GROUND ME (Dear Valentine)
I used to tell myself-
When you're untethered
the sky is your playground.
Your will, your command.
You are free.
But in truth, I, just feathers bound by string,
Tossed around and battered,
easily succumb to the Storm of Life.
A kite let loose without its master,
A bird set free from its cage,
they all crash eventually.
Reel me in, I want to fly no longer.
Ground my body, snip my wings,
Tie me down and trap me—
Grab the reins of my soul
tighter in your grasp.
Let the leather slice your skin,
wind around your bones,
Never let me free.
Show me the calmer breeze,
Guide through the taller trees,
And watch me soar high and low.
Then, let me tug a little further.
Even among the clouds,
You needn't have to worry.
Teach me your presence,
secure your grip.
I will part a hurricane
just to return to you.
Ground me yesterday,
I'm tired of this dance.
I never learned to fly,
just tossed out and picked up
by the stray winds that lifted me.
RED
whose stories are never typed?
what are we framing out?
which subjects are never drawn?
when was that decision made?
how blind can we pretend to be?
where is the cutting room floor?
what are we framing out?
which subjects are never drawn?
when was that decision made?
how blind can we pretend to be?
where is the cutting room floor?
MURDER ON CALIFORNIAN TIME
I just held the knife,
You pulled me closer,
Did you not see it
clutched within my grasp?
Why allow it,
As if we were partners,
Or you an accomplice of mine?
All they see is murder on Californian time:
Two victims, one killer,
lone weeping on the ground.
Can thoughts be punished?
Premeditated, yes, but never pursued?
Don’t charge me with felonies yet carried out,
Plenty I’m guilty of, witnessed and evidenced.
Judge, your honor,
Is it murder if she struck first?
Her smile’s a razor, hazel eyes a pistol,
I just pulled the trigger and carved along the lines.
Your sweater, he drapes it like trophy.
Is it red with yours or mine? Stained or dyed?
I drew blood but you drained it willing,
Say it was me, fine,
But don’t dare call it a solo act.
Two victims, one killer.
Can I also play the victim game?
I know I don't deserve it, I'm sorry,
Maybe you were just trying to let me down easy.
Well, that doesn’t matter now.
I’ve done the deed, hands bloody,
A thought committed is a crime revealed.
Murder on Californian time,
The killer is a lover and so was I.
WINTER IN JULY
This feeling. Heard of it? A virus, a venomous viper, a vapid, violent, viscous void of violets. Yes, a nest of killer flowers, I want to end it. I want to smother it. Drown it or scorch it, it seems to proliferate. This feeling, sickly sweet and innocent, plays me like an instrument. Why must it be now? I interrogate. The wrong feeling, always the wrong time, I elaborate. Dedicate too many songs to it, tell too many stories from it, yet its only role is to complicate.
“Those who know to wield it march on like soldiers over dirt that is the ones left aside.”
To Keats, I dedicate. This feeling. Heard of it. Saw of it. Felt of it. I felt it. I feel it. Latches its razor sickles on every thought that lingers, every passing moment filtered through its gaze renders me illiterate. Why now? Why this? Why her? What of it.
TO A STRANGER I LOVED
Hey stranger, listen to my voice. Raspy and coarse, it bears words seldom spoken and rarely ever meant. Pardon my speech, the trembling Hermes that it is. It's all I can muster for honesty to be its steed.
Hey stranger, listen to the wind. The birds, and the lyres too, echo songs we oft heard but never sung. They speak of your smile, the evergreen garden owned by another. Gated and guarded, by the Sphinx or some lover. Nay, they dare say, deadlier than that. An apple dipped in Styx. A dagger soaked in Medusa's tears. They would hardly compare. Your brilliant auburn curls, serpents of the sea. But lyrics lie, larks bark. Only melody bears the truth. Stranger, listen. My lips are and will forever be your willing vessel.
Hey, stranger. Stranger? Stranger isn't quite right but your name sounds too tender. I don't feel worthy of its utterance. Have you ever called me by my name? My memory fails me. What I am sure of, though, is this. He has, your name. And you have, his. I picture him the Hephaestus to your Aphrodite. Who am I in that image? Ares? I don't want to be. Friends. That will do for now. Did Paris and Helen refer to each other as such?
Hey friend, listen to my pleas. Unspoken, yet desperate, they yearn for you. They speak desires condemned but painfully natural. I shun them, or try to, for indulgence will inevitably spell lost feathers. The wings of friendship, barren and scarred. And of trust you have in me, plucked by the hands of Venus herself. But the Fates beckon me to live a little, to sin for once, and sometimes I so badly want to play their puppet. Be my Sun, my sweet Solaris, I want to say. Let me be your Icarus.
As I drift into Morpheus's embrace tonight, a never-ending Solstice scorches the sky. His gold-threaded net can't catch us here, I say. Our hands intertwine into branches of one as my skin melts away, as does yours on mine. I smile, seeing Artemis draw her bow, for I taste Styx on my tongue yet know Hades is afar. You smile too. Artemis finally lets her arrow soar, but the great huntress catches nothing. Cupid laughs. No heart can be struck twice, he cackles. We finally gaze upon each other. You tickle my ear with your grounded voice. This time, you say, we'll stay this way 'till night do us part. I believe you.
You'll never read this letter. I'll make sure you don't. Or at least you won't ever realize it's about you. It is better this way. Better for you. With this guarantee, I can finally say with Nike's confidence the words that have haunted me since the day we met.
I love you.
INTERLUDE
today, i fancy a world where shadows talk,
a blackhole the shape of my silhouette,
with a mouth and a smidge of verbose,
but alas it's morning and my shadow is gone.
sometimes it feels like i live life through a keyhole,
locked out and blindsided,
today, i fancy a world but alas it's morning.
a blackhole the shape of my silhouette,
with a mouth and a smidge of verbose,
but alas it's morning and my shadow is gone.
sometimes it feels like i live life through a keyhole,
locked out and blindsided,
today, i fancy a world but alas it's morning.
WHO WATCHES THE WATCHMEN
I had to do it.
No one was doing anything.
They were just
watching.
No, they were looking,
But only at the faces
they created themselves.
Distractions,
masturbatory distractions,
while the world was burning.
So I had to steal their eyes.
But now they just look at me.
FEB 12, 2022.
New York seagulls, brave or bold?
Or maybe spoiled is apt for those that hold
Their lives to beings that
Struggle to make ends meet.
DEAR 2021
ELEVEN PM. As I desperately run out of time to make some sort of comment before the clock strikes twelve, I find myself stumbling. Stumbling is a word that seems to describe me for most of this year, barely comprehending that I was now Asian in college, barely comprehending that 'something has changed' (or at least it should have), barely realizing it wasn't 2019 anymore. TWO PAST ELEVEN. Two. Two is a strange number because it feels complete yet strangely lonely. I would say the same for the last two years of the pandemic (and presumably more): though maybe, completely strange and lonely is more apt. I say goodbye to all of those that have passed, through my life or on from, and I say adieu to who I was and am. This year was as much a year of goodbyes (both voluntary and involuntary) as a year of stumbling, as I lost more than I realized through my aforementioned fumbling. QUARTER PAST. This year, I have grown the most I have ever had as an artist, driven by naive passion: both a desire to prove myself and an aching of my cheesy emotions. In my tumbling, I've lost many aspects of my art for better or for worse: if my many (non-cohesive) self-portraits are any indicator, the stallion of my self-expression seems rather untamable and wild. NINE PAST ELEVEN. As I said, stumbling (backward in time, this time). The perks of stumbling through the 'walks of life' is that you can stumble forward, unintentionally, though forward nonetheless. I have learned greatly to appreciate those who take the time to steady me, even if my wonky axis burdens me from showing the appreciation that they much deserve. TWENTY EIGHT PAST. This feels as good as any to end this rambling. An awkward number, twenty-eight is the product of the factors: seven (a lucky number) and four (an unlucky number in some Asian cultures). A pretentious individual would indulge in an overly sentimental comment about that fact. I am most definitely... that. To round off TWENTY TWENTY ONE, I wish everyone a Happy New Year. Hopefully, a year with three TWOs (as I said, a strange number) involves less stumbling, more walking, less wild stallion, more racehorse, less rambling, more-
LOOKING GLASS
An apparition idles
across the hallways of lost souls,
the eternal question keeping them going,
what will be at the end?
Laundry rooms or 5th Avenue,
Tiled Stone or Concrete Mush,
Sandals or Boots.
The apparition phases through them all,
observing, watching, looking
through the Looking Glass,
pondering the question,
why.
But all they see are the walls they stand between.
across the hallways of lost souls,
the eternal question keeping them going,
what will be at the end?
Laundry rooms or 5th Avenue,
Tiled Stone or Concrete Mush,
Sandals or Boots.
The apparition phases through them all,
observing, watching, looking
through the Looking Glass,
pondering the question,
why.
But all they see are the walls they stand between.
BEANBAGS
They aren't made of beans. They aren't bags.
They are malleable, like three-dimensional mirrors, brittle.
A fleeting imprint is made each time they are used,
quickly erased by others waiting to have their turn.
Beanbags are sort of like emotions,
They reflect ourselves but only for a little bit.
They are malleable, like three-dimensional mirrors, brittle.
A fleeting imprint is made each time they are used,
quickly erased by others waiting to have their turn.
Beanbags are sort of like emotions,
They reflect ourselves but only for a little bit.
MONARCH
The eyes of a tigress,
Medusa-like in their effect,
Hold two milky ways in their swirls,
and are misunderstood by all.
To prey, they appear grey,
in Moon shadow, they illuminate,
two solar eclipses of fire.
But I digress.
Medusa-like in their effect,
Hold two milky ways in their swirls,
and are misunderstood by all.
To prey, they appear grey,
in Moon shadow, they illuminate,
two solar eclipses of fire.
But I digress.
SEPTEMBER
“Why do you talk to your dog?” Timmy said to the plumpish figure standing in front of him.
“Have you ever talked to a mirror?” They responded with a smile threaded with sadness. “I used to do it every day. A cock-a-doodle-do meant another face-to-face with the pursed-lipped demon, my unwavering critic, and a loyal friend.”
Timmy beamed at the large silhouette, though it was clear he was not sure what the person meant. “You talk in riddles, mister.”
“Not mister, boy. Mirror. Humans… they receive, judge, and interpret. They bring forth what they know best... opinions. With these verbal seasonings, they concoct a cacophony of flavors that coexist and stand out simultaneously. That's what ignites creativity, fuels improvement. But at times, you don’t want reciprocation, not even from the one inside your head. That’s why I talk to my pup. He listens without judgment, loves without pursed lips.”
Timmy looked puzzled. He folded his paws over his snout.
“Come on, Timmy. It’s getting late.”
“Have you ever talked to a mirror?” They responded with a smile threaded with sadness. “I used to do it every day. A cock-a-doodle-do meant another face-to-face with the pursed-lipped demon, my unwavering critic, and a loyal friend.”
Timmy beamed at the large silhouette, though it was clear he was not sure what the person meant. “You talk in riddles, mister.”
“Not mister, boy. Mirror. Humans… they receive, judge, and interpret. They bring forth what they know best... opinions. With these verbal seasonings, they concoct a cacophony of flavors that coexist and stand out simultaneously. That's what ignites creativity, fuels improvement. But at times, you don’t want reciprocation, not even from the one inside your head. That’s why I talk to my pup. He listens without judgment, loves without pursed lips.”
Timmy looked puzzled. He folded his paws over his snout.
“Come on, Timmy. It’s getting late.”
MASKS
They believe that masks conceal,
a malleable visage: of their own accord.
they revel at their deceit of others,
thinking the walls disguise
their thinly curled lips.
They fancy others fools,
tools as soft as wool,
but only Shakespeare
knows the truth about fools.
Masks only seek answers,
the mold that unveils our darkest.
a malleable visage: of their own accord.
they revel at their deceit of others,
thinking the walls disguise
their thinly curled lips.
They fancy others fools,
tools as soft as wool,
but only Shakespeare
knows the truth about fools.
Masks only seek answers,
the mold that unveils our darkest.
PLAYER ONE
For most of my life I was Player Two
Always responding to threats,
dodging, weaving, blocking
counterattacks times twenty.
Preserving combos by
always reacting, never acting,
the best offense is the best defense.
I saw Player Ones racing forward,
Rambunctious ones, inciting trouble
being the Mario to my Luigi.
Leading, never retreating.
For the first time, it is my turn:
press Player One, just uno button,
with the weight of initiative waiting
to suckle on the turmoils of my cerebrum.
"Never act, always retreat,"
always on repeat,
But when a barrel hits a ninety,
hiding in your apparel,
hoping for a savior or a bail
won't save thee.
Jump, and-
Always responding to threats,
dodging, weaving, blocking
counterattacks times twenty.
Preserving combos by
always reacting, never acting,
the best offense is the best defense.
I saw Player Ones racing forward,
Rambunctious ones, inciting trouble
being the Mario to my Luigi.
Leading, never retreating.
For the first time, it is my turn:
press Player One, just uno button,
with the weight of initiative waiting
to suckle on the turmoils of my cerebrum.
"Never act, always retreat,"
always on repeat,
But when a barrel hits a ninety,
hiding in your apparel,
hoping for a savior or a bail
won't save thee.
Jump, and-
CARPARK ANDROMEDA
A seagull watches,
as mankind restrains the
constellations of the night
and grounds them to the
wasteland they call home.
as mankind restrains the
constellations of the night
and grounds them to the
wasteland they call home.
HARMONY
The songbird and car-horn harmonize their melodies,
a convergence made in irony.
TIME MACHINE
We live in tandem
with our past and future,
Though we seldom
think past our own conjecture.
We sing our own anthems
writing and reading our predecessors' literature.
Art is our time machine,
And words are the 1s and 0s that write its conjecture.
So proceed at your own discretion.
with our past and future,
Though we seldom
think past our own conjecture.
We sing our own anthems
writing and reading our predecessors' literature.
Art is our time machine,
And words are the 1s and 0s that write its conjecture.
So proceed at your own discretion.
EIGHT O'CLOCK SUNSETS
The child beneath the technicolor sky
spreads his wings,
his last parlor trick
before the epilogue swings.
He imagines a sailor handling lemmings,
a peasant uniquely qualified
to carry the lives of kings.
Perhaps the sirs are too blinded
by the two suns,
to see the irony of the world.
spreads his wings,
his last parlor trick
before the epilogue swings.
He imagines a sailor handling lemmings,
a peasant uniquely qualified
to carry the lives of kings.
Perhaps the sirs are too blinded
by the two suns,
to see the irony of the world.
RUNNING
I feel like an oxymoron.
Running a thousand miles in place,
Flying through time sat on the ground.
Feeling numb with neurons firing rounds.
Running a thousand miles in place,
Flying through time sat on the ground.
Feeling numb with neurons firing rounds.
MURDER
Crows, scavengers,
the scums of the avian world,
the hyenas of the skyscape,
clever, cunning, capable,
framed for murders
they did not commit.
the scums of the avian world,
the hyenas of the skyscape,
clever, cunning, capable,
framed for murders
they did not commit.
THE PROPHET
The future.
Unpredictable,
Uncontrollable,
Unrewritable.
Repeat after me.
No TURNing BACK.
Unpredictable,
Uncontrollable,
Unrewritable.
Repeat after me.
No TURNing BACK.
SPRING
Fire and Water,
a palette must be cleansed
before another painting,
as a forest must burn
before the next awaited spring.
RAINY DAY
My favorite kind of weather is a rainy day,
whether the slight drizzle of an autumn spray,
or the crackling fire of the quaint fireplace.
The ecstatic tension of the atmosphere
sliced with monochromatic streaks of aqua-gray
a sigh from the heavens above, wouldn't you say.
Under the umbrella, in the quiet shower of the dour spray
one can wonder the sway of the marimba play
or ponder the pay of the mistakes of yesterday.
My favorite kind of answer is a forgotten alleyway,
the neverending wordplay of a mapmaker's foray.
Let bygones be bygones, so people say,
but controversy or heresy, society goes astray.
The pitter patter of the heavenly barrage,
give way to the spit and chatter of personage,
artificial audible splinters of manmade verbiage, stop.
My favorite kind of weather is a rainy day,
the violent sabotage of the heavens underway,
the cleansing of those below, dare-l-say
a cautious reminder of their status and place.
UPHILL CLIMB
We always look up:
at things we respect,
at things we strive for,
at things we long to be.
Life is an uphill climb
without a summit to end it.
We get lost going up,
we never look down to see
how far we've come.
SIX O'CLOCK SUNSETS
The boy under the two suns lets out a sigh,
his last breath before nightfall.
He wonders why the sun has doubled,
why the weight on his shoulders has tripled.
Perhaps in another world
a boy is querying the opposite,
why the suns have shrunken,
why the stars have chosen to align.
Maybe it's the trick of the light.
his last breath before nightfall.
He wonders why the sun has doubled,
why the weight on his shoulders has tripled.
Perhaps in another world
a boy is querying the opposite,
why the suns have shrunken,
why the stars have chosen to align.
Maybe it's the trick of the light.
OWL HOOT
O wise owl, tell me what you see,
Soaring high above cloud nine,
Crossing the amber sky,
Slicing blankets of snowy shine,
Caressing the owlet sigh.
Otherwise owl, help me guarantee
Sunset won't be bye for mine,
'Causing I to wither and lie.
Soaring high above cloud nine,
Crossing the amber sky,
Slicing blankets of snowy shine,
Caressing the owlet sigh.
Otherwise owl, help me guarantee
Sunset won't be bye for mine,
'Causing I to wither and lie.
LOOSE ENDS
It is rare one finds pleasure in loose ends
but these are very particular times.
Loose ends, exposed threads so intertwined
yet so obscenely pronounced
that they bear more resemblance to spikes
than the wintery softness expected of their woolly origins.
Yet, loose ends do not deceive its customers,
they do provide a sliver of rope,
phantom threads of days gone by.
I desperately grasp them,
as a snowman would its aqueous soul,
scavenging for a yarn longer than a lunar slumber,
and find myself relating
to a melting snowman in summer.
After all, Loose ends,
cumbersome as they are,
are Arachne's only hope:
for perfection is as unnatural as Athena's tapestry.
A ROCK TOAD
What separates the living from the inanimate?
Is it the way we feel or the way we desire?
Is it our thoughts or our instincts?
When we consume, does what we eat obtain life?
What defines an entity if cells, and eventually entire bodies, get replaced?
The chicken or the meteorite?
The rock toad pondered in its eternal slumber.
Is it the way we feel or the way we desire?
Is it our thoughts or our instincts?
When we consume, does what we eat obtain life?
What defines an entity if cells, and eventually entire bodies, get replaced?
The chicken or the meteorite?
The rock toad pondered in its eternal slumber.
THE HOMO SAPIEN CLOCKWORK
Homo Sapiens are clockwork machines
made of natural matter,
controlled by unnatural forces.
The mind, a cerebral computer,
endlessly calculating.
The heart, a soulful puzzle,
endlessly speculating.
Two opposites, forced to helm this vessel called man.
Ever so often, they misalign, splitting the body
to multiple corners of the Earth.
Then, one must wonder:
does desire conquer consequences?
HUMANS
People are mystical creatures,
arrogant enough to call themselves "wise"
ambitious enough to go ahead and fly.
To us, they are family,
though their ways are often perplexing.
Throughout our decade-long lives,
they slowly let down their almond-smooth exteriors,
blessing us with joys unparalleled.
Often I wonder why: they,
with their wondrous minds,
get caught up in useless affairs,
stressing and cursing,
severing bonds once thought eternal,
and forget to take a breath.
Through this bitterness they deem usual,
shines a light they call naive.
I wish they would realize how unique that light is.
Stardust. But what would a cat know.
arrogant enough to call themselves "wise"
ambitious enough to go ahead and fly.
To us, they are family,
though their ways are often perplexing.
Throughout our decade-long lives,
they slowly let down their almond-smooth exteriors,
blessing us with joys unparalleled.
Often I wonder why: they,
with their wondrous minds,
get caught up in useless affairs,
stressing and cursing,
severing bonds once thought eternal,
and forget to take a breath.
Through this bitterness they deem usual,
shines a light they call naive.
I wish they would realize how unique that light is.
Stardust. But what would a cat know.
PRESENT FUTURE PAST
Hi, this is me of the future
thinking about the you of the past,
hoping you were likewise fancying "what can be."
Then we can meet in the middle and call it even.
They say time heals everything
but they, whoever they are,
don't seem to understand
that time is stationary.
Time stays still while we move through it.
Time is the puppeteer and we are its marionettes,
forced to perform this play called life.
We walk through life
as we would rehearse scenes,
costly mistakes and blunders aplenty -
most of which we think are final.
But of course, plays are performed every night.
Currently, you exist as the past in my future
but the future of my future
can just as well play your symphony.
I'll see you yesterday,
as I did tomorrow.
Hopefully, the highs have balanced out the lows by then.
A PENGUIN IN LA
Everyday, penguins can be seen
walking the streets of LA.
Half a globe away from their home,
these awkward, austere avians
waddle around the city aimlessly,
in search of things
not even they know they want.
Lost angels, stripped
of their mobility and stature.
Despite their preciousness,
they are seldom addressed as
sir, ma'am, or even with "Hello."
A legal alien in LA.
So, the next time you see a penguin
on the streets of your city,
welcome them with open arms.
It would mean a lot to them.
walking the streets of LA.
Half a globe away from their home,
these awkward, austere avians
waddle around the city aimlessly,
in search of things
not even they know they want.
Lost angels, stripped
of their mobility and stature.
Despite their preciousness,
they are seldom addressed as
sir, ma'am, or even with "Hello."
A legal alien in LA.
So, the next time you see a penguin
on the streets of your city,
welcome them with open arms.
It would mean a lot to them.
AN EXCHANGE OF PIECES
You let down your guard. You lost a puzzle piece from the corner of your heart.
You expect to get it back, nothing is worse than an incomplete puzzle. But more often than not, pieces get lost. They get hidden under tables, thrown down the bin, or stolen by another - them thinking it would make their set whole.
But let me tell you a secret: each puzzle set is unique. You can't force a piece in to replace what's lost, even if some are similar in shape. Only ones that are given find their place.
But then, why do we partake in this gamble? Because hearts are puzzles without borders. A piece lost allows room for another... or more.
So dear reader, if another offers an exchange of pieces, cherish them dearly: for they know the value of puzzles and the risks that bind them together.
You expect to get it back, nothing is worse than an incomplete puzzle. But more often than not, pieces get lost. They get hidden under tables, thrown down the bin, or stolen by another - them thinking it would make their set whole.
But let me tell you a secret: each puzzle set is unique. You can't force a piece in to replace what's lost, even if some are similar in shape. Only ones that are given find their place.
But then, why do we partake in this gamble? Because hearts are puzzles without borders. A piece lost allows room for another... or more.
So dear reader, if another offers an exchange of pieces, cherish them dearly: for they know the value of puzzles and the risks that bind them together.
MEMORIES
Memories are like cats.
They run away and hide when you try to reach them. They seem so distant when all you want is to spend time with them. A distant blur that masks their radiance. Occasionally, they creep up on you to remind you that they're there. It may not always be pleasant. They may reopen hidden scars, perhaps make a few new ones as well.
But every once in a while, they surprise you.
When you are down, they cuddle up next to you, caressing you with their marshmallow fur coats. They spark joy with their innocence, reminding you why it is worth it.
We often disregard memories as the past: intangible, forgotten, false-joy. But they don't exist on the linearity of time - cats don't know of it.
Memories affect the now, they make up the present. And maybe, if you are lucky, these transtemporal felines will stay with you until death.
They run away and hide when you try to reach them. They seem so distant when all you want is to spend time with them. A distant blur that masks their radiance. Occasionally, they creep up on you to remind you that they're there. It may not always be pleasant. They may reopen hidden scars, perhaps make a few new ones as well.
But every once in a while, they surprise you.
When you are down, they cuddle up next to you, caressing you with their marshmallow fur coats. They spark joy with their innocence, reminding you why it is worth it.
We often disregard memories as the past: intangible, forgotten, false-joy. But they don't exist on the linearity of time - cats don't know of it.
Memories affect the now, they make up the present. And maybe, if you are lucky, these transtemporal felines will stay with you until death.
TWENTY TWENTY
Dear 2020,
You brought the world together
by forcing us to stay apart.
Brought me joys untethered
But kicked me down
while I was down on the ground
like a hound in the pound.
Proud?
Yes,
you exposed hypocrisy,
Homosapien idiocrasy,
and possibly initiated
Hollywood bankruptcy.
You, a year posing as
a decade or twenty.
What a start to the next
Roaring Twenties.
All the more distressing
that tomorrow is ironically
twenty-twenty...
won (2021).
But since tomorrow is the
start to a great New Year,
I'll be optimistic and say:
2021, just be okay -
because Mr. Devil?
Last year was touché.
BROKEN PROMISE
Today, I rolled a dice.
Today was the day
I broke my one promise.
I thought I wouldn't go down that train of thought.
But as one may perchance know
trains are quite hard to thwart.
I confess the affirmative
that for a second, positive:
I fancied absolute negative.
As Ros and Guil may know:
a man failing to reappear,
Scarlett tears overthrow.
But then I remembered
there were people over
the horizon.
People worth fighting for.
So I question you,
wanderous soul.
Why won't you let me rest. Let these spirals
stop.
WORDS
A jumble of letters we deem meaningful.
Easy to stumble over but inherently intangible.
A dismissible radio that reflects our lexicon.
Even Wordsworth won't know their worth: mirth.
Things thrown out in our spouts of randomness.
Things that hit like a bullet train
but pass through us a ghost.
Those who wield it deem it rudimentary,
they do say actions speak louder,
but a pen is mightier than a sword.
Most are oblivious to it,
the subtitles to our tragedy,
After all, how often do we utter
things that we would rather
do: run-on, but (I) digress, matter.
But remember to choose them wisely.
But remember your meaningless spouts
mean a dagger to another.
But remember,
silence
hurts more.