A young heart,
like a fresh wound,
hurts more, when exposed
to the world of sour tongues,
bitter eyes and bland brains

A young heart, hurts
like a healing wound
that stretches to
the demands of life

There's no home,
when you are down
There's no home,
even when you are up

-Kaya

I drank in the starry sky
before me, like I've
always owned it,
Like I've always owned you.

Before I go to sleep, read me
A bedtime story,
Read me
a bedtime story.

I would like to be young again.

That I could wake in solace
From the sleepless dream of a child's stage
Where the world is of no concern,
but only fairies and knights reside.

Such magic can only be found in their eyes.

If we could never wake up to reality
To face the crippling truth that there is no such
Happiness
In the blossoming of adulthood,
Then every day of our lives would be
Beautiful.

Every day
would end with the last pages
Of a happy ever after.

She's the girl with the matte lipstick,
Deep, bold red that flows in her veins
She throws them fierce on her fragile lips
Warning every man she's more than a kiss.

She's the girl with the matte lipstick
A deeper red than the roses she was given,
One look at the mirror and she's all set
To rule out the world with her head set high.

And she will be stronger than you and I,
For her soul is clinquant with
glittery gold
Of fading scars and past mistakes
That she will one day conquer all on her own.

A plane,
Soaring through and above the
Open space;
Hearing the grunt and the
Groan of its flight
As I sit in my room with blinds closed tight.

Closing my eyes, touching the
Faint trails of its last whine
Before it fades into painful silence
Like the end days of
A broken heart.

Its metallic wings,
Groaning with the essence of mankind:

How should I put it?
The plane,
Like a free bird
But not quite.

Petal by petal, she wanes
Ever so quietly
Like a waking consciousness succumbing
To sleep,
I now understand the bitterness
Of one's last breath.

But why, why does it render such
Pain? Is not death
Beautiful?
The withering of all
Sufferings and endurance, the
Beginning of one's revelation,
And yet again...

Maybe
If I turn her into a poem,
If I can etch her essence into
Pen and paper, she will live on;
They said words were powerful.

I only want her to be strong.

Live on,
Live on,
Please live on...

To my popo.(2016)

I breathe the breath of a poet
Held hostage by mediocrity,
Such indifference were the norm
Of unwritten rules and irony.

Among the bushes roses
Bloomed many,
But few survived
even a day or two,
For they withered off
With their thorns pierced
Through their petals,
Choking
From the words of suits and ties
That viewed the world as a monopoly game.

Child, you have two ears, but
do not let the wind whisper into them
with blind language.

Make your own path,
And set foot on the road untraveled.

There's something about pillows
So soft and fluffy and light
So comforting and reassuring
That they go hand in hand with the night

Oh shooting star, passing so bright,
I wish i may, i wish i might
Use her thighs as my pillow one night

I sat on a wounded chair
in a room filled with silence
and peace, nobody was there
I spoke to the dead and still
plastics of life, to seek,
love, comfort and care
Caged in my imagination
crowded , I was unaware  
I was not alone,  
I felt a deep stare

-Kaya