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the shackles of an artist

when art was supposed to mean freedom, you wore it on your wrist like shackles. writing with the burden of metal weighing you down; making a bloody mess out of a clean slate.

when art was supposed to be spontaneous, you chained your legs on time-ticking bombs. forcing emotions out of your hollow chest; breaking your insides, but defusing the blow.

when art was supposed to make you feel alive, you drained yourself of chasing after endless lines. exceeding limits, cracking bones, straining souls. enslaving your body to your own work of art; master it! and turn it into a glaring masterpiece.

a marriage proposal

it’s not right for you to be just fallen in love with. i will take the whole damn gravity out of the equation if it means i can love you without ever falling out. without limits. without spaces. without ever reaching the ground.

it’s not right to just say i love you in words. i will spell it in constellations. i will carve it in gold. i will drip it in blood. i will sing it even if my lungs give out. and i will never tire of telling you the depth of my love for you, even if it’s the last of my breath. i promise.

it’s not right for you to settle less than what you deserve. i can’t give you the world but i can give you my life. i can give you other people’s lives. i will die in a heartbeat for you. i will kill for you. i’m a slave at your disposal. make me a criminal. make me yours. i will do everything and i will follow you to the edge of the earth or to the bottom of it; to hell, fuck it. i’ll follow you still. if you will have me.

revolution

how have revolutions been merely reduced from strongly taking a stand to suddenly standing on our own graves?

how have we been silenced by the very set of people whose only duties were supposed to be making the voices of the masses heard?

how are we to fight back as a patronizing nation if our very own opressor is the one seated in power?

how are we to turn this around? if in breaking the wheel of the tyrants, the power must lie within the people.

but the people doesn’t know; and the people refuses to see that every revolution has begun with the people’s plea.

look away; so i can.

it’s getting harder for me to only touch the tip of your fingers when all i want is to hold your hand and to pull you in closer to my skin. it’s harder especially when you’re this close, moving towards me, at a pace a little too fast for my breath to catch up on. my thoughts, that are forbidden to ever even reach the tip of my tongue, are getting harder to supress. especially when you speak first, about art and the future, with a gentleness in your voice that sounds a little too sweet for my ears to stifle.

you’re making it harder for me not to fall for you love, because how am i to do that when you’re this close? when i can see you this close, in macro lenses, in all of your imperfect glory. how am i to ever get enough of you when i could just reach you if i tried? and lord knows how much i’m clenching my fists to stop myself from ever even trying.

paint the streets red

must blood water the streets first before you draw open the curtains to the roaring commotion of the people beneath the tall glass windows?

must the sky ooze red from the loss of so much innocence and must the thunders howl the painful screams of the slain poor before the cold harsh winds of truth force its way into the tall glass windows of you, privileged few?

need a hurricane shatter your fragile ideals so you can smell the reek of death and utter decay? need a storm flood your sheltered morals so you can feel entrapped in the jaws of your own cruelty?

for although you can run, you cannot outrun the blood that has been left dry on your tender hands the night you closed your gates and went to sleep while the streets fought to keep its eyes open.

there is a pattern in the way i lose people.

first, i allow them into the chaos that is my life; not exactly welcoming them in, but leaving the door slightly open for them to find their own way through.

second, they see me for all the things that i am good for: the woman, the writer, the artist. they learn to love me for the ideas in my head, for my perspective of the world, and for the choices i have made to get to where i am today.

third, they catch sight of me in a new light, or a lack thereof. they get to know the hardships i’ve had to endure, the pain i’ve had to go through, the loss, the childhood, the trauma, the pain, the side of the story that i don’t ever let the public know. that’s when they commit the mistake of trying to fix me as if i was ever broken in the first place; i was not. that’s when they mistake this fixation as love and that’s when

fourth, i start walking backwards. they start walking faster and i start running away. i start building walls and they start to rethink if i was even worth the chase; i was not. i didn’t want to be chased, i wanted to be left alone. in my own space. at my own pace. so i isolate myself and they stop finding me. and that’s when

fifth, i lose them. i always lose them: the people i’ve allowed into the chaos that is my life, the same people i’ve allowed to see me naked, stripped of glitter and light. it’s a pattern i’ve been trying to deconstruct for years and i always lose. i lose all the fucking time.

desiderata of a fall out

is it possible to leave a breakup unscathed? should there be bloodshed in places where you and i used to dance on? should my memory of your lips when you smile need be stained by the memory of your lips curving into sharp, twisted words?

does a breakup entail forgetting? is it a requirement to walk out with the door slammed? is there a need to leave with a heart burdened with so much pent up anger? should it warrant an explanation? will words soften the impending wound? i don’t know, maybe it just needs to hurt like a fucking bullet?

love from a writer’s point of view

men, to me, are walking pages of raw emotion. they breathe color into this ashen world. as i welcome them in, they snap my walls and i break into pieces, but i let myself fall.

men force pain out of its thick silver chains so it could enslave me in its shackles. when the iron burns my skin, i’ll watch it glow and i’ll immortalize the memory of the sting.

men unhinge the cold metal doors of torment so it could entrap me in its dark little cages of despair and when i’m lost and i lose track of my own sanity i’ll let myself be completely consumed by the madness.

for men, you see, when they leave, they leave all the sting and the madness with me. so i let this kindling burn through my veins in the most primitive way: writing, with a passion too naked and brutal for this world.

it's 3am and i'm confused. were the palpitations my body's reaction to caffeine or my stupid attraction to you?

an excerpt from a romance novel i would probably write if i had the time or the drive and i have neither

my worst fear is mediocrity

it’s walking the city streets with my face blending into a blur of a million passing faces.

it’s being lost in a sea of art and talent and never reaching the surface.

it’s looking up and realizing i’m too far below the summit of the highest skyscraper.

it’s being unremarkable, and not being bad, that i fear most in this life.

you’re not mine in the daylight

The early morning rises and my mind is still awake, my body is pumped, and my heart is still beating fast from the three cups of coffee it took me to keep my eyes open throughout the night. I waited just in case you wake up. It was just in case you call me in the middle of the night again; or maybe at the crack of dawn, when the world is still half asleep and the only two people conscious of everything that is real are you and I. It was just in case you needed a break from the truth. I was willing to be your refuge. I could rest among the darkness when I am with you, no matter if you’ll be gone when the sun comes up.

the only real thing

you loved me like it was routine the kisses felt like chores you held me out of necessity and you touched me in familar steps

the i love yous were repetitive and the good nights felt compelled your eyes no longer looked at me whenever we collided and your skin no longer electrified at my touch the smiles you’ve been giving me were calculated and the days when you loved me were on schedule

the only real thing that was out of the plan and the only real thing that broke our little pattern was the only real thing that i never thought twice on it was deciding that i had to leave right then and there

rose-colored lenses

if love letters were now literary proses sent out into the open for all the world to see but for your eyes to never lay on, then yes, this is a love letter.

and if love letters were written with raw spontaneous bursts of emotion that only craves to be heard by the world but never to be known by you, then yes, this is a love letter.

dear you,

i’ve been catching myself thinking about you quite a lot lately. dark hair, expressive eyes, cold voice. it could be desire, or maybe infatuation. but i personally think it’s more complex than that. it’s not love, obviously. i don’t believe in the pretentious love-at-first-sight.

i think it might be because of the way you see the world in rose-colored lenses; like i do, and there’s only one of me. it’s the way your mind works on scenes that are too magnificent to be physically understood by the rest of the world, but ones that i can imagine. it’s the way you get things done the way i like it, almost as if you can translate the insides of my brain into glaring perfection. it’s the way i could trust you and your decisions; and i don’t trust very easily but shit, you’ve won me over. it’s because you meet my standards; you meet the goddamn top.

it’s your talent. it’s your passion. it’s the burning fire inside of you that i can’t get enough of. it’s the soul behind your eyes. it’s the way you try so hard to make yourself invisible, when all i am is visibly aware of you. it’s your voice on record that i keep hearing at random times of the day. it’s your presence that i feel so conscious of. it’s the way i care about what you think, what you want, what you think you want. it’s because of you, as you are; and because of me, as i am. it’s because i have never found someone i could connect to on an artistic level as deeply as i could connect with you.

and i never will...ever again; because your heart’s already been taken. this is the first and last time i’ll ever write about you—cathartically, it seems. from now on, i’m letting you go. i promise, i’m letting this feeling go.

love(,) me

written on the morning of september 20, 2019

tonight i saw you with my eyes closed in a vague sense of reality far from my own

tonight i held you with my hands gripping the sides of the bed you sent lightning through my system even across a world away

tonight i felt you when i wasn’t reaching tonight i knew you when i was still out of my head and tonight i heard you when everything else fell silent

you were lovely you had an impeccable sense of humor my parents loved you you were godly you treated me with respect i loved your laugh your smile was strangely addictive. it’s a pity i don’t remember your face; or your name

i remember meeting you at a coffee shop, though i was reading and you were reading we were sitting across each other never really minding each other’s business until you looked up, and you saw me and i looked up, and i saw you and you smiled that strangely addictive smile

and so every morning from now on i’ll be hanging out at coffee shops reading some book waiting for you until you come and smile at me wih that strangely addictive smile

i think i might just fall in love with you soon.

damn, i blame the smile.

split

when busy streets are silenced and colored lights flicker to grey when the city sleeps and we look at each other

our differences glare at us wide-eyed; blinding.

Scraps & Slices

I’d like to give you a piece of myself. Pieces, if you will. For safekeeping? Yes, you could say that; but mostly because I can no longer keep them safe.

Take my hands first. Keep them in your pockets. Bring them out whenever you need to sprawl out words and string them together into a beautiful coherence. Like magic, you say? Yes, quite.

Now take my throat next. Always keep it within reach. Always. You’ll need it to voice out the thoughts you’d rather keep hidden if it were only up to you; but it’s not. The world needs to hear those words spoken out loud. Your thoughts are too magnificent to be silenced. Always demand to be heard.

Then, take my legs. It’ll take you places. Places you might be too afraid to venture out on your own; but don’t be scared. They will guide you. They will take you to far distances and then they will take you home. They will keep you safe, if you promise me you’ll use them to set foot into your own journey. Is that a deal? Good.

Finally, take my heart. Remember Pandora? The one with the large storage jar that she must never open under any circumstances? Yes, that’s it, that’s the one. I’d like you to take my heart and keep it inside a sacred box like hers. I’ll warn you now: my heart has been poisoned with anger, hatred, and greed. But it is also still full of hope. I want you to open the box only when the madness and the chaos consumes you. I want you to navigate my heart and look for the parts that are still good. It’s less of a punishment and more of a gift, if you know where to look. I want you to take better care of it, because I no longer can. Can you do that?

of rain: bows & drops

rainbows cast shadows of luminescent raindrops— lingering; waiting.

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caffeinated poet