Satisfaction.
You know,
sometimes when I think about it all,
I can’t help but smile,
knowing that we were
or are..
There’s four of us you know?
This journey,
has been an eventful one,
and I will never regret it.
I’m weird.
Restrict-
-Constrict.
Mutually exclusive,
but all at the same time.
Sneeze.
Sophistry.
Ask me how I am.
Restrict-
-Constrict.
Mutually exclusive,
but all at the same time.
Sneeze.
Sophistry.
Ask me how I am.
April 11, 2012
Un
April 11, 2012
Swept away
This hair that falls so silently out of place,
out from your finger tips
and it gasps—
finally, that breath of air that it has so longed for.
The feeling of comfort that doesn’t long for growth,
finesse,
class.
Falling in love with something that simply is,
simply being with it.
She sends her legs up into a leap,
falling gracefully,
knowing that this fall would be the finale.
The memories that string themselves together like thread, wrap themselves around her finger and beg her to not let it free; not just letting it go, but letting it free.
They trail behind her,
befriend her shadow,
and kiss the floor on which they both walked on.
Her raw emotions
beating
in the warmth of breast,
and she begins to wonder.
I begin to wonder,
if this is all worth it.
If this suffocation is well suited
for someone like me.
This dance that was started so accidentally,
so intricately
woven
and grown
under our heads
as we slept,
has been beating
chanting
to be finished.
How can you let go of something that was once so dear to you, she asks?
You don’t.
It lets go of you.
It will.
It is.
It has.
It will,
trust me,
friend.
February 29, 2012
You know what?
Perhaps God is the most brilliant poet that ever was and is. What we are, who we are, and what this is: life, is but a short poem that has yet to be dissected or interpreted. So many opinions and so many confused, at complete amazement or anger or in love with this masterpiece that is too big to be confined to be framed or made tangible. This thing that we just can’t quite point our fingers to, ah, what an amazing piece, eh? The cycles of life being born— a paining sacrifice of oneself for the next years of happiness, the painful burden of authority. The plump tight hydrated skin, so easily given up for that of a much younger, fresher, newer, more beautiful life. Mirrored, would be the inevitable… ah, death. The beauty that rushes through ones veins, the sudden sweats of regrets, the tears of sad happiness, the replumping of the eyes, retightening of the relations, the hydration of life… How sometimes, in death, we find life. God’s oh-so-ever poetic masterpiece. In every life, there have been sacrifices made. In every death, life is redefined—re-found.
February 29, 2012
February 28, 2012
Writing: Riding
Winds sail across the hair behind my ears to hear that you’re there all the time even when I seem to be in the right to your wrong. The colloquialism that used to consume our daily exchanges of currency of wise words learned from past battles, past winnings and losings, just for you, the past. Resonating so loudly in the inbetween of our bellies of sorrow, crying with smiles bigger than the consuming cracks that fill our minds of brain matter we call life. Sometimes I look and wonder if it’s true what I think I see, and if it’s true what I think they say, to confirm the things that I need not know but want so badly to have affirmed. Sometimes, my stomach feels like turning inside out to make sure it is exposed, and true, and honest, so that you could maybe see and hear what it is I’ve been yelling out for the past year. But maybe sometimes, in the silence, the words being thrown away are not meant to be found this way by you or anyone worth mentioning. And so I say.
February 28, 2012
Some of the time, or most.
There are times when I catch myself talking with who you used to be, wanting to apologize for the crimes written on my record. I want to give you my sorry, hand it to you, place it at the tips of your lobes, and watch it sail into your ears, and just wait. Sometimes I find myself flirting with this idea of just doing it all over doing it differently, how it may be, or may not be, or is or would be or just be. Then I think of you now, how time has managed to undo what was strung so intimately together, and I think of this time of this, and realize, if I wanted to, even if I begged to, time would not be so easily swayed, so easily convinced, and so I’ll wait. Or. Perhaps wait forward, wait for you then, when your mind too wonders about the past me, and wonders if you could go back in time, oh, the things you would change. But, instead, you wait.
February 28, 2012
Wolf: This is for you, my old friend.
Our own preoccupations that has the tendency to overshadow the breeze beneath your brown-like pupils
that circulates itself into a whirling pool of truth
and matter
that undermines the voices of dissent that shout for freedom.
Freedom for thought
and for praise,
to do and to
not
do as they presume so.
One that is neither given or acquired, but rather, just is
as it is
as you are
and I am,
here.
And here, we lay our pretty little minds down on sheets of feathers and wonder about others,
when in fact, we have yet to realize our leaving guest,
one that was neither belonging to us or with us,
it just was;
as it walked out of our minds,
leaving only behind the light trail from when it was stalked with our eyes.
Would you not do as others say for the fact of doing it?
To care and take advantage of something that was not given or acquired by you, but just was, yet somehow innocuously yours.
Would you stop for a split year in your lifetime, this that seems but a second, to care about your freedom to or from or is. To be selfless in caring more about yourself and less of others.
You often know not what is best for or of you. So just stop.
Ignore your dæmon that whispers emotions into your heart;
the words that molds your emotions into care,
ignore them, for by listening to them you are but perpetuating your selfish habits.
Be selfless for once my friend,
and care for yourself.
Quite the irony that makes our bed,
isn’t it?
February 26, 2012
September 20, 2011
Fruitful thoughts, pestful flies
And you stood there, Clutching your arms tightly together, as if to avoid their stares or your stammer. Your dark brown hair slickly pulled back behind your ears, your watchful eyes following their prized feet. If only you could see then, what I see now. Your oversized backpack hung from your shoulders like a hopeless cliff, your steady pace, and your new face, untouched by the your hands, yet completely encapsulated in society and what it wanted you to be. Your yearning mind, your salivation at the thought of something new, something blind from the eyes that truly knew you. If only you could see then, what I see now. I would tell you that you have a thousand things to be confident for. You have a million things to smile for. You have a billion things to be thankful for. I would tell you, that, those blonde strands upon their hairs would never be able to measure up to the blonde reflection of the fresh steamed rice that was cooked by your mother’s hands. I would tell you, that you envied them. You envied them for the things they had. You envied how they could readily put little value on those cents tingling in your pockets. And you envied the way, the way… the way they were confident. If you knew then, what I know now, there would be too much to tell, my friend. But if I could, just get myself to utter a breath-ful of words, I would tell you, that you are beautiful. You’ve always been beautiful; and your only flaw lied not in being envious, but in never truly being confident in your own skin, with your dark brown hair, new face, and tired shoulders. I would tell you, to learn from my mistakes. To be confident, regardless of the demand in society to be…well, something else. Inner beauty is about not so much loving every single feature of yourself, but to be confident with those features. Looking back on my younger years, I often wished I was more confident in MY beauty; regardless of whether it fit the the idea society had set out. I was so young and yet…had so much self-hatred. Learning to love yourself because of everything you ARE is inner beauty. Growing mature enough to know you are beautiful (even without Society’s seal of approval) is true inner beauty to me.
September 8, 2011
Glorification
It’s quite interesting to see my footprints upon your mind.
How you
ignore,
yet
embrace
the silhouette that once stood next to you.
Oh dear friend.
Perhaps, I should stop using that word.
The word that expresses a million emotions and caps a billion memories into a single 6-letter word.
I see that you’re happier now,
and if only I could
lend you a few words
of my once wise mind,
so that you can
pursue it free of guilt or slime.
If I could,
I would.
I would swing forth my words of comfort,
to tell you,
finally,
that you deserve to be happy.
—that what happened in yesterday’s dream,
was meant to belong to Yesterday.
You need not keep your grip so tight,
let it
have it.
You have a Tomorrow that awaits with a vibrant smile
free from the brushes of masks or distracting colors.
Oh dear fr——..
Oh dear..memory.
I guess, I’ve finally found
another
six letter word to replace the silhouette of your prescence.
My yesterday’s dream, had you in it…
Telling me, that I have a much brighter Tomorrow.
And if I could tell you all of this,
I would,
trust me…I would.
May 15, 2011
State of confusion
Standing, staring at a gate open wide
asking for my entrance,
asking for my presence onto the other side.
I know not what it has,
but I’m just so curious to know.
How does it feel
to not care
or
breathe the air of friendship?
How does it feel to look at the stranger,
and have them just be a stranger—
nothing more, nothing less.
I guess…
perhaps…
some things were meant to stay broken.
If the consensus
is as stated,
what are we all waiting for?
May 12, 2011
The dust has only just begun to fall.
Composed: March 9, 2011 at 9:35pm
Looking back on all these years,
perhaps sometimes things just change because they have to.
Things change because people change,
when people change,
actions change,
when actions change,
well,
nothing stays the same
for long.
I’m sitting here contemplating whether I should
even
care about this,
about you,
about them,
about everything.
And I find myself
reciting
‘Perhaps sometimes things change because they have to.’
If I repeat this,
If I recite this,
perhaps
I’ll believe
it.
It.
Perhaps that is why there is an end
in
Friend.
And I’m tired of being the one who’s
always
there;
just waiting for you to get hurt
and come running to me
so that I can patch up that
irreconcilable heart of yours.
Maybe I don’t want to do the patchwork anymore.
Maybe I never wanted to do any patchwork at
all.
My head is now held high,
and I think I’m ready to
give it a go,
to give an end
to this
circular train that
we’re all
on.
And I remember when I was in the
6th
Grade;
and I told myself I never wanted a best friend again.
Because she betrayed me.
And I tell myself again,
Maybe I don’t want a best friend.
And when your eyes scan across these words and believe I am talking about you,
I probably am.
Know that I am sick and fucking tired of cleaning up the jobs of others’ doings.
When you scan your eyes across these words,
you won’t even be able to understand where I am speaking from:
from a place buried so deep down inside of my soul
echoing
How foolish
was I
to let someone in?
Foolish.
Very foolish.
This is the end.
May 12, 2011
Skateboarder
Composed: March 16, 2011 at 10:14pm
Your voice is like
that refreshing breeze on a perfect day.
When the sun kisses your skin softly,
the clouds claim their protective place,
and mumbles of passerbyers tingle your ears.
As I watch
them so gracefully glide by,
I think of you.
And I think of all the things you’ve ever said that’s made me smile,
that’s made me laugh.
As my eyes follow the path that they’ve paved for me,
My lips give in to curling its ends,
showing a side that’s often unseen.
My mind gallops into a realm of
pastel colors,
and I think of you.
I match the colors with the pastel sky and white contrast.
I see the breeze run past me quickly,
and no matter how badly I wish I could hold on to it,
it’s gone,
reminding me that what goes,
knows how to return.
And I think of you.
May 12, 2011
My Being
Composed: March 2, 2011 at 8:51pm
Each knuckle of joy that wraps itself into hands of apathy.
Dry lips that are caressed by a tongue, half alive.
Innocent palms, with calloused skin so soft that you would swear it was made with silk threads;
that weave in and out,
through and through,
until it is one piece of golden, polished, composed, and presentable substance.
Words that exit the mouth and the mind like letters on a typewriter;
phrases so unique the ears cringe at its unfamiliarity.
Sighs of warm hopeful breaths.
Eyes that flutter their lids when in fear.
She has a Smile that has outstretched and outgrown the digit that numbers her years
of
living.
Naive.
Being.
And so she waits, and ponders and wanders until she finds a face that she can call home.
A place she can recognize.
She seeks
for
A smile
that lays just as outstretched as the dull one that hangs on her face,
hanging by a thread of silk; golden, polished, composed, and presentable.
And there she is content.
Children, oh you see how they play, not knowing that one day they will grow up.
Let us all be as children;
with outstretched smiles that have yet to outgrown the numbers of breaths we’ve lived.
May 3, 2010
heart-shaped leaves
My hair wrapped around my fingers
like babies legs around one’s waist.
How I miss the scent of home
and the feeling of security.
Here.
With glaring eyes that interrogate my character, I do not know how I should act.
Presumably, I act like myself—
I’m bad at playing any other character.
I’m a bit awkward.
Actually, I’m really awkward.
Does this make me ignorant?
No.
It just makes me…awkward.
I stare outside and hues of green welcome my eyes;
they lure me in like skilled geishas.
The sun is quiet but kind today,
with ever flowing rays that caress my skin
and encourage the sweat upon my forehead and neck.
My hands are so young but so worn already.
Dry as callous and dark as chocolate.
As I sit here worrying about the shade of my skin or the desired porcelain texture of my hands—there are problems so much bigger than these.
The banks, the tellers, the stores, and the university—they all want something out of me that I find hard to retrieve.
They push and push and push until my existence is of no more.
I push and push and push until my head explodes with bubbles of pain and tears of surrender.
My heart is weak but my mind is strong.
My heart gives up as my mind recollects what is hers—strength.
So prideful, I am.
The smiles of my nieces whom hate me (aha) and the laughters of my parents are consummated into a ball of strength when met with the beauty of God.
None is greater than the Love of God.
I am still learning this.
He smiles at me when I am at my worse and humbly asks me why I took so long to ask Him for help.
My answer: I do not know.
I guess pride is a double-edged sword; one with the strength to carry on and the other with the temporary strength to withhold the amazing glory of my God.
Naive.
As my hair turns gray, I will always remain naive.
God is a wondrous God and I will spend my lifetime discovering and sharing his breathtaking love.
I love you, my heavenly Father.
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