He doesn't burn photographs
He doesn't join therapy sessions
He doesn't smoke too many cigarettes
Nor he drown himself into alcohol
He scratches his wounds daily
And never let them heal
He doesn't try to get rid of the pain
Instead he let it grow on him
He waters the seed of sorrow with his tears
He feeds it with the manure of old memories
He takes it to sleep with him
And nurtures it in himself
Till the moment when every single drop of his blood gets replaced by this pain
Until his fragile heart can bear no more
And his soul starts overflowing with emotions
That's when he dip his pen into this pain
And empty his heart on a piece of paper
He bares his soul for us to feel
He creates poetry that the world would cherish for centuries to come

A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
I wanted to say,
lock yourself in a room,
scream until you have
a poem and no voice.
Open your veins and bleed
until you know that your bones
are pure words and sorrow.
Act as if you slit your own throat
and all you can bleed
are your own regrets
and all of the darkness
you boxed up for inspiration.
Write your mom a letter,
tell her you're leaving
and you won't be back for awhile
Because being a writer is traveling
through all seven layers of Hell
and denying anything is wrong.
Forget loving yourself
when all you have is a pen and paper
fused to your wrist
and Jesus is tapping at your skull
saying turn back now.
Warn the neighbors that if they smell burning
It's just your soul
clawing at the front door trying to get in.
Learn how to be alone.
Learn how to lose everything you have
in order to feel release,
learn how to only feel deceased
from now on.
A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
All I said was
don't

I saw you yesterday
I’m waiting
I leave tomorrow
I’m waiting

Tell me you are reading this
I’m waiting
Room 1405
I’m waiting

Come and see
I’m waiting

5 knocks so I know it’s you
I’m waiting
We’ll be together
I’m waiting

Come to me
I’m waiting
Just for tonight
I’m waiting

I’ve fallen for you
No more waiting
I wish I could find you
No more waiting

I love you now.

I know that I always push you away
I know when I need you the most
I vanish
I don’t want to be an unwieldy burden
and it hurts every time you’re hurt
and yes
I’m aware I love you more than myself
but I don’t know why I keep this distance
between our glaring love
am I afraid if I love you closely
I might lose you
and never touch you again?
or am I not ready
to pour all the love that I got
until one day it won’t be enough?
or maybe I enjoy loving you from afar
so I don’t get too attached

I remember the evening
that we sat clinging
to paper cups
of coffee gone cold

over secrets spilled and memories told
two bodies cursed
with hearts grown old

behind your eyes
I found new worlds
A winding road stretched out for miles
to a small cafe at the end of the isle

Sweet pastries filled the mouths
of those who sat beside us
and stayed for a while.

How the hours went by,
people just passing through
The descending sun ending
a forever with you.

Ever I have longed to take
your hand upon my palm
for all the nights I've lied awake
regretting what I had not done

in morning's rise I had believed
in cleansing of my thoughts
but removal I had not achieved
and was left with not a loss

now as ever, I long to take
under moments rash or calm
in days asleep or days awake
your hand upon my palm

My mother is a piano
A little out of tune
Dusty keys
That play with ease
Ivory as the moon

Sometimes I’ll touch the wood
And admire its antiquity
Think of all the things that it
Ever dreamed to be

Sometimes when my fingers
Fly through a song
I wonder how this piano
Ever got so strong.

My mother is a piano,
She makes music out of air,
She answers each finger
With an embrace, with care

Her legs planted firmly
in the ground
How much I love to hear
her deep, rich sound.