you are you

I’ve gone to places where
I felt of turning into both
a newcomer and an outcast
I’ve met people who
made me feel both
relevant and non-existent
I’ve waited and hoped
and let myself drift into
other people’s worlds;

yet realized that those places aren’t
my home, and
those people aren’t
me

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a writer who barely writes

I have all what I need—
a neat and clean paper
a pen, a nice pen perhaps
the stars that inspire me
a lot
of skies that make me dream
of extravagant things;
I have all what I need
to write something big
to write everything I love
to write about my life;
Yet I tend to rest
my eyes that are glued
above the skies and stars
Yet I tend to rest
these hands that are less
tired than my mind—
where countless musings
stay and make love;
Am I really a writer?
Perhaps I am.

breaking the stigma of unmotivated life

         This morning, imagine that your mood betrayed you again. Today, it was the feeling of almost dying—of almost disappearing, again.  Perhaps it was not just your mood, it was your body or your mind or your will or should you ask yourself: is there any? You could not imagine how and why it often happens but probably, you might have been losing track—just like me, just like everyone else. We all live in the same universe where sad people with their ridiculous tears and voices bother everyone else. We nonsensically dream for even a slightest tilt of this universe, hoping that it could change our poor fates, hoping that it could give us something better. Yet, at the end of the day, we still all end up being unmotivated and sad. The terms hopes and dreams are now lexical ambiguities for they already lost their true purpose and meanings. The essence of happiness comes with the idea of terrible consequences—the very reason why we are so afraid to laugh or love genuinely.

            Honestly, most people we know love the smell of the pages of a brand new book. It is the scent a brand new learning and brand new memories that it might cause us. The sound of our keyboards make when they touch our fingers, it is perfect at midnight when matched with brewed coffee. Thus, there is this magnetic effect between human heart and tragic literature. We are hooked to glittered stuff as much as we are drawn to sad-themed stories. Among all the genres of literature, the melancholic ones always leave us puzzled and wounded. And most of the time, they leave us empty. But how can emptiness be so heavy? Little did we know that we are all the same; all the people crave for colorful stuff yet patronize black-and-white lifestyle. There is always sadness hidden within every person’s desires. And I would say that it is totally fine and beautiful. Life is not always unicorns and rainbows. Once in our lives, we all have felt of going to the wrong path. However, the best thing that we can do is just talk about things; let our favorite persons discuss the grandest and simplest subjects that matter to us. Help everyone find answers. Let us see where those conversations take us. Sharing our personal lame encounters might make this substantial, yet it will address the biggest battle the world is terribly facing right now—the battle against ourselves. Little by little, you would finally learn to cope with the world. Little by little, I know we all would, too.

           Essentially, this is constructed out of my personal sentiments but this is for people who also feel exhausted of finding their places, getting dizzy by the revolving world, being always mistaken and judged by the absurd faces or masks or fake faces that we have to wear every single day. This is for all of us individuals who have the bizarre ability to feel the world, who are eager to maintain profound connection among all the silly emotions of the world. So, tomorrow morning, I hope your mood won’t betray you again. I hope you will feel that sensation of almost floating in a cloud of laughter and happiness.  Perhaps it will not just be your mood, it is also your body or your mind or your will or should you ask yourself: can I stay this way every single day?

serious problem

This has become my serious
problem, I suppose.

The more I dive into the world
and destroy my comfort zone,

The more the feeling
of being less significant eats
my entire body

I could not make
something perfect, or acceptable

I could not feel
proud about matters
I have accomplished

Because those are not
perfect

and never will be.

I suppose, this is my serious
problem and I need
saving.

two silver boxes

I did not foresee to learn building boxes—
one for my salad days,
another for Mama’s succulent mango pie
Yet none were too spacious for my minority,
Odd boxes were crafted out of apathy.

I did not foresee to learn building boxes—
one for my delicate flowers,
another for the paper dolls
Trapping them as if my soul did not have inner voice;
locking them in as if the demon did not pierce my insides.

I did not foresee to learn building boxes—
one for a pearl,
another for my dazzling unicorn
A sharp knife was not worthy to be locked up,
For it was the rage I entailed when my temple got broken.

I did not foresee to learn building boxes—
one for my white lilies,
another for a monthly alien
Perhaps this poor heart was never on the brink of acceptance,
I have abandoned my better angels before they soared away.
They were a home, a chain to my pith and wrecked flowers
What was more obscene than a very young but damaged lily?
Grievous affairs were the culprits,
I reckoned,
Not that I did not whimper dispatching my sprouting fruit.
I did not foresee to learn building boxes—
one for my stained heart,
another for a terrible mind
Pangs of conscience rotted through time—
coveting to redeem the angels back and sense home now.
Fascination of my own sin ran down my pale skin,
How did a pair of tiny arms and ceased heartbeat behoove an actual home?
My fragile womb was drained and it thumped me to ashes,
How did I feel so heavy and burdened out of emptiness?

I did not foresee to learn building a poignant little box—
one for a forsaken gift of life
Except that it was quite narrow and I pigmented it silver—
chained with remorse and sorrow once it was sent underneath.
Hence I foresaw to acquire building another silver box—
one for my repentant lily
Except that this was the last—
The last box I crafted to join her little heart underneath.

the senior pug

With my fingers caressing the tiny fabric,
I noticed Porkchop’s eyes–
did they really look gloomy
or was it merely the sudden spots I peeked
from gazing at the bright
green and red sweater knit?
Both of my lips were still gripping
the needle, tireless about letting
him wear my twelfth Christmas present. But
the grip and gift loosened when
the heat from the chimney turned useless.
Perhaps, he was just getting cold or old.

As my toes and knees pressed
down the numbing flooring,
I found my arms giving Porkchop’s face
a soft nudge. He offered a look that he
had never shown before—it was muted and
and feeble like some of the snowflakes
that could melt at sunrise. I wanted to
tell anyone that my pug’s body was trembling
like a bell in the peak hour, but all I thought was
lending him the sweater I had been sewing—

hoping that the little cloth with a fine
pine tree sewed on it could enliven
the essence of that day, and
the fire from the chimney,
to reveal Porkchop’s creased coat and
weird smell of breath—assuming at first
that it was because of the pizza and red wine.
But nothing was right, so I just stood there,
sketching a new figure in my mind to
embroider on his next holiday’s sweater.

Then I was puzzled and hated
myself for thinking that there’s another
Christmas for Porkchop and I. Yet I
stood still, then sat and contemplated, clearly
realizing that he was different
that day—strange and peculiar.
For twelve years, that holiday was unusual,
he was indeed getting
cold and old.

who needs lethal hopes

i no longer want to be on someone else’s dream
nor find my name in somebody’s love letter—
butterflies will soon die
flowers will wither
smiles will fade in a dark and dull instance
days will go by
like no one fell inlove or just fell
like no one was shattered and hurt at first
i no longer want to be loved
i no longer want to love
because all i need now, is saving