Creamy lukewarm milky coffee

coconut herbal black tea

and toasted flaky sesame croissants

keep me company on my lop sided desk

alongside a tattered worn laptop

placed across a stack of crinkly unread books,

whose pages rustle, wreath, and rip

upon hearing the youthful chimes

from my sleek, shiny smart phone

with its masterpiece of shattered glass

sheathed in a case of faded blue flowers,

bewitching my weary entranced eyes

until they reach the very last moment

of their sorry sights,

and my long lost friends emerge

to take my remains,

and scatter them across evergreen tree tops

and delicately dying flower petals

on misty winding mountain peaks

A crisp cool autumn breeze
scatters the dried orange burst and
sunset red colored leaves
bringing to me the scent of your cologne
and along with it,
the memory of the sweet taste of
your apple tongue and
soft rose lips,
bringing back to life
the map you outlined on my
face and back
with your warm engulfing and
sensitive hands.
My chest suddenly misses
the sturdy and proud outline of
your smooth back
the most during rainy gray days,
when we'd inhale our steaming mugs
of minty green tea 
and you'd allow me to sneak under
your sweater
and snuggle up against your neck
as we traced the teardrops of rain
trailing down the kitchen window.
My aching legs miss being
tangled in their home around your waist
the most during wintry howling
frost nights,
when we'd hold each other so tight
that I'd look up for air
to see flames dancing in the
fresh pale snow,
as you'd caress and kiss away
the salty yet bitter sadness on my stomach
and melt me into a spring day's
blossoming flower goddess shimmering
on the wine carpet.
Most of all today,
standing alone on the edge
of my barren and wilted garden
I miss most being able to swim
in your hazel ringed eyes
and drown in the emerald green sea of
your thoughts,
as your lips moved to outline
the once very real life
of our love.

A pair of ravens fly
intertwining their paths
in the sky
dipping smoothly into the vast space
twirling and diving headfirst
rapidly falling towards tree tops
before gracefully gliding upwards
once more,
and I, watching from a distance
with my feet on solid ground
and my hands warmed by
a cup of coffee,
wish for myself a sense of
solitude and clarity
despite all the things
weighing me down
and the cruel clips that
hold my own wings captive
maybe one day
I will pick myself up off
the ground
and find the strength to
remove the chains
and set myself free,
free to fly,
free to soar among the clouds
and surrender to the beautiful
overwhelming vastness
of the world.

She was very much lost
between the boundaries
of the vast space of the unknown
and the place of no return,
trapped within the space
between two unfamiliar dark worlds,
she peers out straining her eyes
in vain to see beyond
the glittering city's walls and the tapered off grounds
and receives no redemption
for her curiosity,
but only the hushed voices
and concerned stares of the
figures in masquerades
one by one, they usher her
away from the crystalline windows
and gently urge her
back into the masked ball
under a glistening chandelier
and the soothing haunted notes of a violin
and the red delicacies and sugary sweets
on the polished marble tops
soon, she is lost, completely immersed
in the melody and transparency
of the masquerade ball
as the two worlds outside the window
loom overhead, threatening to engulf
the illusion as a whole.

Standing on the brink of despair

perched between

the familiar grounds of a cruel world---

and the dark unknown vastness

of unexplored dangerous lands,

I relish in the warmth of your alluring smile

I trust that when all else fails me,

that is, when my reasoning and values, fail me

you will be able to

bring me back from the edge

and breathe warm life into my surroundings

because however cold and cruel it might be,

this world is the only thing that I have.

All I feel is remorse and a longing
for my wasted and undeveloped,
malnourished potential
for the arts.
How I long to write,
spilling my thoughts and words
onto beckoning sheets of blank paper.
How I wish I could draw and outline,
bringing to life scenes, memories,
and figments of my imagination
in which I always envision and depict myself
as a more vivid
and entrancing individual.
I feel completely isolated and pathetic,
unable to connect the dots,
trampled on by the success
and the never ending bits of small and large
investments of effort
that my peers have the potential to conjure up,
while I writhe and struggle with just forcing myself to
face the responsibilities and challenges,
only to find myself crawling into bed every night
having accomplished nothing.
I feel starved of life and companionship,
as I look around and see others
who I might’ve longed to be friends with,
brush past me without a glimpse
or a moment of hesitation,
as if I were a humanless shadow in their path
that formed out of nowhere.
The more time that passes by,
the more I feel myself slipping away.
Unable to think, unable to speak coherently
in the sense of complete honesty,
I can only dream of a world
in which my journey aligns with the stars of my dreams.

During the night,
I can already envision the early morning,
when the city breaks
and the sky overhead
begins shading over its stars
with lighter tones of blue paint.
Around seven, traffic will emerge
and carry on into the distance,
dad and I stuck in the left lane
while the bikers pass in a blur.
Up ahead, the buildings and sidewalks
will be brimming with people
shuffling along,
making up a solitary flowing crowd
of masked,
expressionless figures,
one that I will have to blend into.
In the room, the seats in the middle
are usually claimed first
so I go and sit up in the back
with my notebook open,
scratching and scribbling away,
filling up blank pages with my blank mind.
In a room full of people,
I am a nameless face in the crowd,
and it has become my conditioned
preference of a lifestyle.
On smooth buses jammed full,
and on sidewalks and through intersections
full of people always crossing
to the other side and back,
I am emerged in the movement,
and engulfed in the crowd.
I can envision it all playing out
in my head,
while laying on my bed
and staring at the ceiling
at one in the morning,
because all of it has already
happened before,
over and over and
over again.

I had been treading water
just fine
the way I usually do--
kick out, then bend
keeping a steady rhythm and pace--
then all of a sudden,
I am once again overwhelmed
by waves of anxiety
and anger,
a current of isolation
so strong
it knocks my head underwater,
a tide of insecurity
floods itself in my lungs,
and an ocean of being left behind
beckons for me to come down;
to sink to the bottom,
as a side effect of being conditioned
for so many years,
that I am a person
who can't swim properly
to even save a life
despite all these years growing up
treading water.

my heart aches.
i wish i could be happy and beautiful, too.

From this moment,
I begin to hope things will change for the better.
That, perhaps, I will make it through this week
without wishing for each day to end as quickly as possible,
without feeling as my life is on repeat
and I am stuck living in the motions,
while valuable moments full of potential and people
being guided by a different life,
slip on by far from my grasp.
Maybe I will actually complete every piece of work
in a timely manner, and prepare well for what the future holds,
instead of dwelling in wasted times of the past
and the sorrow of the present.
I will intensely stare at these words on pages
until my eyes bleed out of my sockets
from burning holes in the paper,
and my brain begins to unravel.
I will concentrate so hard, that even the air around me
will pulse with determination.
I will flow efficiently from one place to the next,
without observing other people and re-enforcing
the sensations of insecurity and self conscious as I do each day.
I will not scorn others for what they have, nor envy them,
but I will be grateful for each moment I live,
the words I exchange between the people I care about,
and the hidden beauty of everything that is in store for my future.

This feeling of uselessness and empty happiness
has become something I depend on
to get through each day,
one by one flowing into years, then decades.
I can't remember if there was ever a time
when I didn't feel this way--
an alert, naive, too-trusting mindless bird
darting this way and that, searching and searching
for love, compassion, and acceptance;
anything that was warm.
Then gradually, alone in my room,
I begin to grow up,
my body stretching, my mind struggling
with all the new space that's appeared in my head,
while getting accustomed to bleakness, uncertainty,
and a sense of mourning for a better life story.
The expectations just get persistent,
while the people I care about begin to wear out,
and I continue to spend my days wandering around,
feeling faded and useless at the time of my prime.
I know how fortunate I am, how good my conditions are
compared to most people, the intentions are true and priceless
with love and sacrifice.
But sometimes, I can't help but wish
I could have been able to walk my own path from the start--
not having to focus on solely being successful,
but discovering what actually makes me happy,
and being able to make it my lifestyle.
At this point, wanting to be genuinely happy seems selfish,
ungrateful, and a crime
because my happiness isn't valuable or profitable,
or useful, or worth the sacrifices and investment
put into making the future a brighter place to envision.
I hope I begin to do better,
that I begin to put all my effort into improving myself
for the my own sake, and for the worn out people I care about.
I guess this might be my own quiet, selfless sacrifice,
lost among the prevailing expectations
that I do well regardless.

A world confined to only black and white
is wasted of all the diverse, flowing shades of gray in between---
the areas that aren't so easily or willingly acknowledged;
the variety of tangled truths and in between slips of moments that paint life on an individual level---
all hidden by an outer layer of generic black and white,

whatever the color people decide to assign me---
the way I live my life;
everything that encompasses it---

it will never do me justice in representing
the entity of the person of who I am.

Above me hovers endless sky--
dark, calm, tranquil, and flowing
I see my reflection in the occasional ripple of stars;
wilted hair, hunched spine, smudged, muddy eyes
I hate how it so clearly displays
my pathetic, pitiful, existence--
a life laced with strife underneath gold
spread on the surface
symbols traced on walls, willowy and enchanting
mistaken by outsiders as representing
a record of aspirations,
I am the sole figure who knows the truth:
that it's a record of my flaws and regrets
I've managed to make it this far--
an entanglement of blessings, luck,
opportunities, strangers' pity,
a system's willingness, and my own work
but I know it's not enough,
and I'm uncertain of how much longer
I can continue to pitch my complexity and worth--
just hoping that when the dam bursts
with the arrival of the truth;
the moment I can no longer pretend
everything is okay....
just hoping that mom and dad
will still love me for who I am,

and that the world will leave me alone

I said I was okay
and you believed me???
Let me tell you what is wrong with me
I'm tired
That's all...
I'm tired of getting hurt
I'm tired of getting let down
I'm tired of lies
I'm tired of caring too little, and not caring at all
I'm tired of not eating
I'm tired of holding it in
I'm tired of feeling, broken, damaged, selfless, worthless, never-good-enough pain
I'm tired of being judged for everything I do
I'm tired of all my flaws, and insecurities
I'm tired of trying
I'm tired of getting my hopes up
I'm tired of feeling like ****
I'm tired of being me

I wish there was a term to describe the sensation
of thinking too much about the end....
and the shadowy outline of the plot in between.
Yet, when I look up from my phone to discover
the hours have flown by drowned in hyper, tuned voices
blended together,
bright, artificial colors radiating from a screen,
profanity and insensitive depictions of life
scattered across the interface of the internet
like shattered scraps of stars and meteors in the galaxy,
I realize that I wasn't ever really thinking at all,
drowning out life's mysteries in the undiscovered depths
of the ocean
and my quest to seek knowledge so expansive
that I'd wrap it around the universe twice,
I chose not to look outside and see the present forces of nature
and its boundaries in a world of mankind and destruction,
didn't really want to listen to what my parents
needed me to hear; the moments when I should've grown
a layer of maturity and capability to support us all
in an environment in need of drastic change
and improvement,
didn't say the words my brother needed to
hear and process;
the jumbled up pieces of advice and experience
from a responsible older sister who was able to
put on her big girl pants and educate him
about the crooked ways of the world,
and didn't build up the hard shell of defense
against the addicting symptoms of depression and anxiety
from a society that is materialistic, sensual,
and rotten to the core.
All this time, enveloped in the gray static of my own mind,
never able to break free because  I couldn't concentrate,
and there were so many things more appealing
that flashed across my screen,
so many other realities I'd rather live in.
In the end, it all just comes back to this:
my inability to be present and to feel worth in
my own existence as a human being.
I wish there was a term to describe a person who means well,
who can envision herself striving to become
a more dynamic, open, and thoughtful person
who used to be told by others that she worries and thinks too much,
who used to be able to feel the weight of her family's value
on her shoulders,
but who also now at the same time struggles
to stay and confront the cruel reality of the world that actually exists,
who can't help but flash pretty scenery,
and listen to flowing sugary words,
and stare at beautiful illusions across her screen
to keep herself sane and awake,
who has to convince herself time and again
of the evidence that she exists,
an entity that is just as much as everyone else
entitled to a sense of life,
and who needs to remember that pain
is something to learn and grow from,
not just an excuse to tune out from the world's problems
and forever dwell in gray mindless static.

I remain here, seated
but really I am somewhere
far away.
There is wind caressing
my hair, teasing my
sun-kissed, blushing face
while soft mounds
of earthen, rich soil
tread beneath the
soles of my
soft feet.
Vivid, rising green
valleys lying in
the west, and forests
of thick, chestnut
oak trees in the east,
while in front of me,  
cascades fields of
sunflowers, white lilies,
blossoming, silky
lavenders, gardenias,
and soft petaled roses.
In the horizon,
a magnificent sunset
graces a clear blue
sky, with shades
of draping tendrils
of lush reds, oranges,
purples, tainting
plump, white clouds
and coloring
the tops of
graceful, willow trees.

Lay me down
on a bed of roses

a coffin surrounded by
white jasmine and sunflowers

well I feel
I walked on thorns and prickly words
my whole life

it's been tough a bit
here and there
okay, maybe all the time
but life's like that right?
struggles are supposed to shape the strong person
you become
right?  

I've never really known
how to deal with
my problems created by
other people's problems and dreams
and aspirations

a dream? I can't recall what that is
anymore; I stopped a long time ago

just kidding; that's a blatant lie
for I dream everyday for a new life
or a new beginning,
or the end if nothing else is possible

one of the most recurring dreams
that play out in my head
like a black and white movie
in a run down, empty cinema

is me sitting up in bed,
realizing I don't have to let other people
effect me,
don't have to listen to them
tell me what kind of person I need to be
or all the things I need to do

if only I could just
think infinitely greater than how I feel,
if I could just stop
living in my emotions and the past
that is present in every habit and routine thing
that I do,

sometimes all the potential
a person may have
becomes too much for them
to bear,
all the endless possibilities
and visions of things carrying out differently
all tangled up with events from the past

as if my emotions and experiences
morphed into the form of a cage
in which my mind is trapped,
shaking the metal bars
and screaming out the barred window

only to fail completely
in noticing that
by simply walking around those bars,
I would be free

I suppose the coffin I lay in now
is not my final one,
for is it not that at some point
we all have to let ourselves
experience the emptiness of death
for a while,
so after we reemerge
we could know to appreciate
how it feels to be alive?

how is it
that I can imagine vastly different worlds  
and tell the stories of their people long gone
and paint the linings of universes
near and far,

but I can't seem to
make myself face my own reality
within this world,
my head weighed down like a block of granite
corroding in acidic water,

I used to feel apologetic,
scribbling sorry on tiny scrapes of paper
and tucking them on people's windowpanes
but now, I feel empty headed
and blank,
incapable of making myself think,
stuck laying on my bed in the dark,
staring at the ceiling
in the middle of the night

how is it that in this world,
I can't seem to find anyone to talk to
not even just one person
who'd be willing to listen to what I have to say
with no judgement and pity attached,  

how is it that ever since I was young,
I realized I'd rather live
the lives of other people,
wishing I could dive right into the stories I read,
morphing myself into the main character
with their assured happy lives and endings,

how is it that
I can only get this far in my life

It is 7 in the evening of a June day,
a time when the sky overhead
becomes a shade of ocean,
a submerging grapefruit sunset's last rays
combating the rise of darkening blue waves,

the cool air's lingering scent
of faded flowers and sparse dry grass
mingles with hazy fumes of exhaust
trailing from the continuous stream of cars
running down the roadway,

I lean on the side of someone's truck,
the cool, soft night wind
brushing against my face and neck
taking in the backdrop
of streetlamps lighted orange
and the shadowy outlines of large, wispy trees,

one ear listening to regretful sad songs,
the other tuned to car engines
with wheels fast enough to appear suspended
in time for a split second
before disappearing out of reach,

can't help but wonder
why all of these things occurring together
make me feel so small and invisible,
a bystander taking refuge on the borders of town,
always on the outside; only able to peer in,
as everyone's lives play before my eyes
here in one split suspended moment
and then gone the next,

waiting for someone's response
to the desolate, harrowing loneliness
that engulfs me like a blanket
as overwhelming as the nightfall's sky,
the silence prevailing over my regretful sad songs,
the grayness of an empty existence
completely enveloping the orange lights
of the streetlamps,

perhaps when the sky becomes
overwhelmingly more ocean,
maybe only then, I will know.

Moonlight shimmering
dripping over my closed eyes
I drink silver tears

I used to think it'd be nice
if people could brew their characters
and personalities to filter out
their destructive traits and twisted perceptions
derived from the challenges
that the world has ****** at them
to distinguish what kind of individuals they have become,

as if they had been freshly brewed
pitchers of dark roast coffee
that somewhere along the way,
got coffee beans jammed in the grinder,
generating grainy, polluted, dark, undrinkable water
so then they take a clean, white paper filter
and pour their mixture of grains
and water through it
in the hopes of salvaging some lush coffee
while removing clumps of impurities,

but life isn't a coffee maker that can easily be fixed
and me and you aren't just cups of coffee
that went wrong;
it is by nature that we will not make it through
the world unscathed and unashamed,
and we have not yet found the purpose to our lives,

every single time we go through the filter
and somehow end up with a trail of trash
following us to the other side,
it's not our fault; we didn't break any laws
and besides, every single person we visit
has a trail of crushed, damp, coffee grains
outlining their homes,
trailing behind them like their own shadows,
even spilling out from their clenched hands
and tightened mouths,

but every single time I ask if I can taste you
despite all the dark grainy beans polluting
your freshly brewed coffee,
you still taste so rich and savory
while burning the back of my throat
with your smiles, motions, and words,

and as time continues to flow,
I find it gets easier to sweep up
the crushed grains and pile them on the side
as I continue to savor you,

and the rest of the people in the world
and their polluted, grainy, luscious coffee.

It's been awhile since we've met up
been awhile since you've stopped lighting up my dark eyes
or bringing out my crooked teeth from underneath
my paper thin dreary gray lips
it seems like it's been forever since the day
my lungs were still able to take air for granted
because back then my throat didn't close up
and my lips weren't clamped shut to contain the void
left inside after my voice had fled
I can still vaguely recall how it felt back then
waking up each morning in a light *****, energetic
springy, vibrant body; legs as weightless as twigs
and feet so free like flower petals
with shoulders that would carry the world for someone
because there were not yet any rocks slung at them
and not yet any burdens piled on top
I definitely remember all the colors and the warmth in the breeze
when life was a beautiful huge sunset in the afternoon
and a cascade of freckled stars and shimmering moon
during the night
before the sun suddenly became a signal for the start
of another reluctant day and the night turned into
sorrowful darkness seeping into my bones throughout the night
and I most certainly wish I could step back through the folds of time
and relive that brief yet steady moment
when waking up didn't feel like such a burden
and you were still around tucked in my chest
stocked up with laughter
as the medicine to whatever pain I ended up succumbing to.

If I stood very still; lightly on the soles
of my feet
head tipped back, eyes drinking in the stars
cheekbones swimming
in splashes of silver moonlight
the milky way would continue to sway,
and the universe might swirl
to swallow me whole.

Even after perishing,
I would strain to let every fragment of light know
that I have already experienced
that intense feeling of overwhelming loss,
the sense of being swallowed whole by a greater entity

that I have already experienced those phenomenons
in the daily life of a small, insignificant
human being
one of 7.7 billion on this earth

being swallowed by the fast paced conventions
of society,
being sunken further in the soles of my shoes
by the heavy weight of expectations
and burdens implemented by others' judgement,

being cast to the shadows
as an outcast
from the group of uniform peers, moving in unison
marching to a rhythm found in their interior systems,
one that I lack

being utterly alone and drained of light,
laying like a corpse on my suffocating bed in the stillness
of the dark night,

so, there you go.
After all of that mess that I am supposed to call my life,
you surely can't be surprised
by my indifference to being swallowed by the universe
as melting stars run down my cheeks
like the tears of my soul,
as it begins to sob
throughout the night.

what if you asked me, how I was doing
and I answered
something along the lines of,
well, I've actually been very tired
for awhile now
but of course, we all are every once in a while,
so it's all good.

would you nod and leave it at that
or would you say,
well, now that I think about it,
I've been kind of feeling pretty tired too,
so why don't we talk about it.

I stand on trial
in a spherical, tightly wired world
enclosed in a wooden, sun bleached box
formed from unintentional ignorance
and mishaps that stem from the inability to change,
details of my charge:
attempting to establish my personal identity
in which I am colorful and sprout wings to take flight
and my footsteps trace to the ends of the earth and back
during the day I soak up people's laughter and smiles like a sunflower bathing in sunlight
and throughout the night I sleep comfortably in a bed of warm solitude underneath the stars
I'm perhaps guilty of knocking on my senses
to think outside the box
and am mischievous enough to peer into other's
enclosed spaces, coaxing out the best in them
like a magician wielding shimmering flowers
out of his sleeve
I am charged for distinguishing distortions
and painful black and white misconceptions from reality
and its diverse colorful rays of magnitude and life
I believe something along the lines that
not everything is what it seems to be,
but instead we're all flowers
who need to be nourished and watered each day
as weird as it sounds,
I'd like for my tears to mean something
during the trial, which I hope will pass quickly enough
for the wind to ****** and carry away

my sanity floats upon
the single lovely flute tune
riding on the soft breeze
fluttering through my open
window
on a clear, starless diamond
night sky

Expectation is the root of all heartache



(it certainly is the root of my heartache)

It's getting warmer

but the leaves on my trees

continue to sway and twist,
rustling
and scrunching up

until they finally break free
and are swirling away
in the wind

and just like that,

my dreams had already drifted
out of my grasp

long before I saw the real world
come into view
for the first time.

There's china on display
in madame Liu's antiques & crafts shop

so delicate and white,

preserved and rooted to
polished wooden boards

like the smile painted on my face
each day

as I glide on glistening needles

and smooth out blistering red hot, black coals,

upturned lips melting feverishly in the sun's glare

until a hurricane sweeps in

and crushes my cheekbones
so I can no longer smile.

There is rain

silver, shimmering, and wet

soaking into rich soil
and work shoes

filling my water reservoir
and feeding my flowers

granting a quenching life to all

like my tears,

blurring the lines on the paper
and making the words swirl

turning tear drops into salt crystals
that ***** my cheeks

leaking into salty oceans and seas,

until a desert heat storm sweeps in
and blasts it all away.

hello,
first thing,
I wanted to say I am sorry I couldn't
read between the lines
to save both of us
from my cowardly, drawn out,
self care of my so called
ambitious future
that taunted us so
and made you pick up
your love,
and walk away
and me, like the coward I was,
just sitting there
listening to your resounding footsteps
then turning back to
work on my
pathetic, lonely script of life

hello,
I'm sorry
I didn't smile at you
the last time that day
when it rained
and the sky
was the color of a
gray heartache
spilling out silver, translucent
tears for both of us
to soak up,
and the concrete was slick with
shattered memories
of warm hugs
and shared mugs of coffee
and the air was
heavy with unspoken words
and your withdrawn sighs

hello,
How have you been?
I know I don't have
the right to say this
but my god, you still look
like life when it's in a
great mood,
still sound like a voice
singing in the shower
I remember waking up to
with a smile
you still feel like
that moment when you wrestled
the long settled rose colored glasses
off my face
and made me see everything,
made me see you,
yeah, you could say
I took your moments for granted,
every laugh,
every smile,
every honest, caring word
I haven't worn the glasses
since then

hello,
I know it's not fair
for me to call you
after all this time, but I am
falling apart
and the only thing
I can recall in color
is the memory of you
sitting with me on the bleachers
watching the sunrise
warm up the cold, windy day
and paint golden our
intertwined hands

hello,
my name is sorrow and regret
and I like coffee
and everything else that reminds me of you
I've lost track of how old
the days are, but I know
there's an infinite number
of seconds and sky
between you and me
but, anyways after all this time
it's quite ironic to say,
but, I still have a dream
except this time, it's changed
it's now a dream where I
wake up to a world
where you are in my life (arms)
again

hello,
I swear I wouldn't take
anything (you) for granted again.
I'd answer every time,
any day,
any second,
any moment
you call.....
just maybe one day
you'll answer mine.
just maybe one day,
I won't have to listen
to a dial
and pretend that I can hear
you
say all the same things
back to me.

When most things cease to matter one day
and everyone is on the brink
of breaking down,
I'll just rely on the sun
to keep my vision clear
and my hands warm,
be calmed by the rustling of the leaves
swaying in the wind
with the scent of pretty flowers
in the air,
I'll just walk barefoot
on the rich soil of the earth
and each day
reap what I sow,
not bothering to pick up
the fragments of a blistering, burdening
life I left behind
because once a star has exploded,
you can't gather its dust
and try to put it back together again
I'll just drink
from the cool, clear- blue sweet spring
near the field where
the water pump used to be, now all
cracked, rusted, and faded
it's funny how I can't seem to
feel any lingering remorse or sadness
over the familiar things
we've all lost,
maybe they just never were
familiar to me
I'll just hike up a grassy, flowery field
nothing but the wind
whispering into my ear and brushing
against my cheeks
that are tear-free and tinted pink
and oh, will you look at that,
no contacts or glasses to clear my vision
because the sunset in the horizon
between the valley of
the blue, white crested mountains
and the endless expense of twinkling starry night skies
are for everyone to see
and for some reason, I don't care anymore
about being alone,
there is so much more spirit to just
appreciating everything
you have,
with nothing to represent except life
and no purpose to fulfill except for living with open eyes
and a clear mind,
I'm too overwhelmed
to ever feel alone ever again,
to ever question my place in this universe.

Every time, once in a while
I would think to myself,
oh how I wish I had never been born

yet then I'd find myself
thinking of the Labrinyth movie,
where Sarah had made
the same wish towards her baby brother,
and there followed a night
of when the Goblin King
took her brother away

and it was quite a journey
to bring the babe back,
from traps, thick stone walls, and timeless sunsets
within the maze
to the shimmering dance of the illusion
with the Goblin King himself
who seemed to make the world fall down
around Sarah's shoulders

if you could describe
the mingling of dazed wonderment
and the dizzying fear of consequences from
wrong choices made in the split second
it takes to wish
you were never born,

it would feel something like
wandering through a labyrinth, where nothing is normal
and everything eludes sense,
thriving on the split moments
of ignorance, anger, and sadness
that result from the world
and everyday deeds,
and the character of the person you are

no matter how tempting
or dazzling
the world full of shimmering illusions may be,
it is in the end, still
another bottomless dark hole
to spiral down into

I guess that's why
when things take a turn for the rough
in life
and I turn to wish that I had
never been born,
I always find myself
thinking of the Goblin King coming to
****** me away
to lead me into the world of
luring, beautifully twisted illusions
that drain the soul out of you when you've
had enough.

The rain splatters on stained sidewalks
and polishes pebbles on the
slick, gray road packed with cars
and hustling people caught up
in traffic jams,
the sky above is stormy gray
yet calm; there's a settled beauty
within a dreary, wet day
I'm walking amidst the busy street,
rainboots, high heels and
dress shoes all alike flowing
along from offices and
buildings and schools
and whatever places of importance
to get home, where it's nice and dry
and there's someone warm
waiting inside,
There's the coffee shop and bookstore
I always go to on
rainy days like this one
to watch the flurry of movement
outside as I sit contentedly
sipping my steaming mug of
dark coffee and turning the pages
of a worn book to greet my small
friends on every page,
But today I am one of the
paper folks out on the street,
weighed down by heavy coats and hats
and dress shoes
walking hurriedly against the blowing wind,
I board the subway, with its mix
of gray-blue seats filled with
lost faced people glancing out
the clear windows
and the isles are held by standing people
glancing at their watches,
the moment reminds me of
Daniel Powter's song, Bad Day
where the woman sits down
not far from a settled love
of two people leaning on each other
and she brushes away the distant thought
that she is alone,
and the fluorescent light
preserves the moment in my head
and I glance around wondering
if there would happen to be
a moment like that for me to take,
and I see a guy
with tangled hair and jade green eyes
standing a short distance away
watching me, and he smiles
before turning back to the girl
beside him
and that moment reminds me of
James Blunt's song, You're Beautiful
because I feel a twinge of curious sadness
as he puts his arm around her
and for an instant
I pretend the girl is me before
turning away,
I look up and the sky is still
stormy yet bright, and everything is
going by in a blur;
the trees a mash
of brown and evergreen
red and blue houses blending into
their pink and white shutters,
I catch a glimpse of a man and a woman
engulfed in each other's arms
kissing, standing on the porch
of their white two story house
with yellow shutters
and in that moment I feel like
the ******* the train,
dazed from a strange fantasy in my head
happening to play out on the screen
of a reality that never really
turns out right,
I close my eyes the rest of the way
and let myself drift apart
before joining the stream of paper people
stepping out of the train
and walking off into the distance.

Remember when we sat up there
on your roof
laughing at the stars and wishing
on the moon
and you turned to me and said,
"I wanna be with you"
but even in that moment, we already
kinda knew
that every single high would
hit the bottom low
all my broken lies would take me
far from home
stuck in my broke car driving down
the highway to hell
while thinking about how I left you
all alone
I guess "sorry to my lover and best friend"
is all I will ever know

I think of a soul
consisting of many fragments,
all bursting to be released
and letting millions of thoughts
shine vibrantly.
They don't all have to make sense,
they don't all have to be original,
they just have to be true to me,
the me I chose to be,
the better one, the best one
out of all of them.
I have grown in many ways
and found amusement
in things I once shunned or thought against,
for instance, lying to myself
that everything is okay
but it's alright to do that because
if you make yourself believe
hard enough, then everything is,
and sometimes,
that's all that you really need,
having faith in a dreary, bustling,
forgetful world,
full of people who leave you behind
and people who pick you up
and take you to their
warm homes.
Bit by bit,
I've learned that change
isn't always a bad thing,
that some things are meant to happen
no matter how hard
you will them not to,
because it's your way of growing,
a forceful action wrenching open
clenched hands and
eyes squeezed shut, head afloat
ears trapping out all sounds,
then I realize
it was me all along
dragging myself down to lay on
a blanket of self-pity and isolation,
and change was
the only factor
with the ability to wrench open
closed doors.
Now I hear sounds that in turn
make me see, and seeing,
makes all the difference,
not just in black and white,
but also in vintage, sepia,
color.

You are like a
cool gentle breeze in the trees
whistling your sweet tune
and dancing your fingers through
my hair
like a silver stream of moonlight
on patches of silky worn grass
my feet run across
to get to your outreached
arms of pale morning sunlight
that make the sky
blush into cool shades
of rose, jade, lilac,
and peach
your laugh gushes
like a waterfall blue and white
spraying across
the rocks and evergreen I come
to perch on
when all inspiration for ideas
have dried into
strips of sour plums
and I am left feeling
a crazed thirst for the energy drained away
you are as light as a Cloud
white, often times stained
sunset pink and orange
so filling yet so translucent
in that my ideas
pass right through you
and become forever lost
like airplanes with blinking lights
and no destinations
flying across your endless horizon
of thoughtful evening stars
every time I close my eyes
and breathe
you are there fluttering underneath
my eyelids
smoothing my creased forehead
pulling my mouth up into an
upturned crescent moon
placing your palms
against mine
just to let me know
you are there
though only a fragment of
my imagination
you are simply
the stillness in every moment
encapturing a person's presence
to be carried in
the winds of change
yet brought back time and again
when hope has stilled
and home seems like a desert
that you bring
rain to.

Dear human- as- possible Human,

I wonder what goes on
in your head besides the times of
when you strive to help people?
Sometimes, do you just sit there
and gaze out the window, staring at a cloud going by,
and seeing a face in the cloud,
or seeing something in an object that would
remind you of something?
Do you sometimes pour water into a glass,
just so that you could put it
in the sunlight and look through
the beautiful crystals at eye level,
and just marvel and dream?
Do you sometimes just have
a blank sheet of paper in front of you,
a pen in one hand, and a lamp on,
and do you just sit there,
unsure of which of your ideas
would be meaningful enough to place on paper,
and for the whole world to see?
If these things happen often
during your life, then you and I
are both much more alike than we thought.
And that might be a good thing.
Because sometimes, the coincidences,
the overlapping actions,
and the identical ideals of two people
finally meeting and emerging together,
is like the collision of the sun and
the moon, forming a beautiful, rare,
magnificent eclipse.
And the best part is, let there be
as many eclipses as the stars
in this universe, and no two eclipses
would ever be the same.
I hope that you will come to realize
that you are not alone in this world,
and may we meet very soon.
For as each footstep on the
lightly treaded clouds, stars,
and cement roads,
are never there for long.
They will always be fading away, like ripples in the water.
When we find ourselves
facing one another on the same path,
let’s slowly stretch our hands
out towards each other,
and intertwine your fingers
with my fingers.
That is reuniting all the lost souls in the universe.
Let me gaze into your eyes,
and fall deep into them, like a feather
somehow going against all the rules
of gravity and sense, graciously sinking
to the bottom of the sea.
That is the loneliness and aching pains sinking away
to the core of the earth.

In the clear, calm stillness
of a chilly winter night,
where the stars twinkle
like icy diamonds in a
dark sapphire blue sky,
I feel the crisp, cold breeze
ruffling my hair and brushing
my cheeks,
hear the soft crunches of
freshly fallen snow beneath my shoes,
I look up to see twirling snowflakes
falling softly down upon the earth,
each one's intricate design
shimmering in the pale moonlight,
I catch them and peer at their
delicately crafted beauty,
but then suddenly they vanish,
leaving me alone, and wishing
that I too could vanish
along with them
and leave my presence to be mourned.

I yearn for something
bright, and warm,
and soft,
and glowing, and gentle,
and kind,
like a blanket of flowing sunshine
engulfing me,
creating a cocoon of kindness
to shelter me from
the outside world, and
everything in between,
I want to feel safe, and loved,
freed from inner demons
and jabbing words,
and tainted stares,
taken away and hidden
from poison,
my skin and eyes glowing,
my mind a vast, welcoming
pale blue sky
my lips a creamy peach,
tasting sweet honeysuckle drops
on my tongue,
I want to breathe easily
air as fresh, and clean,
and pure with the essence
of innocence, and
hushed, content breaths
of peace,
I want to curl up
into a ball, and
be my own savior,
wipe my own tears, and
preserve my own laughs
and soft, genuine words,
I want to be left alone,
alone from guilt, and fear,
and the red threads
of fate, tying me to
others, who make me regret
my existence, and every breath
I inhale,
and every broken step I take,
I just want to be
free and forgotten from it all,
to just be safe and sound
in my cozy little, but wide
room of warmth,
and softness, and solitude,
I will forever dance
like a beam of sunlight,
twirling softly in a palm,
always out of reach,
like a forgotten dream.

It's hard to fight when the fight ain't fair,
struggling as you climb the mountain
in an internal uphill battle for something
you never knew what to make of,
lost in the throes of other people's demands
while facing personal demons alone,
people's voices all mingling together
and brushing past your head,
leaving you dazed and isolated
as you can't seem to figure out how to
join in the conversation
and be a part of the flurry of life
happening all around you
because inside you, it never feels like
much is happening,
it's like your capability of perceiving
anything good has been switched off,
like someone violently flicked at it
and beat it in with a hammer
and stomped on it before tossing it into
the back of the memory room, where nothing
is ever remembered or taken back out again
and now when looking through
the lenses of your eyes,
everything is drab and gray, like a discoloring
filter has been applied to make sure you see
things for what they really are,
so that then there's never a chance to
mistake anything for being anything else
that you might have wanted it to be,
so you can remember to always remind yourself
that nothing, and no one, is there for you
and will ever be there for you,
because they are all caught up in the present,
a time when you are utterly insignificant
because one day someone decided to
reach back into the back of your head
and lower your voice and expressions several notches
below silence,
because it was better that way for everyone else's
convenience
they wouldn't have to worry anymore
about hearing your cries of help or anxiousness
of being lost in the throes of other people's decisions
for you
they wouldn't have to hear you
express any doubt or show your real longing
during a time when you were still able to
dream or recall a hazy yet bright idea
of what you wanted to do or study
of the life you might have wanted to make for yourself,
they wouldn't have to take care of you
when you broke down from trying to
dodge expertly concealed insults and recited misfortunes
being hurled at you from all directions
the only kind of pity present in your life
is self-pity and remorse,
self-pity because no one's pity would ever
be enough to accommodate
and remorse because you were never
good enough in the first place
and you know it all too well
and it hurts, that you can't even make things
better for yourself while fighting a fight
that ain't fair
because you don't know how to.

Neurons travel and wind
around your head like
draping tree branches, Christmas lights,
strings of tangled red yarn
weaving a possible
fate.

When the cords are
simply content with
remaining relatively still,
being with you
is like
sailing on smooth,
tranquil, clear blue waters
of a vast, magnificent
ocean,
a blossomed sunset
in the distance
dripping on white, sandy shores
of an island of lost paradise
awaiting our arrival.

But when the cords
flail and twist, tying each other
into knots and cutting off
the clearness
and levelheadedness of thought,
being with you
is like
trying to hang on to
the back of a typhoon,
frigid black waters flailing,
crashing against
foamy, thick quicksand,
roars and curses of a
tyrant sea god
raging seas of water against
the skies,
rapidly expelling
hurtful, sharp anchors and lunging
them to the bottom
of our sandy beds.

And I wonder
what it would be like had I
possessed more
powerful features
as your sea goddess,
as the moon and stars
from above,
and the sandy beds
below that would
catch both
hurtful anchors and
salty tears
you let loose.

Sometimes I get this sensation
as I take my bare feet
and place them
into tight enclosed shoes
to walk a cold grey
concrete path
still rigid to the shards of
   broken dreams
and promises
scattered along the middle,
the sounds of other people's footsteps
drown out my insecurities
and the
insignificance of
a person who feels small
as I try to grasp at merging
into the person full of
light and meaning
who has a spark in her eye,
     destined to do and make great changes
instead of falling into her own world
of isolation and despair
glancing around myself, wondering whether or not
I actually belong
I don't see my name on the board
with my peers
standing in the crowd,
waiting for the crosslight
to let me walk
walk with them to the other side, but
somewhere along the way
do I get lost
or am I just destined to walk
the wrong path
just so I could be with my peers
who are, of course,
the future
who will change the world
who will introduce a revelation that will change
the biased courses of humanity

but as for me

the deafening screams and words of
other people's
lives, moments, recollections
and livelihoods
cover up my hushed pathetic cries
and calls for help
as I question all that is taking place
in every which way I look
somewhere out there
a mom and her growing daughter
become closer
as my own mom falls apart on me
unknowingly ripping apart my right to establish
an identity of my own
somewhere out there
a dad can tell his children
about his life experiences
of the virtues and humility within that led to
their blessed ways of life now
as my own dad
who deserves, at least
everything the world has to give
works harder and harder every day
and every second
to continue our "blessed" ways of life now

but despite all of that

I am told No-- just focus on yourself
make sure you don't miss the crosswalk
make sure you make us proud--
but they don't see
they are what matters
when it comes to
a kid hoping to grow into a better person

there are colors;

some old and chipped
and falling apart,
on the frames of people's
subconscious
while fresh new colors shimmer
in the evening
starlight atop blue waters
just waiting to be discovered, like a
blind person experiencing sight for the first time

but how can I see the night stars
and fall in love with
the moon's beauty
when I'm too busy staring
at the sun
trying to make my way
up to the very top
running, taking jagged steps,
bent over all broken and
crawling

just hoping to be remembered

as a great sign of the times.

The problem is that you always end up wanting more, right?
You can never be fulfilled with what you have.
Time either eats away at your regards
for certain things, or instead packs on layers of
desire, need, and growing relentlessness
in obtaining whatever it is you so desire.
It's quite sad, really,
how I might look at you from a distance
and feel shock, alarm, sadness, and pity
for being so engulfed in things that
will fade away, things that won't
work out, things that aren't worthy of
relinquishing in the light of your attention,
things that are consuming
bit by bit, the good, unique aspects
of you as a person.
You are waist deep, clawing into the abyss,
your eyes shining with desire, for something,
whatever it is, to become "more,"
to expand and transform into something that would
fulfill the extent of your feelings,
so you say.
How did you get so caught up
in it? How could you do that to yourself?
In a better place and time,
you exist for everyone and everything good,
not just for yourself.
You are kind, warm-hearted, open to those
who are laughing and crying,
to those falling and rising, to those coming
onto the shore, or washing away with the tides
into a beautiful, tragic sunset.
You exist to look directly into my soul
and talk to me
like you could talk to no other.
Because I'm not someone who needs help
with not giving into
worldly desires that will drain me of my
essence and life.
I try hard not to lose who I am,
and you won't ever see me harming
anybody or anything.
At the end of the day, we would
walk side by side on the shore
of a foamy, dark blue ocean carrying on its waves
lost dreams and souls out into the horizon,
and we would both agree that it has
been a good time, and that we have
established some sort of peace within ourselves,
that we no longer need to turn to
worldly desires and moments riding on
the seconds of a clock, in being able to
feel something calm and transparent.
We would both be liberated
from this world when we die.
That's all that I ever wanted when
I look at you.
You see... that's all that I ever wanted.

I long to live in a vintage
world
where the warm, spring wind blows
softly all day long
and the sound of wind chimes are
the only things representing
a calm humanity's
existence
I would like to take pictures of you
behind the lenses of that old-fashioned
vintage camera
you wearing a faded David Bowie shirt
with ripped blue jeans, dusty shoes
displaying your white, crooked
teeth of a smile
can we ride around town together
bikes pulled out from neglected
sheds full of rusty, old tools
leaves twirling through the squeaky wheels
rolling down cracked pavements
with crushed, brown green grass and
white daisies trying their best to
remain upright
can we sit on the raggedy bent steps
of an old abandoned
two story house
and eat melting ice cream with
cold fingers and hot heads from the
sun's yellow white glare
can I hold your hand
intertwining our rough flat palms and
tracing your dusty, worn fingers that
wipe away burning tears
and caress my face as though it were
the most precious thing
in the world  
can we pretend that
life is just an old- fashioned movie
time put on for us
and the setting is my mind expressed as a
hazy yet vivid vintage world.

When I turned the pages of a book
I was reminded of a friend
who longed for a certain order
in the world,
as this one could never
fulfill the hidden premises
and strange moments with overlapping
sparks of discovery
needed for an artist, or in other words,
a soul who saw through
different lenses,
could never fulfill
the enchanting turns of change and
unexpectedness needed to
ignite an artist's dreams and passions,
if they ever did
make themselves known.

I kind of miss how it was back then. I regret alot of things, but I wish I could go back in time and relive it all, even all the things I regret. Although I may be a bit slow and stupid at times, at least I was a sincere and good willed person. I may not have known how to express myself, but I always did feel genuine happiness being around others. However, now I'm not sure whether I can continue being a genuine person anymore. Although I'm so much more insightful now, along with that insight came more bitterness and resentment to weigh me down. I'm not sure if I have the strength to let the good side of me win in the end. Life really is a struggle. All the more so when you are the only one who can acknowledge your internal struggles. All the more so when you can acknowledge the choices you can make... but you may not have the strength that it takes to not give in to the bitterness and resentment that builds as you grow older. It's so easy to let yourself go, to let your conscience drown and sink into a bottomless, deep, dark pit where there's nothing but just anger, emptiness, remorse, self pity, an empty will to live. It's so easy....
Sometimes all my words are just another hidden form of calling out for help. It makes me feel so pathetic and weak willed, but there is not much else I can do without harming myself or the people around me.
I suppose somewhere within this tangled mess of a life, I just feel lost and dazed, and alone. I don't mean anyone else harm though; I never have and never will.
I kind of miss how it was back then.
Even though I may have been a bit slow and stupid at times, even if that had been apparent, couldn't you all have just accepted, maybe even loved, me for who I was, for the innocence, sincerity, kindness, and unconditional love I expressed?

For some people,
life is a
game called
    Let's see
         how much
               you can
                    lie to yourself

As the years pass, a part of its mind wonders what will
become of it.
A bystander forced to be a part of life's hectic,
unfair, and demanding ways.
A thing with no wits to fight out drawn, incriminating,
and unnecessary battles.
A speck of quiet darkness in the false, bright shine
of a store bought sun.
An organism desperately trying to blend into a crowd
where it  d o e s   n o t   b e l o n g.
(And never will.)
A piece of emotion attached to a living being, forcing it to
give a care about things that never last in its soul.
Too many feelings gone ignored,
Too many words left unsaid,
Too many expressions left misinterpreted,
Too many moments passing by in sunken tears.
Too many hands held out,
asking for things the organism does not know
how to give.
Too many demands made for
a piece of light that is being extinguished with time
and a mind drowning in pity and sorrow.
It is dazed and alone in a crowd of people
(no one to call to)
and watched under mistrusting eyes
at a place it is forced to call home.
It will gaze at a screen and bathe in falseness
for hours, just to scrape away the consciousness
of misery on its skin.
But every now and then, it must write incriminating
truths about a mind spiraling out of the light
to keep sane.  
(better to write than to harm others)
It has trouble smiling now, as its face melts and distorts
into crumpled pathetic excuses of expressions.
It stutters and leaves gaping black empty spaces, trying
to conjure up words that would seem  n o r m a l.
It would like to at any moment, break into a run
and feel its feet pound the cracked, gray pavement of the sidewalk
because anything would be better than having to
feel its mind breaking instead.
It would like to, at least once,
be able to dance without a flipping care over the
insecurities of its bent and oddly shaped body
and hands.
It would like to, at least once,
write without having its words prodded and graded and stripped down
and misinterpreted of their actual bare meanings.
It would like to, at least once,
live and smile and laugh and love
(yes, it quite loves to  l o v e)
without being judged or ordered about, without being
compared or displayed or placed on the limits of
people's ignorance and relentlessness in being at the best
at being the worst.
It would like to, at least once,
swim the waters of the vast ocean's life with the grace
and smoothness of a mermaid,
rather than struggle to keep its drowning head held above
dark, oily waters of bitterness and tears.
It would like to, at least once,
be kind enough to fly among sunset stained clouds in a peach horizon
and twinkle among the evening diamond stars,
rather than be ugly enough to no longer even be considered human,
taking on the form of a mere, existing  I T.

As I developed, they shaped me,
as if I had been a block of clay
sitting there on the jagged concrete of
unpaved streets and endless roads.

My future form dependent on
the timing of passing strangers'
beginnings and endings,
their risings in the mornings
like the blue and orange horizon
spreading in preparation for the sun's presence,

And their settling back in the evenings,
like cool salty clouds of white sea foam
collapsing back into the ocean's
gray waves.

In each moment passing by
like a kid riding a bicycle, speeding down
the cracked pavement and
turning the corner out of site,

I was shaped by
the flurry of life that surrounded
every person's presence.

Picked up, tossed into the air,
and kicked by small children with bright eyes
and tongues that stuck out when
adults were unfair,

Colored, spray painted and scribbled on
by teenagers with messy dark curls,
wild laughing eyes,
and rapidly budding senses,

Observed, analyzed, discussed, and compared
by businessmen in jet black suits
and smooth red ties,
who pondered cutting me evenly
into perfect pieces for sale on the market,

Rolled, polished, scrubbed clean,
and spiced by rapid tongued mothers
wearing aprons and holding long
wooden cooking spoons,

Eroded, left to absorb a vast amount of salt
from teary eyes and bleeding wounds,

Caught on blazing, fiery fumes
of a man's raging anger,

Soaring high in the sky, resting on clouds
of someone's love and faith,

Trapped low in the ground,
sleeping in a bed of dried dirt filled with
people's sorrows and dreariness,

Drowning in purple satin
of one's longing
and unsatiated desires,

Chained to a planet
spiraling out of control in a universe
that couldn't bear to let go.