there's the

black blank

sky.

and then underneath are

stars in form of

streetlamps; car lights;

like s  p  o  t  l  i  g  h  t  s

on a stage, feet tangled

in a tango with death,

dancing with so much life.

it's like an          insult;

yes,           true,

s   m   i   l   e   s

are simply cynicism.

careful, you might trip!
the roads are rocky and a little mean,
though for this clumsy ball of sunshine,
tripping is nothing but a routine.

your peers tap on shoulders to call;
"little baby, go outside and play,"
mom will plant kisses on your forehead
and tell you to be careful on your way.

puddles after showers; splitter splatter!
wipe your legs clean under blue roof;
tall people and words that taste foreign,
the tip to hold another hand home is a little goof.

today mommy gave me
a really warm mug brownie
but it tastes a little salty.

humans paint the galaxies;
stars poured by the gods
on a piece of dark, endless canvas.
the nature talks about freckles and moles on a maiden's skin
and how interesting connecting dots into intricate shapes is.

humans boast about love.
all the mediocre melodies to woo, cupid unleashing arrows,
and the cries written on minor scale;
blacks and whites of the piano.
the unexplainable look on one's eyes.
things they left unrecorded though—
ones the studio of the universe releases an album of:
motorbike roars as a boy speeds through countless others
that are deemed insignificant,
compared to the thought of his mom waiting at home.

for centuries and more centuries,
the poets go on about emptiness.
the caging abyss, they said,
of sadness. a dark place.
but seasons whisper the stark difference
of breeze nibbling on your skin
and of the dropping temperature of winter
harshly piercing your senses like knives.

dancers waltz to the moonlight,
reenacting silent screams and insanity.
but withering flowers' petals got themselves caught up in a game of tag with their own kin.

it's funny how humans talk about the comparison (as i am doing right now)
of the art we make and the art that is already there before us.
when the universe tries again and again to teach us
what kind of little majestic things we are, what kind of little majestic things surround us.

*(must say, we're quite dumb. unable to understand.)

twenty two, twenty three, twenty four

hours in a day

like the white rabbit,

we watch time and stay at the bay.



ten, eight, six, four

words like ‘it’s not good enough,’

or maybe just simple and badly-woven adjectives,

sometimes it makes us feel blue.



thirty, sixty two, countless

nights spent dreaming with open eyes

but all that comes are unkind;

worse than reality’s piercing swords of ice.



yellow, red, blue, nonexistent.

what we know is counting down

to the day the string snaps

the insides spilled; to everyone, its uglies shown.



three, nine, twenty seven

years spent as busy as a cat on a hot tin roof;

the forgotten summers fell into piles of ashes,

yet to our bars of efforts, everyone stays aloof.



one too many times

it happens.

one too many days we thought

**** it up.



(so we did.)



six,five, four

ages we were taught numbers and their orders.

nowadays, **** it up and

count sheep throughout math.

i am the light of cities,
not a star on the sky.
soft blue veins under
the expanse of skin;
like asphalt road branching
and pooling into roundabouts.
black pooling on irises,
pretty brown freckles on it.
it does not **** you in,
it's the windows of a house;
let you explore and love,
let the world peek into
the veneer of your heart.
tips of fingers like
trees during winter;
ice princesses sitting
by the sidewalk.
i am not an egg of the galaxy,
but a product of human hands.
years of pinky promises and empty threats
has shaped me into who i am.
i am not what the universe
made me to be;
i am what others contribute to
and what i myself create.