[dailydoseofsun]

unspoken adoration

my pen leaks your name in ways my mouth cannot. prayer on the canvas question to the masses. they know you as my fleeting muse, words written with the same fingers i could not trace your outline with, much less intertwine with

[dailydoseofsun]

and i do have good days. great days, even. but the sun that welcomes me warmly each day cannot change the fact that the skin it caresses so gently still does not feel like my own. and i've tried to bask in the light that is so rightfully mine, but i can only think about the next wave that is to come.

[dailydoseofsun]

i do not wish to take your hands into mine, i simply wish to sit in the corner in your mind and slip past when the deja vu hits.

[dailydoseofsun]

an artist without a muse is a doomed

it's odd. the way i can't help but miss the turbulent waves and the possibility of how it might have led me to them. because the pen's stagnancy feels heavy and the intermittence blooms discomfort. the lack of want brings more fear than the abundance of it. fragmants of a past adoration no longer bring fulfillment, and i search, i search, i search. for the one who will bring out the words of devotion that i have never dared uttered before.

[dailydoseofsun]

an artist without a muse is a doomed

it's odd. the way i can't help but miss the turbulent waves and the possibility of how it might have led me to them. because the pen's stagnancy feels heavy and the intermittence blooms discomfort. the lack of want brings more fear than the abundance of it. fragmants of a past adoration no longer bring fulfillment, and i search, i search, i search. for the one who will bring out the words of devotion that i have never dared uttered before.

[dailydoseofsun]

yet another detour

why must i feel the most alive when the tremors vibrate throughout my body? why must i only be aware of my presence when my hands shake? whispers from below seep up and promise me my much wanted salvation, yet that is not the answer i wish for. my feet trails the edge of the railroad. the breeze hints at its arrival and i know the crush of my bones will bring me relief. it's foolish, but i end up clawing back up to the platform anyways. it blares violently as i stand unharmed. the next train comes in fifteen minutes, and i am waiting for something to steer me off this course once more.

[dailydoseofsun]

your proclamation of love stirs anger, and suddenly, i am ever so conscious of the hollowness within my body. you've never thought to pull away the curtains, much less brush your hands across the velvet. affection comes with responsibilities, ones that you've hardly scratched the surface of. i've seen your face in hundreds of awry passersby. i know what you want. i know it well. i know i cannot give it.

[dailydoseofsun]

i do not believe in fate, no, but i wish i did. the privilege to attach each word unspoken and each touch of regret onto an external force is one that i do not have. i know i did it with my bare hands. i tore off the strings, i reached for it once more, i flinched at the brief contact. i am not proud of the way we became intertwined and loosened, but i did it all.

[dailydoseofsun]

i hate to say it, but it breaks my heart a little to light the candles again this year knowing that i have not yet outgrown the shoes i've worn since i was thirteen. the flame begins to flicker and i wonder if the lighter is on its last spark too. even so, i'll clasp my hands together as the desire eats me whole: please, don't let me keep waiting for nothing.

[dailydoseofsun]

the epilogue always comes accompanied with a sense of deja vu. the frost that greets me in january is the same of that from december. the same imprint of my boots, the same foolish desires i seal in a letter to no one in particular. if all is futile, then i beg for god to grant me the gift of indifference. but that desire too will be lost in this year's wind.

[dailydoseofsun]

happy new year and thank you for reading my poetry, it means a lot to me

[dailydoseofsun]

to the friends we lost along the way

with a bond like ours, i had expected my departure to come with a type of melodrama that rivaled those in theaters. but i simply watched the muddy dish water whirlwind into the drain. mundane, soulless, yet i wake up tomorrow to watch the same process again. i wanted to commemorate you with a portrait, but the realization dawns on me that we possessed a type of intimacy that was never captured on camera. so here's to the photobooth pictures we never took, and the hand that blurs your face that one time i tried to catch a glimpse through the lenses. here's the chapbook you gifted me at graduation and the hand mirror i gave you for your birthday. i'm sure the readers will ask if we were lovers. well, i certainly loved you.

[dailydoseofsun]

i suppose if you're rotten, then i am too. and so, i pulled the vines apart with my bare hands. i did not want to lose myself to the cherry sap and watch the decay consume me too. i had meant it when i said i had no regrets. in fact, i'll show you my hands: the scars have faded. don't tell me how the rosy scent lingers— i am well aware. i just wish i knew whether it served as a warning, a punishment, or a reminder.

[dailydoseofsun]

it is december and the snow from last winter has not yet thawed, so i will make do with what warmth is left. silence was sewn in openings that lacked your etchings. i asked for a patchwork of what could've been, and tonight i will drape it over my shoulders.

[dailydoseofsun]

and it's a feverish type of comfort you bring to me, during the half-awake half-asleep in-between of a mundane night's insomnia. restless and lethargic, the premonition begins. my eyes flutter shut, but the premonition urges me to flutter them open once again. wake up. wake before the blurry mosaic of what we once were starts to piece itself together. wake before you drown in your own sleep.

[dailydoseofsun]

my muse and i— we have walked a long path together. i can no longer feel the sensation of his hand on my fingertips, but i can feel the callous of where the pen sits. memory fades, but the ink remains fresh. if i'm not careful, it begins to seep past the paper. if i'm not careful, it walks pass the dotted lines and creates a fervent story that i could never call my own.

[dailydoseofsun]

i don’t want dissonance, i want a new recipient. i’m sure your mailbox is full of my untethered postcards and evening letters. mine only has one— from your landlord. he doesn’t live here anymore. and i say, but he did once, didn’t he? the return address loses its purpose, and the stamps begin to decay, but my black ink stubbornly clings on desperately to the parchment yours truly.