I decided to get this down
like clockwork,
then go paint.

Love poems are stupid
when you hate
feelings
like
this

Someday I will meet you-
and probably be sadly disappointed.

I could stop writing about *******,
But I just won't.

Telling you "I'm fine, mom."
is always easier in English.

People are so romanticized,
until you come to know them.

Don't obsess over the romantics-
shadows of eyelashes
what longing is and means
the way a chest falls
when bad news is heard.
Do anticipate disappointment-
and revel in pleasant surprise
only for the moment it exists.
Understand nothing lasts forever.
Don't give it away all the time.
and form a forcefield- a wall if it wills.
Always focus on the next task at hand.
Stop being so gracious-
and have more ambition,
demands that are either met or excelled,
higher standards.
You are stone until you want to be water.
Trees until you want to be storms.
The mouse until you want to be the owl.

Anticipating discomfort
as high heels climb stairs
with light steps to avoid clicks.
Attempt to dodge the cigarette brigade
with quick nods and hellos.
Finally on their floor with labored breathing.
They are so loud- heard down the hall.
Behind the door there are friends
waiting for the next best topic.
Greeting friends,
drunk and drinking more.
Open the door to
loud friends,
laughing over each others voices.
The only thing worse than the clamor
is the spilt stout that nobody noticed.
But hugs and wise cracks are still in order.
Holding hands with a cup of speaking serum,
with eyes that already seek a clock.
It's too early, we've only just got here.
Obligation to talk.
Spy the lascivious in peripherals-
in the corners of the room.
What languid lovers narcotics make.
High stakes with low gains,
leaves mouths with ****** tastes.
Words exchanged in witty waste.
Spy the conversations that selective hearing
couldn't rid
about you- about him, about them
and the trouble we're in.
Avoid eye-contact, but answer to
"What's going on with you? New job?"
with a smile and a nod and an "It's cool."
Burning desire for an air
without so many ****** breaths.
Someone is hurling in the bathroom-
and friends are singing desperation.
Tap toes and fidget,
avoid more conversation.
Everyone is so involved, now.
Gravitating around the life
of the party.
The foyer's empty.
A platinum opportunity.
Fake a bathroom break.
Apartments don't have back-doors,
and comings a regret.
Slip past the lazy leg bridges.
No one's looking yet.
In between coffee tables and couches.
No one's looking, yet.
but some are rising for the night trips
of cancer indulgence.
Jet for the door and ever so
silently
close it when you're beyond
for relief.
The air is already colder-
slip off the heels and run barefoot
in to the rest of the night,
safe and alone with yourself
and your secrets.
Ignore the question texts.
Houdini?
Disappearing acts.
No, you're Candy.
you don't let them in your heart.
Ignore the question texts,
don't explain yourself next time either.

Who ever thought brooks should babble,
should really sit down in a public space for bit.
Because the sounds of cool water
slipping past patchy grass, pebbles and soil,
is not remotely comparable
to the grating voices of middle-aged women
discussing fitness gear, dinner parties and wedding plans.
I've become taken with silence.
I finally understand why it is coveted and cherished.
Silence is when life tries to speak to you.
This is something I didn't entirely grasp when I was younger
and noise was the only validation of living I had.
But the thing about silence that is much like noise,
is that you can only tolerate so much.
And then it's no longer a validation- but an uncomfortable pause
that won't stop
until you respond
to life.

All the withered flower crowns have fallen down on trodden ground,
among the garbage disarray of empty beers and cigarettes.
These are memories of drunken folks with tired eyes and weary legs.
Lets lift our heavy waving arms and jump high above the swarm of heads.
The band we like is playing now, but they're so far, we lay instead.
Forget the sheets and towels,
the grass and dirt can grace our skin.
The sound of the bass reverberates in our chests,
This is the best.
Our voices are hoarse from screaming loud and cheering on the gods on stage.
we forget our age, we forget our pride,
we exist as music groom and bride.
Escape all thoughts of work and school.
The grass is cool,
The beating sun has come burnt us all and gone away.
This pending night  has come to chill our bones and remind us we have place to stay.
Let's sleep up now.
Tomorrow, who will we see play?
The final day, let us power through.
Make little histories into me and you.
Dreams and sky only leave our eyes,
when our feet go back to our real lives.
As it ends, she tells us it's sad.
Until this second, I didn't understand.
A festival is a fantasy world,
a dream we'd sleep for as long as our bodies could,
and now it's time to wake up and return.

One night in the middle of summer,
I was given my favorite dream.
And in it, I was her;
the girl you'd think about when you sing.
I woke up, glazed in melancholy-
in sparkle juice sheen.
And I touched your bracelet to my lip,
the one I stole right before we kissed,
and when our mouths swished
dreamy washing machine.
Cleaned our inner depths of psyche,
anointed with love poison-
unable keep the thoughts of longing, dry,
strong desires are the knife
that cuts the girl from your cloth
the one you think about when you sing,
the one I think you like.
So shredded and clean I bound my lips to you,
I didn't stop until dreams came to life.

A little light leaks through
well-kept shades,
illuminating glitters and ghosts
of smoke from the incense.
The scent is strong,
good sticks from the temple
and it fills any missing spaces
in this cluttered room.
Saraswati's sitar is playing lullabies
that wake my conscience.
My eyes are closed
but I can see the color of your kiss.
And the island I forget to escape to
is floating in the distance,
waiting for us.

Make us pet names
and perfect cuddles
with precious time.

If it didn't harm anyone,
I'd ask him for a new one.
I'd pack light and disappear.
If it meant I never had to hear
the voices in my head
that tell me to leave
every
single
day
I'd be ready in fifteen minutes.

I like to play RPGs
It's a world that is unlike my own
and I'm a character I've named myself.
Sometimes I save my progress
on a file- safe and undisturbed-
and then I wreak havoc,
make friends I wouldn't make,
experiment for potential easter eggs.
It feels good to know I can just go back
to where I started
unfazed, undamaged, unharmed.
And if I ever do something substantial
in my free-for-all joyride of side quest,
I can always save it to another file.
There are so many memory cards in my drawer.

I find myself living life this way-
but with empty drawers
and only one disturbed file.
of only one fazed, damaged, harmed, character,
that my brother named when I was a baby,
in a world that I don't like too much.
And everyone tells me it's a game-
that we all put our hours in.
I just see the option
of a never-ending boss battle with loneliness,
or a never-ending side quest with friends,
and too much damage done,
so where better to let my thumbs rest?

There is never any urgency
until we notice the clock.

When she told me- I didn't know how to respond.
Ask questions. Learn more. Be proactive.
I felt my lips move, speaking, asking, pretending I knew
what I was really saying.
It was as if I didn't want to her to get off the phone.
I was scared.
It was odd that she didn't sound comforting.
Is she delivering a prediction of a death sentence?
What is the proper response to that?
I kept asking her what it all meant.
So vague and indiscernible.
She told me to take care of myself.
I guess I'm not doing that already?
Who do I talk to after this?
I don't want pity or concern.
I just want feeling
like my stomach acid is proceeding
to consume every other internal *****
I could ever muster keeping
to go away.
I know I shouldn't worry.
There are people out there without limbs.
Worrying wallflower.
Worrying won't wish wondering away.
Let me deflect.
I can write about it and pretend
that I never did want to live past ten.

No juice or syrup here.
Nor do I sit atop rocks.
Ignore the chasers.
But take a shot
I'll leave an ever present
taste.

She said, "Tell me something nice about it."
And I stood there, searching
searching
searching
there had to be something.
Why couldn't I think of it?
"It's...really nice."

So many pages on the floor,
which are mine and which are yours?
You once said,
I am a book with large font.
Sometimes I wonder
if I am just a book that speaks out loud.
That does the reading for you.
An audiobook?
You're a heavier book,
filled with calculated text
and silence-
but never any blank pages.
I hold you up to the light
to read while laying
and fall asleep
until I feel the weight escape my hands
and slam down
HARD
on my face.
Keeps me awake.
Keeps me in pain.
The only way I can read you right,
is from above.
But these torn pages read of only love.

I always find myself running back to this,
desperately holding onto the little piece of me
that can survive alone
that can create.
I wonder if you ever mean this torture.
As if seeing me fret is fine-
put me on silent and out of sight.
For me, every time my screen lights up
my sheets buzz,
I frantically look for you.
but it's just a message from someone else,
a 7 AM alarm that wasn't necessary,
a low battery alert.
I know you are busy, and that I'm being annoying
like you say I am. (It hurts me a lot when you say that.)
But last night we didn't lay together-
and last night I didn't sleep.
You told me you couldn't either-
but for me it was really true.
You can see the timestamps.
And I just want an answer.
I hate feeling so needy.
I hate this reduction.
I've grown so obsessive.
I know I can't force love-
but I've been trying from the start.
Last night I wanted to save us
from any more damage.
So my legs started out the door.
I couldn't stop messaging you-
you told me not to forget you
but how can I forget the voices in my head?
I keep hearing you everywhere
but reality.
And I keep staring at my phone-
it just lit up with your name.
And so did my brain.
Yet now that I finally got an answer-
it really wasn't what I wanted.
A calculated mine field of two short sentences.
So I put you away-
but never silent and never out of sight
and I'm sure you never fret
or frantically look for me
but that's okay-
because I can still create something
a text
that will always respond
and never let me feel ignored
and always be mine.

I worry that if I had disappeared that night,
I would never get to hear the cotton sounds
of your voice
in my ear
whispering
"stay."

I don't react anymore-
I rather quell the hurt with silence
and somber smiles.
I just explain enough to move on.
What's the point in fighting
or hoping or longing
when it's met with more
questions and doubting
regardless of how true a feeling can be?
It does feel good to respond with open arms,
love and no alarms.
Even though every time I let my mind go,
there is a 100 ft sprint,
lodged behind my ankles.
I guess knowing that I'll probably
lose my breath at 50,
keeps me standing still for now.
I rather be remembered for
being strong-
than never sticking around too long.

Our love
is more bittersweet than
a most overcast sunrise.

counting goodbye kisses-
there were only five or six instances when they didn't happen
when you fell asleep during the ride (at least I kissed you on the cheek)
when you wanted to give me a hug instead-
that day you dropped me off at a party.
when you told me to get out of your car-
we were actually official then haha
and when I "stormed off," frustrated- that probably happened three times,
counting the dollars spent-
for someone who's a broke college student,
I didn't let that stop me from showering you with thoughtfulness
because money will never be able to buy a gaze from you
counting the reminders I've given you-
that we are something, special
I think this one might be the two hundredth one
counting your equivalents
I have them all saved in a folder,
and I dont ever go a day without looking at them.
counting all the times I've cried the last few months,
there were at least 133, and only one was over a movie.
counting all the times you hurt me
I stopped at 18 before I told you
I loved you-
not worth counting those
because that just made it 134-
and pain in the form of endless sheep.
so I decide to sleep instead- and forget-
and never count again.

Don't do nice things
if you expect something in return.
Pretty simple, right?
But what's an act
without appreciation?
Endangered.
There has been a trend
of less kindness in this world,
that directly correlates with it being unnoticed.
Some are too self absorbed to ever really see,
that the best way to keep someone around,
is to show gratitude
in the sincerity of a handheld
eye locked
"Thank you."
without the time restraints,
the obligations,
the unsaid apologies.
There's nothing wrong with realizing
someone did something special for you
and there's nothing wrong with hoping someone realizes.

Behind the traffic of thought
the type that creates
tracks along desire lines
tires screech in frustration
that got me
nowhere close to discovery
i began realize there is a presence
within the whisper
of the windshield wipers
buzzing in inefficiency-
reminding me
that it doesn't matter if i'm
stuck behind a line of slow cars
honking in patterns of unrest
the rain will always wipe away
to reveal a bit of clarity
in my direction
and though it is only feet- inches?
there is movement.
and every time we're on the road
together
there is company.
and as long there isn't any red
or blue lights flashing nearby,
we can try to smile and enjoy the ride.

There was a smile in your eyes
a reflection
that was allowed to last about
three minutes and thirty-two seconds
before you said you needed
to swiffer the floors later
and then it was tucked away
under rolled up sleeves
that did dishes
and wiped counters
only to return
when contemplating how clean
everything would be
if what did the sweeping
were my hands and knees.

the belt around her waist,
mimicked your pale hands
forming an "o,"
while your fingertips meet.
though I told myself
my curves are as gorgeous
though your fingers never graced
anything thinner than my wrists
or the neck of your guitar
i felt my cheeks drain of blush
and replace with the color
of the grass
i rather lay in
than jog through
because the only sweat
i'd like to break
tastes like yours
and mine
and ours in a kiss
while your fingertips meet
around each one
of my *******
and inside me

i used to know a lot of people.
life apparently does you like that
but there was one
i came to know
in school
this girl that seemed
spectacular.
everything about her screamed...
well, everything about her screamed.
she was like an idol
i aspired to be
just like her
command a crowd like she did-
but i had my limits
and she had none
she never feared to be loud
and wild and free
like a mad horse
in a field of grassy daylight.
but people aren't horses
and nighttime always
comes to claim us.
and it's easy to see differences
when you're younger.
i look at the same girl today-
and i worry.
she seems to have lost
what little sanity she has left
she pulls her hair
chases false love
forgets pain in bottles
scolds others for life
everything about her screams...
well, everything about her screams
****** ******
i look in the mirror
and hold myself close
i could have been her,
i could still become her.
but there is still time-
to continue
to be
me
and know some better people.

i'm sorry for being this
inconsequential
interruption
in your life.

I don't know what happened,
but ever since I got really mad,
the people on here seem to like me more.
Raw emotion might have been what they were waiting for.
It seems I've been feeling pretty hard lately.
But fear overtakes my expression.
I fear sounding trite and cheesy.
Writing light and easy.
Rhyming or running away-
I'm always doing something to hide.
Until I just wrote an explosion one night.
Now, I sometimes string artful lines-
but I don't mind letting go of my pride.
I owe this freedom to all those that read,
not just mine but anything on this feed.
The more words we exchange,
the more we extend appreciation,
we grow together.
So I am thankful for those readers
who not only excused my temper tantrums,
but paid homage.
I ended up gaining rather than losing.
And all I can ask now,
is for you all to keep reading.

I tried writing about you before, but looking at it now.
It was trite.
And cheap.
And sympathy seeking.
Like the very spoiled rotten child I accused you of
accusing me of.
But the truth is- you haven't said much to me about anything- for a long time.
And I just miss our conversations.
And I really do try, sometimes-
but there is this hesitation.
We're different beings but still the same.
You're upset the lady downstairs is being beaten again-
in a panic you call the cops and
mom's head is going to have a baby of worry
if we get involved.
But you don't care. You care about the noises
of the kid beating his mother again.
So you call- and for a moment I'm **** proud.
But you can't articulate your words right on the phone.
You exaggerate out of excitement.
I get frustrated and I grab it from you.
Why do we kids treat our parents so sourly?
These people that we came from,
I never would dare yell at stranger,
or even a friend,
the way I do my dad.
And its not that you deserve better treatment,
because we all have had issues.
You've treated me pretty ****** before.
I've did you as well.
I wonder if there's a way...
we could both have a beer.
But I guess I'll keep wondering,
because I wouldn't be a good Indian daughter, then.
And maybe you wouldn't be a good Indian father, either.
But if we could just be without these conventions
for a day.
an hour.
a moment.
a minute.
a second.
I'd tell you
you're pretty **** cool, dad.

I shouldn't have said anything.
I should have just wrote something right here.
Now it's all out in the open.
And all I taste is the fear.
I've never felt so livid.
I'm usually rational.
But I feel like shattering everything,
to resemble my tact.
I'm done with zen.
I'm done bottling it up.
I bet my words taste like the ******* IPA,
and I just don't give a ****.
It used to be so easy- to give you a free pass.
You spun me until I was dizzy,
and now I'm on my ***.
But I don't care how ****** I look anymore.
I don't care about how this poem *****.
**** artful stringing of lines.
I just want to make ****** rhymes.
So I can laugh and pity myself later.
For some reason this self deprecation,
is really cooling my temper.
There must be some **** wrong upstairs.
God, I just looked at my phone again.
What I'd give for there to be a fire right now.
And for this disdainful crud to melt away.
Oh sorry, I couldn't respond...
my phone was on ******* fire.
Like my ******* self-respect.
How rich would that be?
Oh, look, I'm angry again.
What I'd give to hitch hike away.
But I think about my student loan debt,
and I guess that makes me decide to stay.
I guess it's time to sleep again.
When I wake up I won't feel a thing.

You carve a doll out of wax and curse it with voodoo.
Candles in the sun burn with her soft skin.
Oh, she is hot. Hot. Hot. Hot.
But you don't want them to know-
the pleasure of watching her melt.
You think she was stolen
and passed around,
so you stick nails in her heart.
Pity takes your soul and the bit of it
you put into her hole.
Plugged with metal against your wall.
Hold a lighter to her chest.
Bleed her out.
Keep her hot. Hot. Hot. Hot.
Don't leave your toys out again.
Practice voodoo every day.
You imagine
her nose growing,
her eye glowing
with malice.
Hold the lighter to her face.
She's lost her head.
She still has lovely legs
part them to taste fear.
Don't want her to run away.
Hold the lighter to her feet.
Her tummy rumbles
with lust.
Silence it.
Leave her hot. Hot. Hot. Hot.
Voodoo master
but what good are you?
You own nothing but wax puddles.

Down a glass of wine and hold it to your ear.
A mock ocean swirls in its holy emptiness.
You are sitting at the bottom- with nothing but death wishes
and sweet kisses.
A small hope for real love oozes from clasped fingers.
But you squeeze it away to sing karaoke at the next bar.
They love you because you are free and boundless like the red balloon
that floats in their heads,
simultaneously.
You can own them all with your laugh- how personable you are.
A pseudo sociopath on the verge of make-believe
horror stories, spilling out on to the bar-
with your last drink.
Let them think you don't play dumb.
Let them think you don't drink yourself numb.
Stomp away with your cigarette-
Do they know you know they know?
It doesn't matter- call the next one over.
The ocean will always crash in your glass-
an empty temple of company.

"Go write a poem."
They tell me to pour my emotions out of the conversation,
and into a container they can silently curse and admire.
I'll gladly oblige their feeble minds
because after all, I'm only writing a poem.

"Go write a poem."
They tell me with a smile as if it should sting
because they believe poetry is fruitless and less fulfilling
than the insults they try to shoot like arrows
but why is it that they always seem to miss the mark?

"Go write a poem."
They are just so much better than the silence they receive,
they say, "It is what it is, so go do what you do and make art out of it,"
my brain explodes with the roars of lions, sirens, wrecking *****, marching bands,
because poets understand that it never just is what it is.

"Go write a poem."
Because we poets are angsty souls who cannot express
thoughts with words out loud- and stand up for ourselves,
we lack tact and function beyond writ and stage,
but what they fail to realize that a poet is never just a poet.

We are the creators of their entertainment (Shakespeare)
We are the innovators that fuel the beginnings of artistic thought (Rilke)
We are the warriors that fight for their civil rights (Angelou)
We are the martyrs that immortalize originality (Wilde)
We are the ones who make those powerful statements that those folks love to quote and label their photos with-
so the next time they tell me
"Go write a poem."
I'll make sure they hear the explosion.

I don't want to leave
our limb-locked warmth in our sheets,
but the day calls us.

I heard a woman singing in the car,
about being reborn as a peacock for Krishna
so that she could sit in beautiful penance for him.
While watching whizzing morning work trucks,
and beat-up corollas and motion blur,
I thought of you in the stillness of sleep.

If I were to be reborn I'd like to be a bird as well
so that I could provide the down in your pillow,
and be cushion to your carousel crown
But then I would be lonely when you go to work.

If I were to be reborn, I'd like to be your sunglasses,
so that I could protect your squinting eyes,
and live by your lushest lashes.
But then you'd lock me away in a case, and I won't be able to see you.

If I were to be reborn, I'd be a bracelet made of magic beads,
so that I could promise health around your often pained wrists,
and fix the freedom in your fiery fingers.
But then you'll probably lose me, or unstring me accidentally with time.

If I were to be reborn, I'd like to be your favorite puppy,
so that I could pacify your inner turmoils.
and be held by your human hands.
But then you'll possibly outlive me, and I wish to watch you grow.

If I were to be reborn, I'd be lonely, locked away, left, lost, and outlived-
so I'd rather stay in this life with all of my privileges
of providing, protecting, promising and pacifying
as your lucky lover.

Our summers carried hot days
where our skins shook loose and raw
wet and sticky
warm and blurry
like shared memories.
We loved the rain and shower
and felt safe under their power.
In the stormiest night I knew
we decided to cleanse ourselves of the day.
We stripped down to the ****.
We didn't know we had it in us.
The fence is high enough.
The sky is dark enough.
The fog is thickly cut
with a waterfall of storm.
We lit up blue when we heard thunder.
Stared at what's up above
and ran to shelter.
Our skins were soaked and bare.
It seemed to be a dare.
I looked down and my shoes were still on.
The magic disappeared.

light shapes dance across the tapestries,
illuminating Mother Kali's face
in the veil of darkness for a short second.
the red sky tints the room,
and reminds me I can not give blood
because of my tattoos
and of the minutes I lost today,
because of netflix.
Beezus stirs a bit by me
and tells me he loves me
in a sleepy murmur.
the glow of my phone keeps him Kali-lit.
he probably will not remember in the morning
if I answer back-
but still I curl behind him,
my tongue- withdrawn behind my teeth,
my lips planting destructionless dreams in his neck,
my ten arms- free of weapons,
and full of him.
and I whisper
"I love you, too."

To it, I've never been.
but I've dreamed of a place where everything
is coated in corn and comfort.
Wished the past had taken me,
can't help but feel it was about my skin.
Cactus candy and cowboy boots.
Zydeco and haunted hotels.
The voodoo Frank sang about in the end.
The horns sound the streets.
Close curtains, be discreet.
Encircle the barest neck,
with colorful beads.
His family reunions
made me realize I'm on my own.
Until I met a prettier soul.
I don't kiss frogs for love.
I forget the ease in slime.
and let the grease define
an unhealthy outlook.
Sip another lime or a sour.
A ginger begs the hour.
Lonely never leaves,
but warmth is a soco shower.

Ask me once again.
Maybe the answer will be different.
Maybe I've grown tired of confirmation.
Maybe I've tried too hard for too long.
Proving a truth that won't be believed.
I fear for a future where all there is
is your constant questions.
And I am lost in constant answers.
Is that a hope worth saving?
You are a soul who is waiting
for a reason to point and shout
that you knew it all along.
Maybe you like to wallow.
Maybe it'll make a good EP.
Maybe I'm just a stepping stone
in your melancholic alcoholism.
I could be just a bottle
held to feel empty
drained of sparkling juice
and then filled up with doubt ****
to sprinkle amongst familiar crowds
or the saddest "I told you so."
Maybe I'm thicker than that.
Maybe you've spread yourself too thin.
Maybe I'm ready to let go
of your minimal digital sins.
I tell my self this one thing
over and over,
and hold the repetition hostage.
Like I do your constant questions.
"forgiveness is
don't suppress.
just forget.
let go of all regrets.
yours and his.
even if you are the only one
who is asked again.
you are the hope worth saving.
nothing more.
nothing less."
So ask me once again,
maybe the answer won't be given.

A sharp pain
origins unknown
surprise in the disguise
of keeping it cool
am I to die from this?
I look to you for comfort
the reality of us in a dream like state
a fear that it will all go away
disbelief in your eyes
an incredulous smile
dying to escape
the lips I hold dear
something about your face was cold
this is all too familiar
and the fear reached a point
I just could not take
could not keep my heart
safely in place
it leapt in my chest
at the sight of that face
and the sharp pain came tenfold
pinned me down to your bed
woke up groggy
pain faded
fear instilled
wish to stay frozen
to have just been killed
I am alright
body is better
mind is in trauma
wish my heart was a feather
so I left it in your bed
tortured and tethered

Summertime sands scorch in between our bare toes,
the waves soak them cold and moist like a dog nose.
Let's build a strange castle in the shape of a heart.
Adore it, attempt to perfect it, pose for pictures.
We like to dig our fingers deep into its center.
If we press too hard, it crumbles, and we have to fix it better.
But we like to dig our fingers deep into its center.
We press too hard, it crumbles, and we can't fix it better.
It's getting late, the sun is low, the breeze chills our bones.
Tide is climbing back to us, and we've got to go home.
We've left our sweaters with our mothers
who disappeared like our shoes.
Pygmalions sans Venus blessing,
making love building blues.

Sit on the couch,
where comfort lies.
Watch the light leak in true,
past the gathered shades.
Hold hands with quiet,
the untouched acoustic
you don't know how to play.
That's alright.
Don't
stop
writing.
Listen to the hollow sound
of distant drivers speeding off.
Play with your fingers,
that fumble with your pen.
Draw circles around your favorite,
lines and alliterations and
spell your name differently.
That one's cool.
Don't
stop
writing.
Forget yesterday's whispers,
that became unclear.
Cut last nights losses,
your hands are still here.
Revere the reminder that
morning solitude does not
have to be sad.
Don't
stop
writing.

"Don't try too hard."
Beloved mantra for today's people
who are so scared to be disrobed.
What ugliness are they hiding?
When there is a chance of failure,
to try is to be naked.
I forget this memo occasionally.
I'm the one who makes passionate love
to my attempts, embracing ******,
and this, sometimes, I come to regret.
But there are times when
my results are beautiful,
and worth every inch of shame ridden.

In class,
all I wanted to do was to go home
to write poetry.

Now,
I sit here, done with the lectures,
but I've only written notes.

Call me exotic
and get the simple and plain
slapped out of your face