The Present

I feel a little cold.

And a little angry.

I feel a little scared

And mostly alone.

I feel that chill seeping deep into my bones

I can feel it making a home around my heart

Just as it did

One month apart

Seems like forever to me

And now I’m limited on how to be free

And I don’t quite feel like I’ve got my future right

I feel like I’ve kind of lost my foresight

And it makes me a little scared.

And a little mad

I feel like raging, but then feel bad

Who am I to want to cry?

I’ve got a great life, so why?

Why am I angry and why am I sad?

Why do I mourn something I never had?

Maybe I’m making it up for the show

But it feels more like I’m trying to hide a blow

And feeling guilty for the bruise someone else left

But I couldn’t possibly let this make me bereft

Over everything I own

So I’ll enjoy what I have

And stop staring at the ceiling

Wondering how I got so sad


This is a very personal poem for me. I wrote it during an emotional time, a damaging time, and I believe I capture most of what I feel through the lines. Felt. I would like to change my style, and I believe I will soon. Writing sad poetry only constructs sad thoughts, surprisingly.


We Are Human

We are human.
We will break your hearts and mend them in the same smile
We will melt your souls with our laughter
And you will tremble at our beauty
We are the baristas that make you flustered with a wink
The subway commuters you share a single glance with
We are human.
We will fight you until our knuckles bleed
And we will scream obscenities in our wake
We will drink and make jokes that turn people red
And we will not apologize for being so
We are human.
We will immortalize our stories
Or eviscerate you in our fiction
We will create the cure or the cause to your destruction
We will mix our emotions with yours until we are one giant, melting mass of humanity
We will lead nations
And burn cities
We will take everything you thought you knew about society and turn it upside down
We are human.
No matter what your government says
No matter what hate speech tries to silence us
Whatever muzzle society decides to give us next
We will break through
Tooth and nail
Claw our way up from the depths of prejudice
And we will come for you
I will come for you
Because I. Am. Human.


This is a rather angry poem, but I was angry when I wrote it. I think it can be applicable to many things, although I did have something in mind when I wrote it. Think of yourself when you read this. Think of whatever stereotypes hinder you, or whatever people say. Release that anger, whether through verse or energy or song, release it. In the end, it does nothing to hold onto it.


That Night

There’s a strange silence that settles over the house

A kind of uncomfortable quiet that sets in

It happens in the later hours

When patience is stretched thin

It starts with the ridiculing and little jokes

That aren’t as funny as they seem

It ends with the strange little silence

And a bitterness sweetened with the word “mean”

It’s moments like these I feel a little colder

And remember who I am

Yet if I told anyone in this strange hour

I know that it would be met with dismissal and ban

I can still feel its tendrils curl

Around my stony, black heart

And I know that if I tried to smile

Old pain might just start

So, for now, I escape to sleep

And writing down each thought

And hope that tomorrow I’ll forget about this night

The night when everything fine was not


I think we’ve all had nights like this, whether alone or with others. They’re strange times, especially when it gives you a different perspective with how the world operates. I do not enjoy these times, but I do so their value. I hope I portrayed that indescribable emotion well enough.


You Are Enough to Me (Am I Enough to You Pt. 2)

Over a year later I still sit in my room

And think about the past

And when I smile

It’s not worthwhile

Because the emptiness will always outlast

Over a year ago I sat alone

Watching the fan and feeling blue

Lying in bed

With nothing but my head

I still wonder, “am I enough to you?”

My strength has only grown

And it shows through when I speak

I feel more comfortable in this body I call home

Even though I still see my pride as weak

I still hold all my records and highs

With a few more skills to add

But when you sigh

I always cry

Because your disappointment is unbearably sad

I stand as tall as one can stand

With expectations as high as mine

And as I reach out to take your hand

I can’t help but feel tremendously behind

For now, I apologize for my slowness

To my loved ones and those who I always see

But one day

I hope you’ll say

“Truly, you are enough to me”


A long title, I know, but I did want to include the fact that this is a sequel to a much earlier poem. Lately, I’ve been having feelings of inadequacy, both in my relationships with other people and the skills I’ve cultivated. Although I have picked a few things back up, starting them again has made me realize that I am more behind than I thought. Perhaps I should be easier on myself. However, I don’t find I have the energy nor the time to do so between activities.


The Play

I sat with a standing ovation

And clapped between my thoughts

The darkness was a blinding light

And everything that was was not

The play was a ridiculous notion

Serious beyond compare

The lead had the shortest cut

With the longest hair

The love interest bemoaned and wailed

With tears of joy in her eyes

As if she was unaffected

By her utter surprise

This play was written upside down

And read downside up

When I walked out into the autumn morning

Spring started rightside up

I wandered aimlessly

With purpose in every step

I forgot what I wanted to write about

But remembered how it went

So I wrote it without applause between my thoughts

As a crowd roared between each ear

So I can tell you that it started there

Yet it also began here


To make up for my absence, I have written two poems for the day. This one came from my writer’s group, with the prompt “write a poem/story in which everything is opposite”. I drew inspiration from The Dying Fisherman’s Song and decided to write a slightly whimsical poem about an audience member observing an extreme comedy of errors. Excuse the strange cadence, for writing opposites and rhyming is much more difficult than it appears to be. I have much more respect for Lewis Carroll after attempting this.


Brown-Haired Tragedy

Brown eyed tragedy, meet brown haired girl

You both speak soft from the same world

Of pain and malice and hate and fight

Yet both paint stars in my black night

The latter is soft and kind and sweet

The former is often the best to greet

And you both share a place in the back of my mind

Asking me to join you, to leave all else behind

But I do not have your world in my view

And I know that I cannot join you

So you sit in my head and you cry in my heart

Reminding me of what the world does to tear us apart

So brown eyed tragedy meet brown haired girl

Both different parts of this crazy, sad world


A sad poem, I know, but also a continuation of another poem. To be fair, that poem is even sadder than this one, yet also has a bit of a bitter element. I met a girl awhile back who confessed things to me in the wee hours of the morning that I will never tell others, yet kindled a fire in me that has only kindled once before. It is dangerous, and if I leave it alone, it will extinguish. This poem marks the beginning and the end of its flickering.


Revelation of Existence

There’s a special revelation that comes with existence

When there should be absence.

It’s an itching

An uncomfortable whim

A whisper in the back of the mind that grows

And sparks

And blazes into beautiful



I can tell you that I exist in a state of permeance

When it should be impermanent

Things exist

When they shouldn’t

And that revelation cost me my normality

But granted me my euphoria

And I will endure.

I will endure the pain.

The thrumming.

The dull, hollow ache of existence

For the absence

And I cannot wait.


I have had a difficult time existing the way I am, recently. My thoughts are often melancholy or worse, numb. Although this makes for a excellent writing-session, it takes a toll on my daily life. As I always do, I will recover, but for now, it feels a lot like sitting in the midst of a storm that does not have a clear ending in sight.


Little Box

I can feel myself retreating into this little box

The box is quiet

Save for the occasional patter of raindrops

Or tears

I stopped counting long ago

The piano keys are still worn

And the strings of the cello even more so

My fingers still carry the scars of last March

And the scars in my mind still remain untouched wounds

I worry that every time my fingers skim over I’ll hit a nerve

Or botch a thought

Or destroy a plan

For this has all happened before.

It happened a year ago.

It happened in the little box

Yet no rain sounded from the outside

Just tears

I remember that much.  


I’ve written many poems about memory, recently. This is partly because many of my memories have resurfaced, in the most unpleasantly nostalgic of ways. However, with every replayed memory comes a new revelation, and I am grateful for those. At this rate, I’ll have enough epiphanies to drown out the bad experiences. Hopefully.


The Sky

I once dreamt that I could make the clouds move

And time stop

I pretended that I rewound time to before my birth

Before the birth of civilization

And the sky was a beautiful, brilliant blue

With so many stars it almost hurt to see

In that same dream, my feet stayed chained to the grass below me

And the Earth wouldn’t allow my escape

I stretched towards the stars until my sides began to split

And my eyes began to burn

Eventually, as I swirled the clouds

And manipulated time

I became nothing more

Than grass beneath my feet

Always yearning for the stars


I’ve always enjoyed the myth about Icarus and his wax wings; this dream was very similar in message. I can’t recall when I had this dream, but I do remember its premise. I also remember waking up feeling frustrated and incomplete.



I can’t recall

But if I try hard enough, I can remember

If I close my eyes, I can remember

 I can remember the before

There must’ve been a before, wasn’t there?

Because there was an after

I am in the after

And the past

Was the present

Which I remember

But my eyes aren’t closed

So maybe I just recall

But I think I can still hear the sound of your voice

And feel the soft warmth of your skin

I feel the tall grass brushing against bare knees

And sweet night air kissing bare neck

But the before remains a little blurry

Because the before was a different after

And the current after comes later than the before

And I’m starting to get confused on what I remember

Or what I recall

But if I shut my eyes tight enough

Maybe I can still hear the sound of your voice

And feel the warmth of your skin

On tall grass brushing bare knees

And night air caressing bare neck

And I remember


This poem is almost entirely nonsensical, yet it is just coherent enough to comprehend. Or at least, I believe so. This was written as a love letter to one of my fondest memories, one where time seemed to stretch to allow me to savor it. Alas, it still ended, and I mourn its loss.