Poems

It can be scary

to consider the journey

it might take

without a promise

or a guarantee

of what will become of you.

 

It can be scary

to awake

and to see the damage

that has been done to you–

and you echoed onto everyone–

more clearly

from the other side of the foliage

that covered us

and suffocated the sun.

It can be scary

to face the truth

of your destiny and history anew.

You then stand and observe

in shock of a life that once was yours.

But it is always a better view.

Be the stranger.

Uphold the sparkle of the first glance.

Be undefined.

To be known and be loved —

has a slim chance.

​​

Familiar things make me want to move.

Comfortable habit makes me feel tired and fooled.

Being more or less awkward is my thing.

The common reaction— not worth mentioning.

​​

Nevertheless, I don’t have a choice.

I never meant to choose my own voice.

Now, standing out of the crowd is my typical zone.

Not fitting in is my familiar home.

Giving each corner just a brief touch.

Leaving a small print on each creature. Not too much.

​

But the nervosa from being on my own

drives me weary from the inside out.

It’s the engine that pushes me, yet tires me out.

My cozy nest merely a silent deep sleep.

My tranquil home a hole to which I creep

when the risk of my face, blurred and diffuse,

to be revealed is too great. It would confuse.

When one by one,

you bury each of your children;

with all the love you thought

you could bring up,

you are faced with lying them

into a grave; in the ground.

 

You begin trying to make

some music, at least,

with the hollow sound it makes

inside your heart’s quiet house,

each time, another child 

is brought to term

and then laid down into the earth.

 

But these pale songs

are a desperate attempt

to offer the world something

from this barren womb.

Damned to bear offspring

that are not equipped to live

and you cannot provide for;

how silent, then, become

the songs you once were adored for.

Do I miss chewing on leaves and on grass?
I do —

even though,

I now drink the juices from flowers and trees,

and I can stretch out my limbs,

and spread them into wings,

and I can see everything
from a much broader view
and with a much wider lens

I do miss some friends.
Though it's a select and an intimate few,
 

it's some who've remained
in their caterpillar state to this day—
and some
of whom I wonder about what might've become of them,

for even if, by chance, they were to pass my way,
today, I would no longer recognize them—
for they will have changed into butterflies, too.
 

Never date a poet —
we’ll write about your love.
And of all the tales, love and betrayals,
and fantasies you dreamed of.

Never date a poet.
We’ll deeply fall for you.
And we’ll write about all that we can find
and mirror it back to you.

Never date a poet.
We’ll write about all that you do.
The things that you might like to forget
the poem will construe.
 

 —

But go on and date a poet,
for really we don’t have a clue
about the beautiful mystery that you are
though we write as if we knew what’s true.

So go on and love a poet,
for you’ll rarely feel so seen
and be loved for all your imperfections
as when you are with me.

My reflections are moving in nearer

as I stand here in my house of mirrors.

Some are chipped, some need dusting,

some are polished to a shine, crystal-clear.

Some are obvious, some are deceiving.

But there's not one I could end up leaving

for they are all a part of my whole being —

Many abstractions

reflecting the multiple lives

I could have lived

or am living.