tu es jolie

she slinks about the corners of your
darkened mind, a madonna glowing with
the light from her postmodern beauty
perfect, mon amour, like a bell(e)
resonating dulcet tones
drowning out the jingle of my keys

transcedence

oh, oh
i want to burst from this cage
of flesh and pulsing fibers--
slickened veins thrumming--
blood welling
from disrupted skin
like a drop of sun
that broils with the heat
of a hundred million yellows
in my solar
plexus, clear like plexi glass
but not lucid
instead smudged
like a fog blanketing
all my six senses

father

Is this the dream?
I ask to you--
Is this the dream you dreamt in your
sleep,
of golden coins and diamonds cut
just so
falling from your lips
while in your chest rests a
chest, locked and rusted
green with age and sights and
what has been placed
at the ending checkered flag?
And yet, as Midas turns you,
standard of
america
--after all you can eat steak now and how wonderful it all is--
your heart and hand hardened
and dropped the key somewhere down the
yellow bricked road

melancholy

when i was a little girl
my parents would leave me home,
alone.
my freedom, my giddy giddy time
alone.
and i grew on that feeling of being
alone.
and i'd seek some space to myself,
alone.
and as i grew, i cherished my time,
alone.
and nothing pleased me more than my company,
alone.

but sometimes, in the later hours of being alone,
i would sneak into their closet and burrow my face
in the smooth racks of hanging clothes
and breathe in the sweet sweet scent
of my mother, of my father, and there i would be,
surrounded.

Baby Girl

oo, baby girl, you such a fool
wrapping yourself tightly in your
foolish emotions; melodrama is your forte
oo, baby girl, i know you sit there in your
rifts, in the drifts of the tide,
pretending like you put forth full efforts
to rip free of the current,
but you and i know,
baby girl,
you and i know that you find
the thought of drowning
somehow
romantic

glimmer

first i shimmer then i fade
like the ending of the day
and though i yearn to sit and stay
in the end i always stray
without the kiln, i am like clay
though fresh and new i lose my shape
and in my fear i simply lay
and in my death i do not pray

Practice

In characterization.

1. Awkward
She suddenly found that she was made of entirely too much matter and wished for a black hole to crawl into.

2. Flustered
He blushed (why was he blushing?) and fumbled for the words that usually sat waiting on his tongue.

3. Antsy
Every single muscle fiber in her body was yearning to flex and she felt she needed to do something, anything, but she just didn't know what.

4. Suicidal
He awoke that morning wondering how it would be to never have to wake again.

5. Jaded
It was easy to come to the realization that nothing mattered once you were covered with a hundred pounds of dirt.

6. Violated
The humid air stuck to her skin like the lurid gazes she received at the only gas station open at three in the morning.

poem from highschool: shattered

So I was looking through old boxes and stuff (I'm a bit of a pack rat, apparently), and I found yet ANOTHER poem that I wrote back in high school. I think I wrote this for a project either my freshman or sophomore years. I do, however, remember exactly what it is about. I had a best friend who I drifted away from as we grew older, and this is, I guess, a culmination of my thoughts on our friendship. Yes, I was an emo little thing back then, haha.

Shattered

there in the blur of time and distance
in the fists of separation and indifference
we crushed the fragile glass flower
shattered pieces of trust and love
once unbroken and luminous
litter the recesses of my heart
i grasp at these fragmented shards,
desired slivers burrow deep, petals chip,
splinters, stitches in my pride and dignity,
i look to you, once my sole confidant,
and see only traces of tenderness
erased by a slow insidious darkness

glass stomach

those things, lightning and air,
upon processing the information
quickly ground between grinding teeth,
rest unwell in this glass stomach,
and the need to retch and expel
the excess of incompatible elements
burns hotly in the recesses of this bowl
and they crawl up, expanding with heat,
and gather a force, pry open the hinges,
and desire to spew out in a nauseous fury

Softly Shaped Diamond

Personal Narrative from high school.


As far back as I can remember, I have always admired pianists and their ability to play such beautiful music. There were few things I was passionate about as a child, except for summer and vacations and piano. Since I was able, whenever I caught even a tiny glimpse of a piano, I would toddle over to it and press its cool ivory keys randomly, a song I'd heard recently playing in my head. When my mother brought out her electronic keyboard, I would pester her unceasingly until she sat with me and taught me a little diddle she learned from her past.

It was not long before I had exhausted every piano song from my mother's mind. However, my insatiable thirst for the piano had not abated. So, partly to appease me and partly to save herself from my constant nagging, my mother enrolled me for piano clsses with an elderly woman named Mrs. Jenner.

When this news was given to me, I could not have been more overjoyed. The week before I was to attend my first lesson, I would sit in front of the keyboard and play the songs I knew over and over again. By the time the glorious day of my lesson arrived, I had perfected every one of my mother's songs and was eager to show Mrs. Jenner my piano playing skills.

Mrs. Helen Jenner lived in a neighborhood outside the city limits of Clayton, North Carolina. Her subdivision was nestled in the woods; the roads and houses were perpetually covered in the dappled shadows of pine, oak, and maple trees. Her neighborhood always reminded me of the fall, a cool breeze always drifting playfully through the branches and through leaves left over from autumns long before. Her house, a cozy home made of brink, was hidden behind a labyrinth of trees.

Though I remember her abode on more fond terms, those who did not know her would think that her house was slightly foreboding, like a house from a horror movie. I thought exactly this when I arrived at her house for my first lesson. The bony trees that veiled her house reminded me unpleasantly of the scowling trees from Snow White, and a severe bespectacled women kept appearing in my mind. I imagined Mrs. Jenner would be an ancient, withered old thing, like the mother in Psycho, and just as psychotic, too. In my childish mind, I kept seeing myself backed into a dark, cobwebbed corner with a bony crone standing above me, bloodied butcher knife in hand.

Fear had gripped my heart, my thoughts whirling dangerously in my mind. As I got out of the car and my parents lowered their window to wish me luck, I gripped my father's arm. "Don't leave. Come with me, please!" I pleaded, my eyes widened with an imagined fear. Shaking off my arm, my father stated that I would be fine, but after more incessant begging on my part, my parents gave in and accompanied me to the front steps (which were covered liberally in spider webs) as I rang the doorbell.

The first thing I heard after ringing the doorbell was a frantic scuttling sound from the clawed paws of a dog. Then, high-pitched barks accompanied the wild scampering. "Coming!" a muffled voice yelled from somewhere deep inside the house. Seconds later, I heard deep thumps created by a person heavily descending the stairs. The door unlocked, the click a menacing sound, and the door creaked open slowly.

Upon seeing the woman in front of me, I let out a long breath I was not aware I had been holding. The elderly woman standing in front of me with a smile on her face was nothing like the woman wielding a weapon that I had conjured in my mind.

Shaped like a rounded diamond with her hips being the widest part of her physique, this woman was large and soft looking; I was sure that if I poked her with my finger, it would easily sink into her skin. She was like a mountain, majestic and sturdy. Mrs. Jenner had white, wispy hair cropped short, reminiscent of a softly glowing moon on a clear cool night. Her blue eyes reminded me of the sky behind the green, snow-capped mountains in the musical, "The Sound of Music." Her skin had a worn, transparent leathery look that told of her years just as much as the age spots that dotted her arms and neck.

She beckoned us to enter, immediately striking up a conversation with me. How old was I? Was I looking forward to playing? Had I ever had lessons before? Since the start of fourth grade, I had been afflicted with a painful shyness. When spoken to, my eyes would immediately dart to the ground or to my feet and my ears would redden, my face heating. I would mumble one or two words of just enough to answer whatever was asked. So, at Mrs. Jenner's barrage of questions, I gave my customary no's and yeses.

"All right then," Mrs. Jenner said in her clear, warm voice, "I'll see you two in about an hour."

My head snapped up, and I looked toward my parents. True, Mrs. Jenner was not some serial killer they needed to protect me from, but I still wanted them to stay. To my dismay, my parents nodded and smiled, saying their goodbyes and telling me to work hard. Then they left.

Alone with Mrs. Jenner, I began to notice my surroundings more. Her living room was quite spacious, though cluttered with instruments. An old and warm looking grand piano sat patiently in the corner in all its eight feet glory while several feet back, a love seat faced it and a sofa ran perpendicular. Her fireplace emitted a dull smell of gas and on the mantle above it sat a vase of shiny turquoise and purple peacock feathers. Behind the love seat, on the far right wall, there was a cabinet meant for china collections. Instead of delicate tea sets, there were recorders of different shapes, sizes and colors. Other small instruments lay strewn around on her tables and hanging on walls. Through the back glass doors, I could see a leaf-covered back yard with a medium sized pear tree, its leaves rustling.

Her house smelled perpetually like cigarette smoke, but it never really bothered me. The smell of her smoke, which gradually became a comforting scent, was always slightly aromatic, like sandal and cherry wood. Back then, she had a small Corgi named Wendy. Wendy was an animated dog that ran about at our ankles and always left little surprises on the floor for me and Mrs. Jenner to discover, and, after smelling an unpleasant odor following us around, later find out that her little gifts had stuck themselves onto the soles of our shoes.

Sensing my shyness, Mrs. Jenner refrained from any more questions and sat me down in front of her grand piano. I remember that in front of me, on the ledge meant for music pieces, was a ash tray, a bent stub of a cigarette sitting on top of a bed of gray ashes as if waiting for me to give a recital. The keys were chilled and different from my mother's keyboard. These keys were strong and sturdy and took quite an amount of pressure to depress. I particularly remember enjoying the dull thunk of the key hitting felt-covered wood heard behind every note that I played on her piano.


In thirty minutes I learned to play by memory seven scales (C, F, D, A, E, B and F) as well as several variations of children's tunes. Mrs. Jenner was amazed. She praised me and told me how talented I was. "You're a natural piano player!" she had exclaimed after seeing my near perfect scales. I blushed No one had ever praised me so readily or abundantly before. Growing up in a family with a typically Asian culture and values, criticisms were more liberally presented than praise.

The last thirty to forty-five minutes of my lesson was devoted to songs. Mrs. Jenner bade me to play any songs I knew, and I gladly though timidly recited all the pieces my mother had taught me. Mrs. Jenner grinned praising me again and telling me that she knew I would become one of her best pupils. I smiled sheepishly back, finally able to look into her glowing cornflower-blue eyes.

After teaching me some simple songs from a book, Mrs. Jenner sat down to play some of her favorite songs. From the moment she placed her hands upon the ivory an ebony keys, to the moment she lifted them, I was sucked into a magical spell. She became my own portal to a fantasy world that I had been yearning to visit ever since I arrived into this reality.

Her music started a song deep within me and as she played the piano, she struck chords in me as well. It was as if the keys were connected to strings inside my soul and as she pressed just the right keys for certain chords and melodies, she sweetly plucked my emotions like a harp. Staring at her and her fingers darting elegantly and deftly across the board, I made a promise to myself, though to this day, I've yet to find out what that promise was.

By the end of the lesson, Mrs. Jenner had not only succeeded in teaching me seven scales and three songs, she had also succeeded in opening the closed flower hidden in my chest. In the short period that I had been with her, my heart and mind had opened to her smiles and laughter. Her music had gone from my ears to my heart and had nestled itself quite comfortably in my soul, content to let its gentle vibrations emanate throughout my entire being and through my entire life.

I left her house that day brimming with confidence from her praise. I don't think Mrs. Jenner ever fathomed the extent of her influence on me, but inside of me she had planted a seed of confidence and love and understanding. With each visit I made to her, she watered and nurtured that little seed. She spoke to it, played music for it, talked to it and loved it. And slowly, every slowly, that little seed grew into a beautiful little flower, growing toward her, the sun.

More poems from my past!

So for mother's day, my family and I went to my grandparent's house, which used to be our old house. I was rifling through my old filing cabinet and found even MORE poems that I was forced to write in middle school. I say forced because that's the only reason I wrote poetry in middle/high school. I always hated poems until recently. I thought they were just retarded spurts of thought said in an esoteric and abstract way so as to impress people. I guess I just had to give it some time.

Anyway, this is from a poetry project. You had to pick a theme and write poems with different techniques. I apparently chose "Night" as my theme (along with an excessive use of commas). These are my favorites.


Moonlight
(Lyric)
The moon shines its light,
On everything in sight,
Its silvery beams,
Never fail to bring me dreams,
And while the stars prance,
In my mind I dance,
In lands faraway, faraway, faraway...


Moon Man
(Metaphor)
The moon is like a man
Who watches over me,
But I wonder why he has no tan,
Since he is by the sea,
Perhaps he does not like the light,
And does not like to ever fight,
With his counterpart, the Sun.


The Habits of Dreams
(Alliteration)
Dreams disappear during the day,
But when night comes, they always want to play,
Dreams are fickle friends, you know,
Like a thin blanket of newly laid snow.

burst

ever since i emerged from that womb,
since that first sharp intake of air
ripped an opening in my lungs,
i've been reaching toward the dirt,
wanting to take it in my grasp
and feel its earthy musk
cover my skin, like a veil
and wanting, yearning, pining
to start digging
because ever since i've seen,
i've been digging,
digging my own grave

futility

we rage against this
unchangeable reality
and though we claw at its eyes
and bite at its neck
and spew curses at its ears
it cannot be thwarted
instead it continues
relentless, regardless

within me

what cumbersome beast is this
that comes lumbering from the cave,
swathed in chains, swaying with
the weight of evils unspoken;
o, behold this creature
lowly and pitiful and
repulsive
from what unison
arose this deathly
dearth of light and goodness?
and how, pray tell,
might it again be
suppressed before
its presence is made
even more known
to the world?

by a wind

he was there
on the cusp of
something wonderful

watching it unfurl
mesmerizing
and
pure

but he stepped away
and refused the jump
he looked
before he fell
and he missed the

moment

white

when the filth of
a thousand years
smears down their hands

when the dirt of
a thousand deaths
is under their nails

when the cry of
a thousand children
rings in their ears

when the blood of
a thousand tears
runs down their streets

will they beg for a return to
ephemeral innocence?

kid at heart

one time
in fifth grade
there was a boy
that i
liked
his name was
chris
and he had
hair the color
of fire
and oh boy
did he set
my tiny little
kid heart
ablaze
and i could
tell
i could
tell
he liked me
too
and he asked
one day
"who
do you like?"
and he guessed:
"josh?"
no
"matt?"
no
"jp?"
no
and i was
a fool
and he asked:
"me?"
and i said
no
and i was
a fool
and even to this day
i am still
a fool

i who fly

if distance is what i need
will you gladly provide it
and if my wild soul feels
that bonds are forming 'round my
artists' wrists and manacles 'round
my ankles yearning to bend in movement
then will you give way and set me free
from the tethers of your heart and
watch me wander into the glow of day?

he who flies

if distance is what you need
i will gladly provide it
and if your wild soul feels
that bonds are forming 'round your
artists' wrists and manacles 'round
your ankles yearning to bend in movement
then i will give way and set you free
from the tethers of my heart and
watch you wander into the glow of day

Pearl

"My name is Pearl and I'll love you the best way I know how, but I've got so much wickedness and sin."

***

As the moon filtered in through the salt encrusted window of their seaside home, Pearl gazed at her lover.

Having just come in from the port, he had promptly fallen asleep after eating supper and making love.

Pearl gazed down at him and marveled at his beauty. Perhaps, perhaps this is what drew her to him. His beauty shone and almost blinded her. She remembered the first time she had settled her cold, murky eyes upon him from under her world of water. His lean build, his tanned skin, his ease of movement.

She loved how he moved. He had such a fluidity about his every gesture that she couldn't help but think of a river, a brook, an ocean calmly rippling. Even in the throes of passion, his every action imitated the smoothness of water.

That night, when they their limbs and souls intertwined (had Pearl a soul? she had always liked to think so), Pearl allowed herself to dig deep into the sweat-slicked skin of his back. She dug deep into his flesh, drawing blood that stained her fingertips.

Now, her fingers slowly smoothed his hair from his forehead. The house creaked with the howling of the winds. But beneath the gales, she sensed another call, the song of her kin.

Her frigid blood began to sing within her veins. She wished he would open his eyes once more, so that she could see his eyes, a deep blue, a warm blue, a blue that she had never seen even in her sea.

She bent over him, cradling his face in her arms, and watched as her black waving hair covered his neck and face, like seaweed entangling and strangling him.

And as she buried the dagger deep into his breast, she choked on her heart.

From Life pt. 1

Sometimes, the pain of it all brought tears to her eyes. It wasn't the burning and stinging sensation centering on the tips of her raw nerves, but the beauty of the agony-- its fullness. She marveled at how acutely she could feel the rending of her fibrous tissues, or at least what she assumed might be a physical manifestation of it.

She took a drag. The smoke filled her mouth, and its bitter taste centered her.

It's not about how painful it is now she thought It's how I savor it.

Like bruises on her neck and on her chest and on her thighs and on her insides, the roundness of the pain she felt served as a reminder. It grabbed her by the hair strained her neck and forced her to bend forward toward the light of memories, where the future and the past came together to form the present. With each blinding flash of white hot heat, she felt herself arrive closer to the place that she new she must arrive at, somehow.

The bright cherry reached dangerously close to the filter. Taking a last puff, she felt heat warm her lips. She let the butt of the cigarette drop and ground out the embers with her shoe, but a few ashes escaped.

She hopped down from her seat on the brick wall. The glowing ashes had scattered like a small path. Squatting, she reached out. With a slender finger, she ground out the first still-burning ash, wincing as it seared her skin.

summer lovin'

the arrival of heat
could not come any sooner
o summer with sun
and damp shirts
sticking to wet skin
with drops of beaded sweat
slowly trickling down a
back, tanned and warm
and the taste of cold
frozen water flavored by
colored crystals of sweet
sugar; o sweet, cold bliss;
and jeans transforming
to thigh length, ragged
string-ridden statements
of summer's arrival and
subsequent worship

laid bare

it happened once again, i fear
let my flesh drop in front of leers
and showed the nerves and bones so white
and flexed the muscle fil'ments tight
to show the stuff of which i'm made
allowed the skin to slowly fade
and op'd my veins to the cold, still air
and watched their eyes my form ensnare
and felt the scalpel sharp and cold
but never had i felt so bold
until my heart they up and sold
for a vat of ash and lump of gold

hidden belief

if they were to know
what fables i no longer
wished to hear
would they beat their breasts
with the overwhelming
distress that they
who so lovingly raised
this seed of life
had unwittingly poisoned
the soil that it
spread it roots into
to anchor and grow only
to wither away in
moral purgatory?

a reassurance

for you dear, i would have fallen from a cliff
like the card that fell from my hand to yours
with no tether tied to keep me from dashing on the rocks
but you already had a previous entanglement(s) that
try as i might, i couldn't manage to untie
even when i tried using a saw, the kind from nightmares
because it was hard as rock and i'm surprised that it wasn't
and you blinded me and i couldn't see past the speckles
of white and pink and green and blue because you were
so bright and light and light and light and light
but then it came to be that there was an eclipse
that i had been waiting for, praying for
(thought to whom, i've yet to find out)
and finally it came to block the rays you sent
and i saw better in that darkness than i could ever
in your shining glow because then i saw that really
you only pressed the button and really
your words can only be described as convoluted
and really i was always better than that
unless really this is just a way for me to
convince myself
again

the moment of transition

when did loving turn into
fucking
was it when the men were
ducking
as the women were
chucking
shoes and whatnot for his
tucking
his baby maker into her
bucking
and mewling best friend?


ever wonder about worst case scenarios? inspired by my curiosity and penchant for projection

to write no more

oh please, please love go no farther
my limbs are severed and my heart is tethered
and when you go, i feel i am fettered

to no loner cradle this pen upon this paper
with a moan would rend graphs of muscle and bones
and with anguish the soul would turn to loam

oh stay, stay love here by the hearth
and let me stave the good from the brave
and grow restless no more in your arms to behave

a practice in bs

beat, the beat
i feel in my feet
produces the heat
that makes me complete

and sound, the sound
i feel my heart pound
as i fly from the ground
and in the sky i am found

and air, the air
i feel touch my hair
and makes me want to dare
to live without a care

and sight, the sight
the shades between the light
and i reach a new height
like a petal born in flight

and end, the end
it makes me want to rend
the very earth from the bend
and my joys to lend



i felt antsy and this is the result. some prettily put together bs that has no particular aim or purpose.

batter

a constant pounding like the flash of waves
stirred by a gathering storm and flickering
bolts of electric wrath from the gods
'it's good' some say for the rain to come
but i say 'nay' and watch as the paint
chips off the lone light house in the abyss

a chaste extrapolation

to the core, the fire breaches
'lo the ever buzzing sound
thus with a quiver ever reaches
a spate of lava from the ground

with a motion coming hither
and a gnash of jutting bones
o the spine is quick to slither
and from your chords a set of tones

'from what fever comes this feeling'
some are obtusely wont to ask
still others know what kind of dealings
and in such acts are apt to bask

frédéric

oh, frédéric, your hands slender and beautiful are in my mind
and they play songs of love and songs of love and songs of everything
and sometimes i wonder if i'm not your maria incarnate?
or if i'm not your george, that you hated but came to worship
though when your raindrops fall on my ears, i cannot breathe once again
and i drown in the gliding notes that you create and i drown
in the shimmering, moving, moving, moving melodies and i cry
revolution!
in the sprawling mists of the sounds and the thoughts
that came from your pained, enraptured face as you played on that rickety
old piano you rented in majorca as you lived toward your death
and little did you know you still reside not as flesh but
here within me, forevermore

inspired by my most favoritest, most beloved composer Frédéric Chopin (though he's probably rolling in his grave about such horrible dribble being written about him)

hero

tongue-tied, slow-witted
is the result your presence
elicits from usually flowing
flowers of words and thoughts
but compared to the platinum
soul you carry on your back
things shrink in size and
minds halt their gears
and realizations of the world
and all the more it has to offer
appear and humble me,
the sheep in lion's clothing

it starts with a "d," and it's not delicious

and you were the last in a while, you know
with your rough hands and your rough words
and breath and mouth that tasted disgustingly
like processed meat stuffed into a synthetic casing
and your dirty, beer soaked hands that touched me
left lines of disgust and prickling skin that shouted "NO"
with your name that started with a "d," i guess i'll just
call you a dick, because that's what you technically are
and when i think back on it, really, i guess i'm to blame
i shouldn't have done that; it was pretty scarring, i guess
and luckily you didn't have an opportunity to make good
on the "tearing up" and what not that you promised to do
because even without that disturbing action
you left my top lip burning and raw the next day

see how they see, feel how they feel, taste how they taste, hear how they hear

it's always an amazing feeling
that sense of kinship you feel
when you find those that know
the ache of the need to create
a product of their nagging imagination
of the ecstasy a new product brings
as they pull forth
not from thin air
but from them, from them
a creation that speaks of their life
and of their ability to feel
and touch and taste and hear and see
more than just colors and flavors
and sounds and textures and emotions
but a power to
comprehend
apprehend
understand
all that they can
through their own rosy glow
and damn if they need corrective lenses
because they don't really
they have their own eyeballs to
see everything like it is in their heads

urgency

a frenzied fluttering of a pen
like wings of a butterfly
brings forth a waterfall of words
splashing onto a blank page
a terrible gush of thoughts
pours unstoppable from the mind
and won't let respite come
because its dire cry to be
HEARD
to
LIVE
cannot be set aside for
tomorrow when the passion
has faded and the ache is dull
instead of sharp and glinting
like the point of a knife
about to cut through a chest
to the heart to extract the
very filaments creating
these beating letters
cascading together to form
an ocean

something

and when, when you do grasp it in your hands, desperately
make sure you hold it firmly and tenderly and tightly
but not so tight that it cannot breath or find relief
like a dove waiting for the rapturous moment when
it can fly again into the sky with its kin
with the spirits and souls and hearts all ablaze
of those that know the meaning of growing from the wild

go, be free and hold it in your arms
that special thing only those who are not bound
can ever truly know within their blood
and because you are not tied with chains
to the hard and tepid earth,
go freely into the sun and feel its resonance
coursing through the fibers and veins of your corporeal entity

so live, live, live and love and hate and yearn
just know that you are alive and feel and are
not dead, but bursting with the coarse fabric
of that which cannot be named
and when you find yourself slack jawed in awe and overcome
with the enormity of your small existence
let free the beating wings from your hands and watch it go

snake's monolouge

really i shouldn't be called
a snake at all
what i am
in fact
factually
actually
is a goat
for the short comings
of two-legged beasts
that see me from above
and really my view
from down here
is actually quite pleasant
there's lots of green
and they always said
'everything is greener
on the other side'
well i'm on
the other fucking side
and fuck
is it green
down here
or what
and really
i never did like apples
anyway

words

he is my lover
and he takes me to faraway places
where he ravishes me and
shows me his malleability
and i bend him into my
own creations
and he shows me
the possibilities
that i can follow
and i do
and we come together in
ecstasy

of the other persuasion

of the other persuasion
all i can say
is that they are not of
flesh and bone;
in fact
it is very likely that
their lips are brands
that scorch your mouth
and leave you panting
for a cool drink of
their tongue
that speaks to you in words
of heat that slinks to
their fingers
that serve, in all actuality, as
conductors
for the electricity bolting
from your own skin
that they use as power
to entrance you, entice you
and make you linger
to see what else of them
is not really what it seems

Tanka from 7th grade

I've been going through long lost academic papers from years past, and happened across some folders containing my endeavors within the realm of literature and poetry. This is one of them that I feel less embarrassed about.



The quiet trickle of the brook
Murmurs of spring's late arrival.
Spring, sighs the bubbling brook,
Is yet to come but for several more months.
Mother earth must wait til she returns to extravagance.

death

and when i was young
i would cry
from the enormity of the implications
of forever seeing
nothing
and when i was a girl
i would wonder
how others could ignore the looming inevitability
of their bones disintegrating
to dust and dirt and dirt and dirt
and when i was then
i would wait
for the moment to come
and softly take me from this world
and it was a refuge from my own hell
and when i was now
it's still there
silently watching

courtship

since
it
's
a dan
ce

try
no
t to
step on
ea
ch
other
'
s
feet

&
when
U
do
per
chance
f
ind
teh
BEAT

don't lose it.

stifle, try to

and the feelings that i try to repress
only grow with the pressure with which i depress
and although i try my hardest to compress
the feelings that spill from my chest
they always fight back and take the very best
of me

muse

here she comes again
her feathered caress
eliciting a myriad of
that something
that something welling out
fom the soul
like a spring
bubbling to the surface
and flowing to your dry
inspirations
and it grows and grows
and you find yourself a garden
filled with flowers
waiting for you to pick them
and place them in a glass vase
to keep forever
and ever

the sweet pure thing

white snow, white ash
it's all the same to you
and the folded, folding, fold filled hands
you place on her lily white neck
small and graceful like a crane
want to come together
like a vice
converging to stifle the life
that pours out her eyes, her nose, her mouth, her ears
and you wipe the liquid diamond off her
cloud soft, cloud white cheek
and you bring it to your parched, lined lips
and you take in her essence, her life
and you leave trails of obsidian dirt
and you hate it, how you hate it
so you cover her in red
in crimson
and leave her broken and bruised
with her virgin blood
staining her swan white sheets


inspired by lolita

there's something to be said about music

there’s something to be said about music
all glittery in the sun and in the moon
a balm for the mind, a drug for the heart
sweet, sweeter, sweetest
is life
look at it now, now
travelling through the air molecules
life itself can’t keep up
there’s something to be said about music
its pulse
is beating
it’s beating
and your veins are throbbing with
a sanguineous love for life because
there’s something to be said about music