Poems of Passion

What Is

Raindrops trickle down

On the trough between our hands

Freezing and prying

Apart a bridge long held firm:

Our nature erodes what is

Drifting

“Good morning, my love.”

“I’ll be out tonight. Don’t wait.”

“Out with your friends?” “Yes.”

five seven and five—

these words carelessly stewing

Incomprehensive

Not ev’ry second

is a highlight, Jessie J,

Not ev’ry second

two steps back

the absolute worst

part about parting ways is:

the ones that lurk, the

creeping things, welcome you back

back to your dark recesses

my idea of loneliness

a single drop of

water thrown into a lake—

and there is no splash

Zzzz

rakuli:

     Sleep, dear, fleeting sleep, in
     such small portions you seep
     into my world as  I am curled
                                   up hoping         my sanity I can
                                keep.  Oh            snoozing is not
                            losing when                         in my           mind I dream. I
                        am at peace                        under                the sheets, the
                     landscapes                      agleam.                           Precious
                 dozing, as                          not so                             closed
             in, all   my                          fears                                I can
           not see. I                          am the narrator, I         am the
           creator, all the  stories    are for me. So I am   drifting
           the weights  are  lifting     from my shoulders   not hunched. Sweet
           serenity, calm amenity,                                         no nerves bunched. 

the millennials

blankslate:

no smoking
within twenty feet of this building

muffled cough

fuck strangers
with the lights turned off

silent climax

bring words
to a gun fight

bang bang you’re dead

A Con[fidence] Trick

Before we were con men

          sole-proprietors grifting past doors

                         with a silver-tipped tongue

                 we believed in a sweeping love

            that collapses the ground

     beneath our feet.

We were peddlers of promises

           reduced to white snakes 

                 dripping wet with guilt

         as we poison others:

Pinning down their arms

        & stuffing unsuspecting throats

                        with hollowed words.

I’m a wooden mannequin

peering, fingers splayed forward,

through the glass hoping for someone

                                 to look back

                  to look back

      and notice

me

: Leap

Nonsensical Stuffs: this vestigial love controls my mindthough deeply suppressed it leaves...

memory

i feel you clinging 

to the edges of my mind

refusing to fade

snickering as you escape

between fingers between thoughts

Author’s note #4

I haven’t had one of these in a while, though I assure it’s not because I’ve forgotten. The last batch of poems, I’ve felt—both technically and aesthetically—have not improved much. And for that I’m proud, as the marks of a fulfilled writer are measured not with numbers, nor the proximity in which he hugs to a certain marking scheme or structure, but on the amount of rushed snippets of ink rendered on crunched napkins and unsticky post-it notes. 

2011 has been my maturing year, despite staying for grade 13 in highschool. Though, solidified my goals as a writer. I’ve decided on someday writing a book in tandem with whatever the future brings. I feel like my desire to write one is akin to wanting to have a child, but with more paper cuts, and, surprisingly, more shed tears throughout the nights. Granted that it would be just as rewarding. 

Then the question balloon-popped up: What genre will I write?

I hope that sticking to the purity of my blog (which is to religiously post/re-post poetry—though if you scroll down low enough, you’ll find a tincture of comedic pictures and GIFs from before I decided the direction of this blog) will help me decide the genre of my first or several books. I do find the spy-thriller genre and other bourne-esque books increasingly enticing. Really though, the sky is barely the limit for me and all other aspiring writers in the world. We all really just keep making bounds in our art; as Northrop Frye says: Creativity, the ingenuity of the mind, is limitless and expands in every direction.

stars they are

will-o-wisps buried

behind clouds

waiting to burst

and disperse

in an array of dust

or fall shooting down

(river) like tadpoles