LETTERS I CANNOT SEND There are many letters I Cannot send. Unstamped envelopes sitting on my desk. Stationery; neat and crisp, ink tastefully upon it. Words I cannot say, cannot speak, for You won’t listen. So I write these letters Without a signature. Without a name. Only my thoughts of all this mess Letters I cannot send.
Text me, I said, when you get home, to make sure you’re alright, to make sure you made it back safe. He looked into my eyes, with the sincerest gratitude, “Thank you for caring.” left his lips, and that made my day, to know that he knew that I cared.
Cowardice, not bravery. Can’t you see it only hurts you in the end? That front, that mask, that wall. You hide behind your emotions. You find refuge in immaturity. Learn to accept the feelings, that are fostered in your heart.
It’s the touch we often miss, the physical contact of a person, their presence is merely not enough to fulfill the desires of the heart. Sometimes, a simple pat on the shoulder satisfies your longing to belong, to belong to a universe where interaction is essential to our existence. A hug can make your heart dance, and make your soul breathe. For a life without touch, is like...
They ask me why I wear my class ring on my finger, my ring finger to be exact, the one reserved for a lover’s promise. I tell them it’s a reminder, of the promises I have made to myself in the darkest of times. “Knowledge is Power” etched on its side, my name engraved in cursive. I tell them I wear it to remember my name, for if I were to ever fall and...
Sometimes I wish I wasn’t so modest, for eyes don’t linger on the conservative, and beauty has become an object, something which I am not. Turtle-neck sweaters line my closet, long-sleeved tees in every drawer. I wish I wasn’t so modest.
Shatter me to my core, wrestle with my mind, shake me up so hard, I have to hold myself, to stop from disintegrating. Short of breath, panicking, memories flash before my eyes, open wounds, festering sores, eyes heavy, knees weak, hands cold. I thought it was ending, it’s only beginning, a journey so long and arduous, let me stop for water, or do you intend to let me dehydrate...
You messed me up. It’s taking twice as long to pick up the millions of fragments of glass. The broom just won’t do the swiffer doesn’t even work, the mop is worse, and the vaccuum doesn’t suck up the memories. Barefoot across the linoleum, I walk to feel, so I won’t be numb, but I have to succumb, to the feeling, the pain, the frustration it’s like...
I speak of emotions, of moments, of carefully planned out situations. I speak of pen hitting paper, or trees bearing their fruit. I speak of odd happenstances, indicative occurrences, water drowning feelings of regret, tea cups and biscuits shared with a friend. I speak of musical notes caressing our eardrums, hitting our soul until we knock out and dream of long tunnels and unicorns. ...
A rose won’t sweep her off her feet. Her crimson colored sneakers may often leave the ground, but trust me, a rose won’t sweep her off her feet. She may often play roles of a romantic lover, and dance to the sweet notes of a lover’s song. But a rose won’t sweep her off her feet. Her dark eyes that you love so much may sparkle beneath the moonlight, as you call...
Would it be okay, to strangle you with my words, just as you destroyed me with your silence? Lie once again, and see what reaps from the ground upon which I tread. The just reap rewards, the dishonest, nothing.
I stopped at my locker to gather my things before our break time commenced, Econ book in, snacks out, peripheral visions lurked in my mind. Your very presence disturbed my sense of balance. Head down, shoulders up I trotted up the stairs, pushed by bodies trying to break through the crowd. That’s when I saw him, walking towards me, smile on lips, heart on sleeve. A friendly...
You can take my job, you can take my house, but you cannot deprive me of my words, of my speech, of my self-expression. For a voice is needed, to protest the unfairness, to voice the opinions. You will not take my words, my means of reacting to emotions. Censor everything, and my voice will remain, becoming ever so loud, until it shatters into a million little fragments that will...
They were held together by two rubber bands, so the contents wouldn’t spill. Each letter was sealed each stamp was set all ink was dried, my pen had died.
Silence Killed the Boy Who Never Cared They met up on the cold, black bench, where they first set their eyes upon each other many afternoons ago. He sat at her left, she sat on his right. Shoulder to shoulder they began to pour their hearts out, one by one, delving into their hearts, retreating into their minds. “Do you ever think of me?” Pain, confusion, bitterness, ...
For minds are often broken, for fear of the unspoken, The thoughts nestle in our brains just waiting to escape. Fear of rejection, ridicule, and shame will prevent the words from releasing their toxins. Don’t be afraid, let the words burn, let them burn deep into the skin of the enemy. Through this fearless declaration, you will rise above the adversary.
Warm to the touch, blushing. A beautiful ache of the heart. Irregular rhythm. Pulsating beat. Sweaty palms. Nervous.
Where did that smile come from? How did it originate, slowly forming on my face, as you called my name, to ask me a question?
Why must I be a fragile being, Clinging so desperately to words that Were said when cloudy thoughts Shrouded the mind? For once, I want to be deaf to the Exquisite words, to the capturing sentences, to the deceptive truths. For once I want to dismiss All the compliments that lulled me to sleep, I want to disregard the songs, the melodies, The orchestral sounds of our...
Why is it that sadness and hurt always inspire exquisite words, to appear on paper and gain recognition while in reality the pain is much greater than the fame? Why is it that we long to hear about the bad news before the good news? Is it because through the pain of others we come to terms with the fact that we are all the same, that we are indeed alike, even amongst the diversity...
She strays from compliments, like a cat to water, slightly touching the surface, then retreating as though the words burn in her face. For fear of attachment, she avoids contact, punishing herself for any emotion that may ensue in her heart. Annoyed by the thought, reproachful words tell her not to pursue any further, for uncertainty leads to curiosity, which eventually killed the...
Sit for me, on the dilapidated piano bench, in the old chapel playing songs I know by heart, to refresh my memory. Let us sit on the shore, running the sand through our fingers while snow cones melt dripping their syrupy sweet, on your white tee. Let’s just watch the cars below, as we sit on the edge of the parking lot ledge, waiting for the other to make the move.
I hate myself for hating you. For now that I loathe your very existence, I bring judgment upon my own soul. I wish I could spew out a thousand menacing daggers, kill you with my words. But what good does it do? You were not the protagonist, only a supporting actress, watching from afar, taking the reins when the main actress disappeared into the clouds. You only took what was handed...
That’s what I get for playing games, the outcome always so unexpected, I predict a predicament, yet, the opposite occurs. Silly, silly me, trying to mend what cannot be fixed. Silly, silly me, trying to get back in the game. For a want of words leads to disaster, leads to desperation, leads to mistakes, unwanted. A need for a glance, creates reproachful looks from the mirror. ...
Soft spoken words, through inconvenient means, sing me my lullaby, when insomnia hits the stage.
For hateful words slither their way to the tongue, killing with envy, disgracing with shame, degrading a life to bitter shambles. They spew out venom that poisons the soul, it clouds the heart and paralyzes the brain. For hateful words crawl through the space between heart and ribs, nestle in, and make a home. They envelop a being with their sting of bitterness, causing a life ...
There’s not much in my mind, just an absence of words, my exhaustion takes over my flow of letters. The ink well is dry, the graphite filed down to its core. Staring at a blank page, I cannot manufacture any verse. I cannot redeem myself through rhyme nor prose, nor prayer, nor satire. There’s not much inspiration running through my veins, coursing its way through my...
Napkin Sketches I tried to draw a sketch of you today, on a napkin at my favorite restaurant, but my skills are lacking; an artist I am not, or maybe I’m just forgetting the color of your eyes, the impact they had upon mine, so piercing and honest, like a mystery waiting to be solved. Maybe I’m just forgetting the features of your face, every dimple, every scar, every...
BERRIES Berries, oh so sweet and small, did linger on her lips. An intoxicating aura, hovered in the air, like perfume on her wrists. The flowers in the meadow, reminded her of home, the birds hidden among the willows, did not speak of her presence. She sat betwixt two trees, admiring the yellow jessamine’s. One last look, one last glance, one last thought, one last breath. ...
The 366 Poems of 2012 I will try to write a poem a day, to help improve my writing and to keep a log of my days. I hope it works out.