i cannot die.
not yet, at least.
not when i'm capable of so much more love,
when i have so much to give before i end up above.

you once told me,
that seven was your favorite number.
lucky number seven.
but what could be so lucky about death?
i read that before one dies,
seven minutes of brain activity remains
and in their head, a snapshot of their life replays.

all i can hope is to be
just in one second of that story
to be part of your entrance into heaven and glory
to be the final lullaby lulling you to sleep
to be in the last breath you exhaled deep

i remember
the day of your funeral.
being embraced
in your mother's arms,
and that if there was ever a time
to be
forgiven,
to stay
strong,
it was now.
that a look of comfort,
and not saying anything
is all i could do.
and that the way we held each other,
maybe no one could tell who was comforting who.

i remember,
shaking your father's hand
like i still had to give him
respect,
for coming up with you, for making one half of you
BEING HELD IN HIS ARMS THE WAY HE USED TO DO WITH YOU

no one knows
about the times i almost became a father
how close we were
to ******* it all up.
how your father would **** me if i made you a father
how if we went to "Maury,"
i would be the only one in history to jump up in celebration,
as he says,
"you are the father!"

i'm just
happy
i experienced everything with
you.

people tell me recently that i speak like their father
and after having shook the hand of one of the greatest fathers i ever met,
i know that i will be ready to be a father.
that with or without you, i will never forget you.

i'm just
sad.
i can't get on one knee and propose to you,
time how long it would take for you to say "I do."
i won't know if it'll take seven seconds or less,
just know i gave you my
best.

i'm just
i'm just really missing you.
the lessons you gave me at seventeen,
will last until i'm seventy.

for last, i hope
i hope
that my last seven minutes of life,
will be spent listening to the sound of your voice,
bleeding slow in me as a gentle knife.

Snow White isn't easy
Maybe she just needs seven extra sources
of income
Maybe she gets depressed
easily
Maybe she is very good friends
with every single one
Why does everyone have to assume she's sleeping with all of them?
Snow White is better than that.

Let me write a happy poem
and paint it seven colors

Red for the burning passion
and orange shows emotions

Yellow for the friends i made
and green for peace and truce

Blue showing the calm ocean
that steer my ship slow motion

indigo wings that help me fly
so high in violet sky

Seven colors to paint my life
and hide the blackening rife !!

There are few things I've realized after we talked.

First.
You're intelligent, and most people don't see that.
They can't understand that there's more to your pretty face.
Your well-thought words utter what actions can't.
You always tell me that I'm the poet between the two of us
But you,
You draw bright cities and beautiful night skies
With hushed voices, and quiet whispers.

Second.
You're sensitive, and you take every harsh word to heart.
You always say you don't,
And cover the hurt with weak smiles
That don't reach your eyes.
But I know you better, and I know you deeply.
You're too kind, too pure to be treated like that.

Third.
You're patient.
You know that perfect things,
No matter how small they are
Or grand they may be,
Will arrive in the right time.
We, of all people, know this.
You're the most special gift
I didn't know I was yearning for.
My sweet, sweet serendipity.

Fourth.
You will never be convinced that cats are better than dogs.
I agree.

Fifth.
You're kind to others, but never to yourself.
You love so unconditionally
That all that's left to you
Are tired eyes and weathered bones.

Sixth.
You are trapped within walls of expectations.
Your bright, burning soul slowly faded
With years worth of sadness.
It took a while before you found yourself.
And when you did,
You were unsure if you liked what you've seen.

Seventh.
Though our hearts are weary,
And our bodies restless,
Know that I will only want you.
Know that I will always need you.
You see through me,
Beyond the superficial,
You saw the deepest, darkest crevices of my soul.
You make me feel things I have never felt before.

There are few things I've realized after we talked.
I love you,
And I will never, ever let you go.

A million sandlewood candles from
the quick checkout at Sephora
could not mask what we have
done here. Not all the *****
in the world could seize my
dripping mind, which always
seems to pour down the
drain for you and your
stupid ignorant
wild and lewd
cruel and deliberate
enchanting, invigorating—
I sit behind you in math
class and you hold
his hand.
He met me at East 79th
and fifth,
“I think she’s cheating,” he says.
“What a *****.” I say, shaking my head.

red, blood stains on my hands and your body,
I’ve washed my hands a thousand times,
but i can still see the blood,
purple, all our bruised bodies, galaxies of wrath and fear,
etched into our skin and minds,
bottles shattering, bottles almost as broken as me,
our past now wrapped up in broken glass.
bland dinners, eaten in silence,
too scared to say sorry, too scared to break the silence,
and make it right again.
metal, the metallic smell of blood,
forever stained on my hands.
tears welling in your eyes, while i well with guilt
guilt, frustration, sadness
eating me away into
nothingness

Within lamenting hushened calls,
Shepards watch thine burning sea.
As bussoms burn with froths of lies,
I shall avenge you, this I decree.


Lost art thou, to seven layers.
A trembled ground from which you cry,
With sword and dagger at my side,
To free you, I would surely die.


Worry not, the chains that bind,
I shall crush with mine own hands.
For power beacons within mine heart,
To crumble towers into sand.


But thy doth not knowst,
To slay the beast of sorcery.
The sword I bring is my mind,
And the dagger is mine poetry.

I'm tired...
Please just let me sleep...
Doctor! Doctor!
Please don't try to wake me.
I might only be seven
but God is calling me to heaven.