In Fury

April 30, 2014 § Leave a comment

They told me
“don’t write when you’re angry”
they told me
“don’t speak when you’re upset”
they said,
sleep when you feel so
or walk away
or distract yourself,

As though anger
is a feeling we must deny;
that it is one none feel,
as though
it is a taboo
to express rage
or distraught
or disapprove.

Even in our own emotions and reactions
are we taught to be submissive
and conceal them
when in reality,
they are there,
just as all else is.

I write in anger,
in wrath, tempered.
I will not hide behind
a rocky seashore
and block all waves of entering;
I will allow it as a tsunami
reaching out to destroy a village
and surrender myself
so it would consume my insides,
though I should be careful
of tilting as a saturated wet flower,

because anger fuels
hate, as oil fuels cars,
and one wouldn’t want that,
or at least,
we’ve been taught so.

I am even more upset
that you have taught me
to condition myself
and wrap my feelings
round a rope,
because when twilight creeps,
it reflects on you as well.

Don’t tell me what to feel –
I am whole,
and you’re only a filled cup
of water
when you tear me
and make me feel conflicted
about my very being.


A Few Thousand Words

April 18, 2014 § Leave a comment

I was never fond
of the search of definitions of alien words,
A hassle they’ve proven
and troublesome of an act it seemed.

A child, commiting a sin I was,
and a pact with oneself it has,
to hold the regrets of nothingness
and live fearlessly, carelessly
but perhaps naive thoughts they were,
clouded visions of the future it was.

During the days of
falling flat on mud and chasing bugs,
seemingly now, I tore a promise
by surrendering to remorse —
the decision of denying
the search of vocabulary
in every book read,

and if it weren’t for the sin of sloth
denying me the search of
a foreign word or two,
would my language be
adequate enough to speak these feelings to you.

now, however, I cannot read you a poem so good
for I can write none,
nor play you a song so tuned
for you’ve heard better,
nor write you a letter so accurate,
for my language cannot convey such –

such flame in my chest,
spreading as fast as forest fire
when the thought of you meets me
behind my troubled thoughts
you sweep, as heavy rain falls
on Amazon.

An irony you seem, not only in stance
nor speech, nor sound or sentences
formed from you,
rain and fire in one.

My hopes stand
on a thin string
in longing, that perhaps
by the few thousand words I know
a message would deliver,
through vague passages on a crumbled note
stained by squiggily lines
of an amature, of thoughts
as clouded
as this attempted poem.


April 7, 2014 § Leave a comment

I write in the hopes
of pulling out the basket
from the well
of my dreams and aspirations
lost in old age/hope/procrastination,

A misfortune
when the basket is at sight
with none but
adverse memories I dislike
of those long tell-tales
of lies whispered by my side
and pullings of my hair
or kicks to the side of my stomach
as I am pushed
to the floor to roll
a turn and two and four
a dream, lost followed by the other

A flood of thoughts
when even writing
doesn’t seem to bring forth
any advancement to
this state of dismay,

I still hold the pen
pressed on the paper
in the hopes
that the next time
I pull out the basket
I see chocolate-dipped fruits of colour
wrapped in pink ribbons

though currently lying, staring
at the ripped strand
and the cracks on the floor
with echoes of ignominious laughter.

I am still hoping
wretched, lost, in the hopes
I will never reach.

Where Am I?

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