Wednesday, November 8, 2017

Master-piece

And I found a hell in her,
a planet that became barren,
that used to teem with life,
that wore happy like spring
and promise like sunrise.

Where every lungful of oxygen
used to be sharply exhaled,
forming weightless laughter
the sort which echoes
in confined spaces
longer than a smile does.
How dulcet a sound
that has turn to destruction
with the most marred of instruments.
A toggle on the world's silence.

When feeling the weight
of her head on my fragile shoulder
sent anvils and anchors on my heart,
hornets stinging my ribcage,
begging to take more of me.
And the smile on her face,
a painting torn to pieces,
that I, the artist with no training
burned in my wake.
You will get better.
This isn't over.

Monday, October 2, 2017

Convergence Past the Fork

Our paths do meet and I see you again. We are both tired and wounded but tonight we sleep in each other’s arms and that is more than the other road could have given me. Your flushed cheeks and transparent eyes tell me you feel the same way.

And everything that has led to this has been worth it

Sunday, September 17, 2017

*Shrug*

But it's my nature, I said.
Trying to change it would take a lot of time and effort
that would ultimately defeat the purpose.

Monday, September 4, 2017

She Says Apologetically

"I'm sorry."

What useless words. So craved, so meaningful and still...

I can assure you there are anchors and anvils attached to those two measly words. My apology is as heavy as every ocean and every sea. I could scream it till you were deaf and still wonder if you believed me. I promise you, I'm so sorry that I say it in my sleep.

I wish my apologies healed hearts.
I wish they did more than tear you apart.

Tuesday, August 22, 2017

Firefighter Logs


You need to know
that while I don the gas mask
and fireproof jacket every smoky morning,
I do not pray for fires.

I do not french kiss the tongues of flame,
do not shower in gasoline rain.

What fireman slides down the pole thinking
“I hope the fires will be unquenchable this time.”
What dispatch personnel holds the radio thinking
“I can’t wait to hear the silence of lives on the line.”

I am no certified firefighter.
I do not pray for fires.

Saturday, June 24, 2017

We’re back in the snow and I wish I could see the sky right now because I’m pretty sure night has fallen. I’m pretty sure the world knows where we are but they’re just afraid to walk out this far — afraid to leave their cabin, their firewood cavern which chimney smokes hope halos in the night.

Tuesday, June 13, 2017

The Restructuring of the World


I am fashioned full of rhymes
and half forgotten things.
You are staccato bass beats
and immortalized memory.

And in the temporal symphony
of clicking heels and west tornados
all the dichotomies congregate
find marriage in harmony.

Luck likes the taste of us in her mouth.
We linger —
like mushroom smoke in the aftermath
haunting the rivers
and coloring the winds,
having an era named after us
be it a coronation of destruction
or majesty.

Sunday, April 16, 2017

No Man's Land

I.
In all the hollow stadiums
never did I imagine it would be us by the vending machine,
cranking out old war stories,
eating expired skittles and drinking cold coffee,
our bodies silhouetted under the bleachers.


It was a sweet nectar, black rose kind of evening
and the fog made it seem like everything wasn't in focus.
It made it easier stumble into sinkholes
pretending that we were all along
puddle jumping.

II.
I could've told you then
and there were so many things.
But to you, I suspect they would sound like nothing but a sordid tale
spoken only to lull youngsters into shaky oblivion.
You'd take it for nothing more than folklore
and from my lips, even more fraudulent.
Not to mention the lack of trust I had for words during moments like these.


Because all that you have said, all that I have done -
nothing but wild reflections throwing cast iron heat in the daylight.
Through the breaks in the bleachers,
the sky looks down,
a tender gaze, a knowing smile,
the constellations spelling sin like G-I-F-T.

III.
You propped yourself up on your elbows
held the can to your mouth,
wincing as the cold aluminum paled your lips.
You planted a coffee stained kiss at my jugular
and pulled back only for me to lock my arms around your neck
and fasten my lips to yours, cold and warm,
a thermostat romance we knew too well.

IV.
I dread the lightening of the sky; in truth I do.
It becomes the dispelling of illusion,
the bottoming out of sleep deprived drunkenness into harsh sobriety.


The glass pieces now we use
to make picturesque iridescent tinted windows
will open cuts on our fingertips only when the sun rises,
only when your head hits the pillow,
only when you forget that ours is just a temporary world.


Like most things,
you can only start getting hurt when you start waking up.
Maybe that's why we're still here.
Maybe that's why we're hiding in abandoned stadiums
underneath bleachers that creak in the slightest gust of wind.

V.
I haven't slept in three days and counting.
It is such a cruel trade off.
It is in your presence that I feel the most at peace -
thoughts barely any energy to run free.
How rare it is for me to find someone I can fall asleep with.
And yet it is with you that I cannot waste the hours with.
You and I - we are already a dream. If I close my eyes,
the world will wake up with me.

Wednesday, February 1, 2017

Regarding the Overflowing Trashcan and the Ever Empty Page


I long for the day
when I hold fear by its beating heart,
feel its breath come and go
in the racing pulse below its neck,
when its legs are two stumps
finally incapable of pursuing me.

I will crush its windpipe,
pulverize its voice box
for all the lies it spewed
that I believed to be truth.
And as its vitality slips through my fingers,
the eviction will be official.

And in the extra space I will plant my ego.
and I will water it daily,
trim it should become overgrown.
I will have conquered one demon.



Sunday, January 8, 2017

Drawbridge


At the end of it all,
you can have the door cracked open
time and time again,
expose the world inside for a minute second,
wear your outsider heart on your sleeve.

But it is never truly open
until the hinges break
and the wood falls to you feet,
breaking free of the frame and all.
There,
an open drawbridge
an open world
slowly blending into yours.

They do not belong to themselves any more.

Sunday, December 18, 2016

You — 1.48am



It was all I could do —
holding onto your barbed wire fingertips,
your candy cane arms
beguiling yet, humane.
For all the agony that ensued,
it was all I could do
to swallow every burning bite,
force-fed and bloated,
metal crunching — bits and bobs
grinding my pearly whites
till every gate
was golden.

Sunday, December 4, 2016

Booking It

She is picking up the tattered paperback book. The spine has a million wrinkles in it, the white jagged unbroken lines strongest at the center. It has been cracked hundreds of times. She understands because this story is a heavy one to carry on anyone’s back. Her fingertips trail tenderly over the cover, the colors now faded. The sky blue has become paler, less vibrant — a couple shades away from being grey. The baby pink has become beige. As she opens it carefully, it makes a protesting creak. Perplexed, she examines the front page again, seeing that it has come right off its spine, only hanging on by the back cover. She traces the exposed spine to feel the remains of glue. It seems as though it will not be righted despite how many times it has been fixed down.

Despite the newer copies staring out from the glass cages, despite how destroyed this one is, it always seems to receive the most care.

Tuesday, November 22, 2016

Izora


It was the scarlet rebellion
of a young woman.
Blooming she had an expiration date,
and plucking destroyed any further extensions.


And they negect to mention
rebellion simply means
not taking death with a smile.
And young is just a synonym
of descending into hell
with sweet heaven still
on the tip of your tongue.

Thursday, October 27, 2016

Beyond the Breakage

I am the way glass shards try to make music
as what was once whole
falls so hard it leaves no mark
but shatters irreparably apart.