His eyes were shut tight closed.
From above his long tail,
Smelled nothing but sorrow.

I poked him at his nose.
He did not answer me.
Like he would always do
So lively every day.
I did not really smile,
His trick was not that fun.
He thought it was so wise
To keep his heart silent.

I asked Ma where he went.
She said, “Up to heaven.”
That was how she explained
My old Grandpa’s absence.
He had not come back since
My Dad buried his gun.

“It is temporary,”
Is what they all tell me.
“It is the way life is,
And it always will be.”
I do not want to know
About the way of life
Why can’t someone tell me
Why my rat had to die?

Jul 5, 2011

I lean to the side of the world          where  my wound is
burst, this is the surface of madness
called reality.
You ask me what my name is
I answer you with yours.

The last of music drips onto my left arm
Leaves me cold.
A cold I do not remember.
Maybe I have not left the realm of death
where my mother comes from.

Unless today has become tomorrow
Unless your promises have come true
I will not see
I will not taste
My memories
Under the wind that swept by my nostrils

Who are you talking to?
Does he suffer from the same realization as I?
Life has left my fingertips
I no longer decipher the truth behind our words

All I do is dance.
Dance through the alphabet of the human beauty
an eternal misery.
Nothing is worth as much to me as the familiar warmth of your kisses on my eyes
bringing all the colors of life to my sight.
Nothing has the magic your hand has upon my skin
All the wounds from knowing and not knowing are healed.

Just love.
Love is what I have concluded by you.
Find it,
find the way we want to go
through the path of my smile sliding down your face.

Open me to the territory you have never entered yourself.
For me you will not cry.
Every moment gives birth to another.
We are children who fall in love – always at the verge of growing up
and contented with just that – lying on the sea to see
how the clouds have been here always
so we know they have never once come back.
Neither will we, but we laugh and cry, and the days and nights
open into a million stars that light up whenever I look at you,
whenever I turn away to feel you on the back of my neck.

Our tranquil jest
No need to explain any sadness – it is our friend.
Just like happiness of a glamourous day
When you take me to the cliff and we both jump
to fall upon the wide blue sky
Never have I seen anything so blue
Never have I seen anything like you
Cold and smiling and so incredibly beautiful

I think
[we are still falling]
I really do
Love you

You wonder what has taken you so long to get up and leave.
Your feet are cold, your eyes are frozen.
Even the most burning tears cannot find their way down to your heart.
The pain you know you are supposed to feel is already lost somewhere.
You cannot make out what in you remains with this world
or what is left of this world in you.

The day is over with no opened doors.
You have met the night many times before.
But this time
you no longer look forward to the possibility of a warm smile upon your shattered soul.
Thus you slowly gather your emotions
and dump them into the trash barrel next to your old lover’s home
where your laughters of a shared past are replaced by those of a foreign present.
She will never know who left the bag there
or care to find out what could be in it.

Life already left you, but you are not yet touched by death.
Being trapped in between
you still detect momements of images behind your irises,
react miserably to changes in temperature,
smell the filthiness of reality under your eyebrows,
and long to meet with a certain something you have given up waiting for.

This is not what it seems to be,
but you do not know what it is.
What can you do to turn away from being nowhere and feeling only nothingness?
How can you hope for a change if nothing really changes?
Time has fixated you to this confined sensory awareness.
You are you or maybe there has been no you.
What about her? How did she get to where you were before leaving it?
Was she truly there, if thisrighthererightnow is no longer around your last breath?

Jun 23, 2011

the scope
of my world
yes

it is only as big
as the days and nights
framed
within the window panes

i will not dive into it
nor can i run away
from the everyday changing
of lighting

do not
let me escape
this floating scent of alcohol berries
under my throat

i wish you would
hold me down
and kiss me until my eyes bleed
tears

you at seven in the afternoon
left me in some sort of nonsensical dream
i have learned to make myself
delighted

by sitting here
watching the night slowly
disguising the color of my skin
what is its true color will i ever know

i have given in
to the light
and the lack of it
so i could get along with time

my heart and soul
are given to you
i only need to keep this numbness
underneath my eyelids

you keep
inside the same clothing drawer
where your medicine bottles scatter
the gift she gave you

what remains of the life you had before me
and the love you had before me
or perhaps
you still do

i only have my
silence
the temporary escape
as cheap as a six-pack of mood-cooler

the windows of the house at the street’s end
were already lit
i wonder what kind of stories
are going on behind them

do they read like mine
feel like mine
do they make somebody cry
too

there are so many things i do not know
where we are
where we are going
where we are meant to be

it is here
the dark
that will soon reunite me with
my lonely nightmares

Mar 20, 2011

there are times
when all i need is a certain
trigger
that will send me away
in a flash
so i do not have to look back
so i do not have to worry
of what might follow

it is
one thirty-seven in a monday afternoon
and i am just waiting
for that trigger
to click

 

 

 

Mar 7, 2011

“why can you spend so much time
writing all this sappy bullcrap
but cannot study hard
to get good
grades?”

math teacher, senior high school.-
“why do you write such good poetry
but suck so bad
at math?”

acquantainces/maybe friends, anygradeinanyschool.-
“hey
your poetry sounds pretty good
i just
don’t understand
what you are trying
to say.”

writing instructor, free elective course, college.-
“your poetry is really good
for someone whose first language is
not english.”

lover.-
“you are good at writing poetry,
but besides that,
you just seem clueless
almost
dumb
most of the time
you cannot hear
what i say
nor can you understand
much of it.
it seems like
you are lost
in your own world,
have conversation with me
in your head.”

i want to blame all these people
for making me think
i must be really good
at poetry
for i hardly am
in anything else
that actually
matters.