Good Feeling

where do emotions go

when they became animals?

emotions of college dropout blues,

emotions of getting a midnight flu

emotions of a dysfunctional love,

resulting in getting papercuts

while writing divorce papers.

remember, the worst thorns of cuts,

will never be just a cut.

there’s a difference between being stabbed

and an accidental slice to the back.

but emotions can’t tell.

they are people too.

⠀⠀⠀
emotions of having a papercut,

emotions of petty political debates

between the corrupted and the cynic,

emotions of destroyed destiny,

emotions of the urge to kill.

but conscience made us the nicest people

when misanthropy hid behind heavens.

emotions of emotions of emotions

layered on top of one another

resembling sugar-coated thoughts,

dripped in blood and salty tears.
⠀⠀⠀

i hate everyone,

i hate everyone.

that feeling will disappear.

good feelings like this

are a spoonful of apathy

in endless conversation pieces

stained with spilt coffee.

i just hate everyone,

what a good feeling.

mypoetrysignature2

Ah, Golly

tensed, hands clenched,

posture straight up,

“you have the floor, ma’am.”

straight ahead, to the middle,

direct observations

of envy, whispers and thoughts

of “what is she going to do?”

breathe in, breathe out.

recite, hands flapping around.

and ah, golly fuck,

i forgot.

continue on to the end.

perfect, a little awkward.

walks back.

fuck.
mypoetrysignature2

Run

foreign meekly mind of mine,

travelling miles with horizon’s smiles.

back there, i couldn’t bear

to spill myself and dance with gloom.

my heart has a vast of space

to blast off great days,

leaving a room for a dark embrace.

i guess we don’t need the rain

when eyes had completed the water cycle.

puffy, reddish and rubbed from pain.

i don’t have a fucking bicycle

to ride away in great distances

because those clouds’ existence

up in the blue bed of the hidden,

don’t seem to look the same.

mypoetrysignature2

To Kill Grandfather’s Clock

reality’s tales

plays its trails

like a cassette tape.

spools rotate,

hitting repetition

and mistakes

goes into collision.

⠀⠀⠀
time never likes

to go back into reverse,

it is timeless

of your shenanigans,

it does not pity

what you’ll grave.

expect forward first,

straight to oblivion

or sinking in

unfamiliar skins.

mypoetrysignature2

Love Letter

i unfolded his letter,

his toddler handwriting

blind vigorous eyes,

those ink-blotted words

are like accidental pies.

they could’ve been better,

others would say.

⠀⠀⠀
to me,

his fingertips swooned

a little too tipsy

and his words trapped

an air full of perfume.

i love it all,

i want it all,

but i folded the letter anyway.

⠀⠀⠀
i created creases

to each edge, side and center

streaks of lines increases

when i made a paper plane.

after loads of papercuts,

off the plane, it goes.

soon, it will be gone,

but those folds

won’t go away.

Juvenescence

i remember taking a stroll

to a lane for the brave and bold.

bashing what we crave, we have been told

to be careful and to never be alone.

the world out there grows,

gawky or stocky, six feet tall vines

or shorter in inches, a four-inch fall whine.

a late bloomer rose soon to blossom in cherry,

an early red’s bosom ripened with huge berries.

the capitulum of an excited dandelion

disperses their seeds for the wind to hold upon.

it lays still on the moist earth

to grow and grow to blanket over the dirt.

there was i, besides a plucked out weed,

a sudden flush of pink painted my nose,

while under the far-sighted cosmos;

an endless chalk dotted blackboard.

and there he was, besides a wildflower,

bounded by rules to never deflower.

so we slept through shooting stars,

we weren’t star-crossed nor far,

we sang to our conscience a lullaby

to let it fall asleep within our alibis.

i leant against cold shoulders,

aroused by lavender and flowers in burst.

the grass tickled me with trickles of its sweat.

oh, what is this throb that i have met?

mypoetrysignature2

Dancing on Razor’s Edge

his words had me perform a pirouette

when golden skies slumber down.

stars for stairs, i carelessly step

when my youth came tumbling down.
⠀⠀⠀

how i want to caress his rubber hands

and turn on the radio to his filthy heart,

the sound of bliss will have us slow dance.

nothing will tear our dewy eyes apart.
⠀⠀⠀

but i don’t want it to go on.

crackling bones had rubbed the skin of my foot.

i’ve lost dignity in this bond,

and my foot felt numb like chunks of root.
⠀⠀⠀

what is he, though, what is he?

made of rubber, made of polystyrene

and i’m only a lithe nymph he see,

i need a plastic crown to be his queen.
⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀
still, it hurts, my foot urge to rip.

i’ll be swaying with a ragged gown.

climbing up stars, i’ll carelessly slip

and there goes my youth tumbling down.

mypoetrysignature2

Pots and Pews

an ashy phoenix erupted

from the pair of oxygen tanks,

whatever we inhale, we fed

the beast to wash our angst.

kneeling with cracked skins

and slumber with white in haven,

hushing the inferno from within.

letting out the phoenix that came in,

it flew with blazing wings.

caught by the susurrus of the wind,

it dies, but tomorrow, we’ll sing with the crows,

have one more and in there, he goes.

mypoetrysignature2

Wish He Was My Dad

his eyes were

fatherly, she, dancing on tippy toes.

sad and strangely welcoming

like his daughter, truth be told.
⠀⠀⠀

his eyes were

watching over her as she grows.

a pile of toys turn into boys

when he was their age, now so old.
⠀⠀⠀

his eyes were

sorrow with twinkles and glitters

from his first father’s day card.

how he wished she was here.

mypoetrysignature2

I’ll Take the Quiet Life

the rustling turn on each page

as my fingertips ran through them

whispers in a raspy old age,

“stay with me, ahem, ahem.”

and i did.

in the middle of march’s night,

how badly i want to get rid

of all my own’s fright.

bravely, i bother not to,

it’s not a big hairball monster,

no one can see, i knew,

it’s not a pixie nor a creature,

it’s not in me nor in her.

doesn’t scare me away,

i can come back everyday.

this time it’s killing me,

no fangs, no sharp knives.

i think it’s just me.

mypoetrysignature2