Certain Things || Poem

"I miss certain things,

Like the way her eyes

Smiled with her laugh.

The way she loved, 

without looking 

At my face.

I miss certain things

About the way she moved,

Like she could push

Volcanoes in her way.

The way she talked 

Like she could 

Blind a man.

I miss certain things.

Things I never got to see.

Things I only heard about

From others who have

tasted her nectar.

I miss her.

And she doesn't even know

My name."

(Excerpt from a book | Scenario: The idiot fell in love)

Limits || Poem

Did I offend you?
When I told you too much of the truth?
When I spoke the words that you
Never wanted to hear?

Did I offend you?
Did I bring in every single memory
You wanted to push out
Of your skull?

Did I offend you?
Did I breathe too much
Of the air you tried to hide?
Was I supposed to smile at the suffocation?

Did I offend you?
Have I upset your Gods?
Have I created a tsunami in the galaxy?
Did I make angels cry?

I don't care.

I'm far too tired of hiding.
You ripped away
layers of me,
I needed to stay sane.

I'm tired of stitching back pieces,
With needles too painful
To muster.
Stop containing a supernova.

I'm far too unapologetic,
Far too loud,
Far too bright,
To be clustered in your
Limitations.

Sometimes when you push
And you break
And you knock
On someone's breaking point.

They say something as reckless as:

I don't care.

Poem || Papercuts

Choosing to become a writer was the stupidest thing I've ever done.
A singer can allow the world a sneak peak into their life
Without making too much of a mess.
And the sad little girl who plays the piano
Can seduce the world into her sadness
Without even telling them the reason behind
      Or why she doesn't delve for a cure.

But me?
I chose to become a writer
And when I offer the world my past
It's a party.
And there are red plastic cups everywhere
Alcohol on the floor,
I use it to purify my wounds 
From the paper cuts because
I chose to become a writer
      And paper is patently our worst enemy

Choosing to become a writer
Is like choosing to commit suicide
With childproof scissors.
And you keep trying
In front of the whole world.
But they're laughing because
Somewhere along the way, you
managed to find a way to make mockery of your tears.
You managed to show people the brighter side of
A not-so-pretty-picture
And how flabbergasted would they be
To find out they're been laughing
At puns that have memories of deaths
Stitched to their edges.
They're been drinking at a party
            That was intended for a funeral.

Choosing to become a writer
Is like telling the world your secrets,
and hoping they don't connect the dots
It's like spreading your fractured wings
And wishing for the best
It's like 3AM heartbreaks that are
encased in rhyming words
And cheesy jokes
It's like saying you've never been so happy
And writing a poem like this.
        that's another paper cut.

It's almost like you're lying to yourself.
                 But maybe you are happy.

But writing was never a choice.
Writing is a jail masked as a safe haven.
With all the loonies in the world,
selling bestselling books about
Love lives they could have had
Marriages they could have saved
           Paper cuts they could have avoided.

Poem || History Book.

You are a history book

Your past is being studied

By people you don't like 

You are a history book 

Hitler is your villain and you 

Are a confused German

You are a history book

And your edges are worn out and

Your pages are being skimmed through 

Your pages skimmed through 

Like they don't mean anything 

But you're in pain because 

You are a history book 

And you're trying to run away from

Your past; ironically. 

You are a history book

And people are lying about you

Claiming they know your reasons

You are a history book

And your story keeps 

Repeating itself 

As if it wasn't hard enough 

To live through the past 

The first time

You are a history book

And you've forgotten where

You placed the bookmark

And now you're flipping

Through yourself wondering how

You turned into this mess

You are a history book

And nobody

Seems to be on the same page

Poem || Lines.

Along the lines of good and bad,

I choose the tangent crossing.

I choose to be both of two,

Commit the murder, but without watching

Along the lines of good and bad,

I did not like the line.

I wanted all that evil offered,

Whilst being kind.

Along the lines of good and bad,

I was on the edge.

To tip into the boiling sin

But surfing on a sledge

Along the lines of good and bad

There still is not a cure

To want to be so wicked

With a heart so pure

So what does one do now?

What does one say?

When all that the world is reaching for

Is a little too cliché

I want to be a rebel

That draws inside the lines

That makes the picture perfect

But not be so confined

Along the lines of good and bad

I pleaded to be unique

To be the angel that I am

But not seem so weak

Poem || Heartbeat

There are three reasons why people jog:

1. They wish to lose weight

2. They wish to have alone time 

3. They need to feel their heart again

For the longest time, I've focused on number one. I never even cared about the other two reasons, 

Until 

One day, I realized I needed a new hiding place.

Far away from the drama that everyone seems to have, and 

Far away from everything I can't run away from

So, I pretend. 

I'm on the treadmill and 

I close my eyes. 

I imagine my problems chasing after me. 

But I don't run away from them because, I'm not that fast

So I learn to run with them 

And befriend my problems like they were my 

Cup of coffee

Did I mention I hate coffee these days? 

But that's beside the point. 

Ask me what happens when you run with your problems?

You start to run faster because
You can now look past your past 

Like what happened doesn't matter and what will be is far more important

Like a pair of wings you never knew 

You could grow 

And so, I run so fast

I'm talking ultrasonic speed that I went back in time 

And I saw myself running 

Again and again and 

Again 

Then I stopped to catch my breath, and I feel it. 

Pounding like marching bands in London Square 

Announcing the Queen's arrival

I feel it. 

Singing like girls in the orphanage that never got a home 

Tap dancing in Hollywood's best theater

Screaming like women in labor 

Howling like the babies coming out of them

Gambling like poker on 

Tuesdays 

When you know you're dead broke 

But you still try and Oh 

I feel it.

Louder than Big Ben, Taller than Burj Khalifah 

Faster than Ultrasonic speed 

And I went back in time to feel it

Again and again and 

And 

An organ that lost its donor so many times

Due to heartbreaks and mishaps

Fights and complications 

People telling it where it can and cannot bleed

Where it can and cannot be 

What it can and cannot see 

I feel it.

Pounding in my chest, as if to say,

Run. 

Faster.

Your coffee is getting cold.

Poem || Protection.

And when you lied the first time,
you said you were doing it to protect me.
And I believed you
because I thought I needed protection.

And then you bought me a star,
telling me it reminded you of me
And I believed you
because I thought I needed praising

And then you bought me the sky and
told me it was my bulletin board
And promised I could pin down the stars you bought me
because they'd be more of them

And with each star I pinned down,
I felt their light dimmed down
As though I was killing them
Neigh, stabbing them.

And then when I told you I couldn't kill
anymore stars.
You laughed and said I was too soft
and soft women were stupid and gullible

One day, you came in holding a bag
Of stardust, probably from a star that died
And you told me to use it as glitter
On the bulletin board
But I refused

Boy, I never saw you so mad.
You grabbed my hand and
forced me into the sky
And threw my stars away
Causing each one to shine so bright again

And I smiled because now they were free
Then frowned, because I wasn't.

I took my bag of pins and popped the bubble
you trapped me in.
And when you asked me why I was leaving
I looked you straight in the eyes and
I lied to you
But it's okay because
I was only lying to protect you.

Poem || Do you still love me?

I daydream possibilities of a better life

And I see myself running after my children,

In the garden I planted with you; my husband.

And you look at me and ask,

"Do you still love me?"

It's silly of you to ask, you're my only love.

I think to myself as I call my brother;

Who I haven't contacted in weeks, busy with life

He picks up the phone and tests me mockingly

"Do you still love me?"

It's night time and our baby cries

The bills are piling by our window

Our eldest is off to college

My little girl breaks our vase, crying

"Do you still love me?"

My mother passed away last spring

You ask me to move on and get a job

I tell you I can't because I miss her

You don't care, and I plead God at night

"Do you still love me?"

Our son needs braces, our baby is growing

You suck on your thumb after a paper cut,

"Get me some damn bandages, woman."

And I hear the lady, in the soap opera on TV, ask the man

"Do you still love me?"

Our baby needs surgery and we're broke

You're smoking on the garden I planted with... you

Ashes fall on the dying grass that no longer smell fresh

And I could almost hear nature ask us

"Do you still love me?"

The baby died. All our kids are married.

You sit by the garden as I work 3 jobs.

My face isn't soft and my body's withering

We hardly speak and I wish I could muster up the courage to ask

"Do you still love me?

Poem || "Heart-wrenching Countdown"

She killed the man that broke her heart

And she clawed her way out of the hole, hoping she would make it.

And she did. Almost. 

And there were people after her, so she jumped back in and,

She regretted ever getting herself into this mess in the first place and

Although things are better

She cries

Because the hole seems better than sunlight

And she's happy because she's falling now and her hair

Has never been this soft and

She sees strands in the air, bidding her a due

And she smiles and

It's been a while since she's done that.

Smiling.

She wants to let go of everything.

She doesn't want to live.

She decides to die.

And so she does.

In the middle of her fall; she stops her own heart and counts to ten

Hoping that's how long the angels need to come get her

She waits

One

She's waiting for something to happen; anything.

In the midst of silence

Two

She's not falling anymore

But there's a little boy with a toy in his hand

And he's calling for her

So she reaches out her hand

Three

And he doesn't touch her

He throws the toy at her and says, "You promised you would never leave me."

And she nods and

Then sobs

Four

'I need to go,' she wants to tell him

But she can't

Her voice is gone

Five

He calls out to her. Momma.

But she's not his Mom. Technically.

Six

And she waits for someone to help her but every one is on their IPhones

Then she catches a glimpse of a shadow and runs towards it 

Because she doesn't care who it is

She needs them to take care of her boy.

He's alone and she has decided to die.

And there's no going back

Seven

"Please" she finds her voice, "Help him"

The shadow turns around,

Silence.

It couldn't be.

Eight

It's the man she killed, who broke her heart, except it's not broken

And he's not dead.

It's beating in his hand.

Pump. Pump. Pump.

"I need it back. He's all alone and I chose to live. For him.

I thought you broke it, but it's there in your hand.

You kept it all these years, and I thank you, but I need it back."

Nine

He did not move. The heart's beating began to slow, and his face became dark.

She cries because she has less than a second

And she pleads him with her eyes

"It's not yours" he spoke. 

She sees the boy's soul fall and

He screams

And then she screams, but she's not dead yet.

And her baby's blood is on the floor; but she's not his mom, but she is.

And she died before she decided to

Because he was the reason she was alive

And he's the reason she's dying now.

And she looks at the man who broke her heart

And he's not dead.

But he's about to be.  

Ten