#journalentry
by now, the moon knows that my chest is just a burial ground for this thousandfold of sighs — in their hands, all different ways of my undoing, and i am a breath away from one. you see, some nights are for the softest, gentlest moments of lunacy. some nights, for waging wars and succumbing into these sighs, barely held by the petals tightening around my throat. by now, the moon knows that i had once been a battlefield and it's a pity — growing poems on such an unholy ground, only to fall apart like aster leaves and ancient city walls.
darling, it's getting dark, and this is starting to look less like poetry — and more like spoils of war from inside my head.
Apr 28, 2020
Apr 28, 2020 at 8:10 AM UTC
Today,
I am the emptiest space
and in the center is a black hole.
The sun, dethroned;
the planets have seen it all
and they can only witness so much.
Then again,
what happens in space is unseen by the naked eye.
Jan 13, 2020
Jan 13, 2020 at 6:38 AM UTC
And once and for all, I just want someone to tell my whole story to — all my realities and lies, all my lived experiences and suppressed wishes, my secrets, my regrets, my fears, my victories and my losses. I just want someone who’ll keep a record of who I was and who I am, in case I don’t make it — in case all of it fades with me tonight.
Jun 28, 2019
Jun 28, 2019 at 3:31 AM UTC
Have you ever had the feeling
your heart had just bursted one too many times
maybe this time
it truly won't recover
from the wreckage
but oh my darling it will
your heart was never intended to be collateral damage in the warpath created by those who aren't brave enough to love you
& i'm so sorry they destroyed you in their wake of self destruction
but now the choice is yours
remain down in the dirt
bruised knees and angry tears
or
you can rise up
wipe the ashes from your skirt
piece your heart back together
take back the stolen bits
then keep on walking
until you find somewhere far enough
to remake your story
you have the choice to no longer remain collateral damage
instead
become the damage yourself
Sep 14, 2018
Sep 14, 2018 at 10:11 AM UTC
i cant describe the feeling of walking down the bridge , the musician playing the most generic song ever,
but for some reason
at that moment it isn't generic.
in fact, its like walking into an air conditioned room after a long day of being in the hot sun, comfortable.
walking down the bridge felt comfortable.
not only comfortable, it felt right
i
felt right
i felt like i belonged,
the wind brushing my hair,
the sun complementing my complexion
i actually felt like i belonged somewhere
i complemented the sun, the sun complemented me,
i have
b l o s s o m ed
my foot is in front of the other, walking and walking,
it felt like i could walk forever
replaying the moment of serenity in my head making me feel
a l i v e
for the first time in forever
Mar 18, 2018
Mar 18, 2018 at 8:36 PM UTC
How can you know when something or someone is near or far? Or there or here? Is it the gravity felt between the souls of two people destined to be in each other's lives, similar to the moon and the ocean waves? Could it be the same feeling when you know a pair of eyes are on you in a crowded place, waiting to see what is brought upon by the twist of fates? Or maybe it's the pulling red string which stretches from two pinkies, thus binding two hearts together.
...
I liken loving you to stargazing. On clear nights, the destination and direction--you-- are just as clear. Only the distance as usual, remains vague and vast, filling the space between us. With me reaching out to you, it was more hopeless than a child wishing on shooting stars. There were even times I had to wish for a shooting star; to wish for you falling down and into my arms.
I look for you in the places where I know I'd find you, and even in the places where I know I wouldn't. We're so close, yet so far, with every centimeter between us seeming like an eternity of a mile. You were immoveable, yet it seemed as if you were getting farther with every inch I moved closer to you. Neither my fingers nor my eyes could ever catch you.
And all so suddenly, on one clear night I realized: I didn't, couldn't and wouldn't get my answers to knowing how near or far you are to me.
Dec 29, 2016
Dec 29, 2016 at 4:39 AM UTC
It's windy tonight. Not a cloud in sight. And the ever-glory of the mass blue sky was dotted once again with the friends of the sky. Guardian of my house, Orion, with his strong, bright 3-starred bow, burns steadily, as opposed to the Ursas of the north, with the bleak Polaris, its light a little faded due to the lights of the northern cityscapes.
I think of you in these circumstances. Whether you'd be looking at the sky as well, trying hard to find the connecting dots. Stay warm under this cool season, alright? I've yet to brush my teeth or even get my blanket and pillow, because I've decided to sleep under the stars tonight, and they're too beautiful for me to even pass a second without looking at them.
Just like how I think about you. My thoughts are still as the stars in the night sky, sometimes bleak and sometimes bold. I hope you never lose your way even if you feel like it. The Polaris will always be guiding you. My thoughts will always be guiding you. For you, I'll be constant as the stars above, so always know that you are loved.
Dec 21, 2016
Dec 21, 2016 at 11:55 AM UTC
I see your figure hunched over the old grand piano; I see your worn fingers slowly graze the keys which once locked our promises when you used to play me songs.
Now, I only feel the warmth of you as I sit on the piano bench, and when my fingers touch the keyboard. I have never felt any more monotonous and monochromatic than the notes and keys which I effortlessly hit.
I'm playing right, but why do I feel like I'm playing the biggest mistake of a song in my entire life?
Dec 21, 2016
Dec 21, 2016 at 11:02 AM UTC
What, exactly, is a star? It's made up of so many things. Scientifically, it's a body of gases rubbing off against each other to create friction and heat, thus turning into a ball of bright red or blue light. And as for airplanes, they're the only mode of transportation in the air; once a man's dream, now everday's reality. The airplane can travel to any corner of the world-- how cool and sweet is that?
I see you in airplanes. I imagine them as shooting stars, with me wishing for you. I also see you in the stars, also imagining them to be airplanes which are frozen in time, with who knows where they have traveled to in the past, or where they're bound to fly to.
I love you as the stars, and I love you as the airplanes. I love you either way. No matter how far you are or how far you will go, I know I can always find you out there, free in the skies.
Dec 21, 2016
Dec 21, 2016 at 10:54 AM UTC
A source of light in the dark. You were there every night, peeking behind the clouds, awaiting my return home from school or work. You may think you're a dull gray color but you shine brightest in the dark, to me.
I wish it was always night so that I'd get to see you in your fullest form-- the last thing before I close my eyes. Even when you're the invisible new moon, I know you're always watching me, giving attention to every big turn I make when I am restless in bed, and down to the tiniest movement under my eyelids when I am deep in a dream.
I want you to know that even if the dark pits of the night swallow you up and you feel like your light is burning out, I will always be here, looking up, looking for you. And looking towards the day when you show yourself and return to my sky again, as the moon that I've grown to love.
Dec 21, 2016
Dec 21, 2016 at 10:29 AM UTC
I never know what to say when people ask me what I fear the most. Because yes, spiders are gross and weird and yes, ghosts terrify me, but how could I explain that at night instead of nightmares filled with monsters, mine are just of someone walking away? how can I say that I stay awake going over everything wrong I’ve ever done? how can I tell them that my biggest fear is me not being good enough? All my life i’ve worried too much about what people think about me, and lately i’ve gotten better at not thinking about it so much, but there is someone in my life right now that I really don’t want to lose, and I’m scared. I’m scared because I know I mess up a lot, I know that I get repetitive and boring and I ramble when I’m nervous. So how am I supposed to say that I know my constant asking for reassurance that they want me in their life gets tiresome, but it's because its hard for me to imagine that someone actually would? How do I explain that I have never loved myself enough, so the thought of anyone else loving me seems so strange? I am bad at expressing myself, I either show too much emotion or too little, and I'm scared that that's a good enough reason for someone to walk away.
Dec 9, 2016
Dec 9, 2016 at 8:53 AM UTC
Because I’m a fat ***
Because I was already irritated.
The way you were hanging on me.
The work I need to do.
The food in my stomach metabolizing straight to my
thighs/hips/arms/face/calves/cheeks/ass/waist/chest.
Who are you anyway?
My guts were black like charcoal and twice as gritty.
**** Sundays.
**** Valentine’s.
**** fancy dinners
**** new clothes
**** sleeping in
**** food anyway.
**** being nice.
**** being sweet.
Because you called me pretty
And I can’t stand the lies that are so sticky sweet
and make messes and gather all the dirt from the air
and somehow it’s still sticky and now it’s black and you can’t scrub it off.
Because you throw around things like “love” and “forever”
and “beautiful”
but they’re too heavy for me to catch and all they do is leave me with
bruises.
And bruises just remind me of fat.
Because you still don’t know that I’m
Stupid and fat and ugly and crazy.
Because you make it hard for me to feel bad.
Because you throw around things like “forever”
and this is the only way I can catch it.
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 12:51 PM UTC
I like to believe that I will live throughout every single one of my chapters, written or have yet to be written. But I will forever be scared of the reality that maybe, somewhere, at some point; I will run out of ink and inspiration for a chapter. I’m scared that I may never make it to the end of the last paragraph, the last sentence or the last word.
I hope there will come a time when I will let someone into my life, who will help me write my story, where both ours will be a collision of different words that make up the human beings that we are. I promise that I will look past your flaws but deeper into why I picked up your book in the first place. I will be your lover and never the one who kills but the one who will mend you together when broken. To the first one who meets one’s end, promise me that you will write my remaining words, and I, promise you too to continue for you.
n.j.
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 8:06 AM UTC
It's like this, and then there was total recall. Fast like a safety plan made wrong and then bouncing in and out all the way down the hall. Up through cable cars, Korean fast food market, wet fish, soupy street, concrete cracks filled with crab meat and **** heads. Just a square, a five block, two street, sideways quadrangle, beat of the Tenderloin, hour of the dove. Every one's dead on these loose ends. Hills of the back of her backside, skin of the back of her neck. Rapture is the grave of the sunset, memory is that thing that I said.
No one cans in carnivores, no one runs moves like a shepherd. Sunday, daft as candy, luck in the ways of the prophet. Canon of the blaze of every woman that died today. The sleep setting, the motorcycle bending the hollow, the ravines noisy interlude, up through the rough and the tangles, huddles in a six pack, three or four walking up the block to meet the rest of them.
The skin doesn't fit right, it wears wrong, the shoulders stiff, the masseuse excuses himself. Buckets of flowers hang from the ceiling like stripped cat christmas decorations in suburban mastermind serial killer resort town. Everyone is quiet because they gotta. They move their feet like they were hurrying death into a red volcano, like they were the errand of red from the top bell to the bottom of the town.
I sit on a roof top, baking in the noon day sun. Stripping sticks and stems off the side to sideways, just roasting away, laying, low in the afternoon light. I see a girl with her hands on her skirt, wobbling, scooting a priest card on a periwinkle terra-cotta. I move my head, turn it upside round to take a better look. No one counts to ten when they see me. The gangster that woke up isn't the gangster that went to sleep last night. My wickedness ended my words mean your bright decay. So I ride the pavement exhausted, burying my coughs in an L-shaped arm
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 12:32 PM UTC