heat is setting in and I wipe the sweat from my brow. I feel the thud of my boots against the sidewalk like the percussion of a tone-deaf child clamoring two cymbals together. The beat doesn't match the music, but the sentiment is sincere.


The light switches from orange to white; I make my way across the vacant intersection. I wonder if I ever cross your mind because you've invaded mine like a virus. I almost catch my breath but cough up blood. I wipe my hands against my jeans. Sometimes this is what love feels like. 

Feet still clanging like metal against the pavement...I walk. I think of you always. What a waste. My mouth full of pennies and you don't even see that I am golden. The salt I rub from my cheek does nothing more than provide patina. All of this sorrow goes unseen, unnoticed. 


Two hands of shimmering glitter. Will anyone ever see them? The purest gift to offer, yet everyone keeps walking fearfully away. I've never liked coins, but I flip one into the air and watch it spin. The axis turns and I wonder where it will land. 


The cymbals are no longer mashing against one another, and I stare at my boots on the carpet of my room. Silence. My bloodied denim folded neatly on the floor. Do you still taste me in your mouth?


Because you're on my tongue like a good luck charm tucked away in the corner of a drawer somewhere. Someday you might remember me fondly and think of what could have been. Or maybe you won't.


Vulnerability is a double-edged sword, and I am ready to be laid bare. It takes an incredible amount of bravery to allow love to split us open...our insides bathing us in gold. 


I will say it again: love is a heavy apparatus to wield, and it requires more than two hands. 


My earbuds beep incessantly...


Battery dead.

Time has been
                          lost again.
Falling
into the
cracks in
the floor.

With a pounding heart
I grasp
for the remnants
                              of memories
but they have      slipped
into distant          caverns.

Blurred figures
of my past
constructing walls to
                                   opaque themselves
to mere whispers.

I keep falling in love with ghosts
They flitter in and fade away

Three little spirits slipped wetly into my hands
****** and beautiful; we called each other family
The foundation cracked and poison filled the gaps

They used to laugh and call me daddy
Now…silence and estrangement
That name is reserved for another

Everything in my life was thrown into a heap
Misunderstanding and pain collided to spark the flame
I walk through this new reality, ash covering my feet

Yes, bartender, I’ll have another
And another

///

A wraith tall and handsome extended his hand in kindness
I reached with my entire being
Poured my heart into his chest

For a moment he washed me clean
We laid bodies entwined as poetry spilled from his lips
A summer zephyr under my wings
I was a phoenix

Balladry devolved to insult
He removes the dagger and ashes spill out
My brokenness is scattered everywhere

Yes, bartender, I’ll have another
And another

///

Splintered, scaly hands attempt to rebuild
A heavy mind sits in an empty room
Passing by houses filled with the ones I love
Never fingers to grace cheek again

I’ve become the stranger that can’t find a home
Saliva stretches as lips part 
Lungs evacuate and heartbroken cries disappear into the sky

This hollowness haunts me like an apparition
Love…the ultimate curse
It’s previous forms have burned me to ash

Yes, bartender, I’ll have another
And another
.
.
.
I’m in love with ghosts
They flittered in and faded away

I've come to realize the fragility of life itself as of late; a delicate dance of psychological and physiological elements, converging in the process of sustaining a human life.

These components become so complexly intertwined; wrapping themselves around each other whilst expanding and contracting.

My biological systems may keep humming along, subconsciously—yet it is in my mental environment that I choose to allow them to continue. A fascinating concept.

Neurons fire in my brain, telling my arm to extend itself outwards in front of me as if to point at something interesting. More signals are sent, instructing my arm to bend at the elbow; I am now staring at the palm of my hand that rests a few inches from my face.

Neurons continue to spark and my hand slowly twists for me to examine its backside, and then it returns to its original position. My eyes are entranced as they explore the landscape of my palm; its creases and folds resemble a map of sorts.

Fingers methodically open and close—fist, open palm, fist, open palm. My grey matter is aglow as a colorful lighting storm of activity pulses throughout.

Eyes close for a moment.
Thoughts.
Memories.
Thoughts.

They open up again to glare at this dead hand. That’s the fascinating part, the fact that the very signals that are sent to trigger these hand movements—or to trigger my lips to form a pucker or toes to tap, tap, tap to a beat—can also instruct those fleshy appendages to move in such a way to extinguish my own life.

No safeguards? No life-preserving big red button that my subconscious can press in order to save itself?

Nope.
A choice.
A dance.

And I’ve decided tonight…I’m staying alive.

Because somewhere buried deep in my psyche is a little wrinkled-up piece of notepaper with the following words scribbled upon it:

“The sunrise is just over that hill. The worst is over.”

I wish I could talk to you,
not like how I talk to God
but how I talk to myself
when I'm not missing being loved.