like air stopping short of my diaphragm,
and bursting at its seams as
an infantile drum until
Like my limbs torn away from my flesh,
and the searing pain encumbers
my chest, so much so that
Like my sins and my anger
that anchored me to the ground, and hell
swallowed me to its darkness abound till
like His grace and His mercy that are bigger than I,
that can kiss the tears and the numbness goodbye till
Like His Word that soothed all of my mangled flesh,
and touched all my wounds in His sweet arrest so that
Like His death on the cross that washed my sins away,
renewing my spirit, and saving my soul from decay till
He is in my heart, in my spirit, in my soul,
In the air that I breathe, sparking warmth in the cold.
In my every laughter, in my every tear.
I know, I know
He is here.
Note: This is my first attempt of the spoken word.
I stood in the corner of Hill and 1st,
where you used to picked me up after work.
The hours were ticking fast, and the cold was spreading past
the fissure cracking beneath our sensibilities.
You said, “I love you till eternity”.
And dimwitted me, basked in all your word’s glory.
I stood in the corner of Wilshire and Western,
where the subway pounded on the tracks,
and you kissed me beneath the signs
of restaurants and warm coffee shops.
You said,”You are my eternity”.
And darling, I thanked God for your entirety.
I stood in the corner of Vermont and Beverly,
after the fight that lasted a little too long,
and words that were no longer sweet
came like a multitude of wrongs.
You said,”Maybe eternity was a lie.”
And I gave up on you at that time, because I knew that all your truths had died.
I am haunted by mirrors
and earth shaking mistakes,
when ease and predictability can no longer keep me sane.
flaws and a thousand dollar mix up,
scars and the costly slip up.
Sleepless with guilt and self-hate,
I’m on the run.
I wish I could bury my anger
the way the living bury their dead.
But the graveyard is overflowing
with my eviscerated flaws,
and I’m feeding on anger instead.
What good are the fabrics
that skim your skin when
I could see the pain written
like tattoos beneath them?
You long to hide and wither away,
as if life was a gift you disdained.
You’re alive for a reason.
You are who you are for a reason.
‘They’re cliches’, you argue.
But they’re thinly veiled truths.
Never limit your possibilities
within the boundaries, the lines
offered by the world.
You are worthy because you are
you, yet He loved you.
When I was a child
"What do black holes feel like?"
It tooks years for me to realize,
they lingered inside me
all this time.
There aren’t any galaxies
wide enough to contain your love.
But I drowned in its expanse,
the languid brush of warmth
corroding my flesh.
I love you
except for the chains of your love
that imprisoned me,
instead of setting me free.
She said she loved silence,
but she didn’t mean the nothingness
we found underneath.
She meant being able to hear
the beats of anguished hearts,
and cries of desperate souls.
She meant being able to find love
when no one even stopped to listen,
and being able to capture hope
when gray blurs all but reigned.
I woke up past midnight
to converse with the moon,
and send you the kisses
I once stole from your lips.
He shook his head and sent
the kisses back, with the wisps
of air caressing my cheeks.
“He already owns your heart”,
he told me gently.
"Don’t give him any more."
She was my mornings filled
with sun-kissed bed sheets and
my nights of sleepless epiphanies.
She was my favorite seasons,
Autumn and Spring,
and the answer to all the dreams
I have ever had in years.
I slipped into another bed,
and she was the twilight of tears.
Her pain and rage transformed to termites,
gnawing and crushing
into the foundations of our home.
I etched the word sorry
on the ivory hues of her rib cage,
just so when she finds the missing pieces of herself,
she finds forgiveness for me too.
The heart quitting mid-beat
leaves wilting into oranges and browns
lungs gasping for air that it can no longer inhale
the girl next door’s idea of an escape from town
the last time someone uttered your name
and the first time someone forgot your face
Your death didn’t kill me.
Remembering what once was did.
Take away a reader’s books
or an artist’s brush.
Take away a musician’s instrument
or a singer’s voice.
Take away a writer’s pen
or a dancer’s ability to move.
Take these things away and
you steal all of their souls.
There is no in between.
I didn’t notice it then
but you left parts of yourself
in places I used to call comforting.
I wondered whether it was incidental
or something purposeful, just so
I can no longer find serenity when
I am this close to quitting.
Your laughter lurked near the oak
table of the cafe round the corner,
and I found the allure of your eyes
behind my old bathroom mirror.
Our songs slipped into Starbucks’
speakers when I pass by after work,
and I saw the books you bought
displayed at Barnes & Noble.
You left parts of yourself in places
I could easily see.
But I picked them up slowly,
and now they too, are parts of me.
The paper stole all the words
from her sullen fingertips, as
ink bled on the silent cries
reverberating from her chest.
Her wishes were written neatly,
line by line, curves per curves.
They were scrawled on eyelashes,
11:11s, open wells and falling stars.
"I wish for yesterday to let me go,
for the present to hold me closely
and for the future to seduce me;
so I know that tomorrow has kept
hopes and smiles to welcome me.”