Sometimes the words fall through the tips of my fingers with the same excruciating slowness as that of the leaves of a hibiscus detaching itself from its stem.
Other days my hand speeds across the page with the same intensity as a tornado threatening anything that gets in its way.
Some moments I wish I never have to pick up another pen or glide it across another page.
Many days I hope to spend the limited seconds of my life buried in words so deep, I’d collapse from my final breath before I’d ever crawl out.
Often, I wonder if I should keep going, keep connecting the curves until the ink runs out. Or I wonder if I’ve fallen hopelessly in a passionate outburst of words born out of over-inflated self importance.
I write and I write.
And I am tired.
I am exhausted by the mental capacity needed to come up with another simple sentence, another worthy thought, which almost always comes up short.
And before I know it, I am just a word that flows into the air, evaporating into the clouds until it is barely the shadow of a letter.
It is like a wish being thrown into a well falling until its echo is just a whisper. Sometimes someone hears it and other times, no one does.
And so it falls like dead weight to the ground.
But I cannot not write
because there is no other choice but to be
and for me, to be is to find those cursed words
that I write over and over again, until they lose their meaning.
And so I write.
And I write.
Nd I write.
D I write.
I wrote a love poem once
But the words never made it on paper
Instead, they flew right out the window
And they rose and fell and evaded me
before shooting across a rose covered sky
Like a comet during a sunset
For two decades,
They followed the waves of the Seven Seas
Crashed against the banks of countless countries
Weaved their way through Chocolate Hills and
Machu Picchu, along the Great Pyramids of Giza,
Through the South Pole, and then into the Northern Lights
Where they stayed for a long while.
And for a time,
I thought I had lost them forever
That they had fallen into some dark abyss
With no one to catch them
Or found their way into a stranger’s distant dream
who would wake up that morning
I had never imagined
that they would have fallen haphazardly onto your lap
–– unannounced and without preamble
ages before I had even heard your name,
I would have never dreamed
That the stars and the moon and the countless suns
had all planned the exact moment when we would meet,
me, with my unmarked paper
you, with my worn and well-traveled words
and that you had been waiting
all this time
to return them to me.
I don’t know the exact moment it happened.
I don’t remember where or even how.
But suddenly the stars were silent,
the sky devoid of everything
except the w h i s p e r of the moon.
So subtle I almost missed it.
It called out to my weary heart
trapped my unsuspecting gaze,
and in the midnight my soul soared
helplessly towards the only light.
Only to find
I had been looking into your eyes
the entire time.
Tonight I laid beneath a galaxy of emotion
Striking, and paralyzing, and somber
and I wondered
how many times have I been here before?
how many times have I told myself
that maybe it’s time
To bridge that great divide
Between an ocean loud with feeling
& the coveted land
Stable and silent and sacred
And swim through the salted waters,
Miles away from my own solitude,
stand before the sun drenched shore
Only to turn back to the solace of shackles and shadows and say to myself
Some sorrows are too deep to share
Today, I painstakingly unfolded a crumpled piece of paper
That I had been carrying around with me in my pocket
For weeks it had been imprisoned too tightly in my fist
Compressed to the point that I had torn the edges,
trying to pry the page free of its strict creases, over-bent corners, and smudges
With its alternating lines of happiness and despair in now unrecognizable print
I unfolded it from the awkward skeleton of emotions it had become
From the confining lines of unshared passions and unsure promises
And with sure and gentle fingers, with a little bit of sadness too, I refashioned it
with all its imperfections and all its torn sides– into a blue paper crane
That could crane its paper neck, and flap its paper wings
& I let it go, set it free into the deep wilderness of random debris
of empty cartons, and wasted food, all encased in a plastic bag in the corner of my kitchen
when my heart caught up with my sight, when it saw how my hands were brave enough to do what it had failed to
it felt unburdened and f r e e,
& in that moment, light as a breath
I let loose the bent wings of my own paper soul,
suddenly wild and unencumbered
and I, too
And that’s when I knew
when you turned to me and gave me your hand
Warm and welcoming
I felt the creases of my paper heart
—Still fragile and apprehensive
Helpless and willing—
Iron itself smooth
You were the silent storm
returned and redoubled
The wind, so strong, so sure,
so definite and unyielding
that threw me once more into the merciless ocean,
into the current I couldn’t fight against
dragging me down deeper
into cerulean waters
Still, I dived– Headlong
unthinking and unafraid,
Into the tides that stretched
Far along the horizon
Sun drenched and smiling
In a chaos of our making
And that is when I knew
We were the eternal pattern of ebb and flow,
of the tides crashing on the rocks and sandy shores,
An imperfect but inevitable wave
being pushed away but ultimately returning
by force above its control.
I refuse to romanticize myself. I am unstable and indecisive.
Impatient and overly impassioned by the smallest things.
I think too much over minute details. So much so that it paralyzes me.
I hate apologizing and I’m too proud to be vulnerable.
Get bored easily and compensate by being impulsive
My hips often bump into tables and I can’t control my facial expressions to save my life.
I hate the beach and pizza is gross. I take days to reply back and often forget what people tell me.
I spill my water on myself at restaurants, pull doors that are meant to be pushed,
and say “you too” when someone wishes me
I am not a handful. I’m not even two
I would fill 5 hands and still overflow
I’m an incomplete puzzle with missing pieces
And waiting for me to open up
Is like standing in line at the DMV
I am an endless winter
That’s constantly on fire
And I am
a hopeless mess
But if you want me
like I want you
Then I would be your mess
I am imperfect and constantly under construction
But I’ll tell you when your hair looks terrible
And kiss the stray strands that won’t stay down.
I’ll cut the crust off your sandwiches
And buy great gifts I know you’ll love
Open all the links you send me through text
trace circles across your arms, run circles around your mind
bury my fingers through your hair
and laugh at every joke you tell.
Even if they suck.
I’ll follow you to new places, run errands with you, get excited when you get excited
split the tab or buy you lunch when you’re sad.
I’m honest and loyal, and know all the best lookouts
You don’t have to tell me to be there for you, I already know.
I’ll find your best angles
Frame them in every corner of my mind
Amidst the chaos and mayhem.
I would be your perpetual autumn,
In a snow-capped summit
and if you deserve it
And if you’re patient enough
I will show you
All the best sunsets
Today, the book I was reading got wet
I left it outside on the porch, let the rain
Trample over the opened pages, and
didn’t realize what I had done
until the downpour subsided
And the rain slowed to a drizzle
When I picked it up next, I cried
Such a small thing to get upset over
But lately I’ve been feeling as flimsy as these wet pages
As bendable as the soft paper cover
As fragile as the watered down edges
And lately, I’ve been more and more like water
Like a stream traveling with no destination
Loose, unformed, lacking a single shape
So easily folded into nothing in particular
And as hard as I‘ve been trying,
it seems all I find are shadowed crevices
and because of gravity and because I am water
All I can do is fall through
Separating even more of myself
until I’m just
But when I opened the book, I saw that my notes
Haphazardly scribbled– were unmarred
The spine of the cover– intact
and the dog eared pages– still folded
When I saw this, I cried again.
And as the droplets began to fall once more,
As the gray clouds danced against the wind,
I laid my book beneath the fan
Walked outside, let my limbs fall languidly
Felt my body flow north
And joined the rain
In this world, we are only ever given choices
To hate, to love, to take a left or turn right
To fight another day or collapse within ourselves
and let our fragile hearts consume us
In this world, we watch the hands of the clock too closely
Count the seconds like we count the coins in our pockets
Listen to the movement of time like a metronome
And catch up with the hours that move faster than we can run
In this world, life is chaotic and nothing is guaranteed
And all we can ever do is keep walking through the fire
But in my world, you are an artist and I-
I am an imperfect puzzle, incomplete and weary
And you paint sunsets in place of missing pieces
Craft melodies with your hands,
Draw monsoons with your lips and I
I am endlessly recreated by your love
In my world, I don’t know much of anything
I don’t know up from down, this from that,
here from there-
I live my life in a spiral
I don’t subscribe to fate,
and I don’t know much of destiny
Sometimes i don’t even believe in god
but my god
I love you