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#24.Confessions of a Hopeless Romantic
why we're into
what we do when we're
if we've shared a straw
if we've made out
if we've slept together
if we've held hands
while walking at night
if you always think of me
if you check my blog every once in a while
if you stalk my Facebook profile
if we talk about our future together
if we look into each other's eyes
if we have confessed to the other
not even me.
#23.Boys and Babies
Boys are dirty
Boys are bad
Boys are horny
They make me so mad
They'll tell you they love you
They'll tell you they care
Most of it isn't true
They just want to stare
But I do love babies
Broken TongueSo he says to me,
I’m not trying to be offensive,
I’m just saying, its obvious English isn’t your native language.
If English isn’t my mother tongue,
I don’t know what is.
I speak broken English,
I speak non-existent Cantonese.
All the kids who look like me on TV
Hold the vocabulary I let sky dive off of my tongue.
I never had a full conversation with my grandparents,
Instead, I would communicate by uttering keywords
Like a Command Prompt, words such as 奶 or
面包, words I could never pronounce properly for the life of me.
Sorry, could you repeat that? I don’t understand.
It’s not that I don’t want to talk to you,
It’s just that…I don’t know how.
I think English, I dream Cantonese,
I speak…broken tongue.
.you page tearing
give back your
wings, because there is
why they were ripped
away. you cannot hold on
to what you lost.
in the eye of a
storm, you were the one
that fought the eye. and
as much as it
breaks me, that is the reason
why i once loved
you (but i can't hold on
to what i lost).
the spirit pools?
of a human
is the slime
in grief -
to hold it
in your hand,
the spirit pools?
that reflection -
masksWhat happened to all those masks he thought...
he used to like the one with the happy face
but now it chafes and makes his eyes water
it just didn't seem to fit right anymore.
and it produced that funny tin echo when he laughed
the sad faced mask was comfortable when Rafael died
but lately he started slipping it on by mistake
most often during corny scenes in movies
or late at night when no one was around
the anger mask was his favorite when he was young
he wore it proudly with its' red war paint and menacing eyes
but now it was cracked and faded and heavy
so heavy he could only wear it briefly before his neck started to hurt from the strain
the fear mask was broken and was indistinguishable from apathy
the surprise and anticipation masks were lost
he couldn't remember the last time he saw them
maybe somewhere at the bottom of his closet
his least favorite masks, disgust and shame,
were still in fine shape though
he told himself that was because he hardly wore them
that's what he
they never said to grieve for dying starsi don't want to write about stars, but
that's all there seems to be:
nebulae drawn up like harp strings itching
to be plucked; echoes of light like calls for
encore; the kicked-off blankets at the
edges of the universe unraveling
at the seams like the nightmares are
tell me a story about time, the way the
sunlight hits its mark and how the world
turns away -
how the distance deepens, deepens, the
dark a gnawing glimpse, the taste of
tell me - weren't we seedlings,
star-built and scattered? weren't
the echoes more than dredges, less than
tidal waves, infantile monsoons
to be grasped and dragged behind
weren't we taught where we came from?
Shards Of RealityShards Of Reality
there are days when words drift by him,
and like leaves floating on a still day,
like migratory birds that aren't supposed
to be in this town 'til september;
there's something wrong about it all,
something he can't quite pin down.
so he puts his pen down,
and rushes out of his room.
because he refuses
to be pinned down to any space.
he'd rather unplug from this outlet
that traps him inside,
and turn on whatever this tip off is,
that escapes him,
as it skims his skin.
he'd rather suffocate
than to put his collector's pin
into the socket.
a breath of fresh air
always did him good,
so he stepped out on bladed grass,
not expecting the lacerations
to hurt so much
and he didn't know if it was the lawn
or his skull that framed his sod;
the tender soil under graminoids
that made him lose
his grip on his terrain.
but he was losing his territory,
the way dew dissipates in the heat.
like crops dying in a famine.
because bones are hollowI’ve always wanted to learn how to carve wood into intricate designs
And I figure this is about the same— as I strip away my flesh to carve things I mustn’t forget into the surface of my bones.
Who Am I (Part 2)Who Am I (Part 2)
I'm a person who can't write poetry,
I tried to be edgy,
but my idea die more than Kenny.
I worry about my future,
however, like Amadeus to his piano, I have my computer.
I had a war going on in my head,
but a warrior made the happiness take the lead.
I'm a teddy bear,
I'm kind, cute, and caring.
Even though I never had my first kiss,
I can piss over a guy name Chris and run away into the abyss.
That will teach him never to make you cry,
I will protect my friends until the day I die.
they called 'im tiddly beadly diddley
but 'is real name was Ted O'Reilly -
dumbfounded, awestruck, dumb fuck;
he was my client and best friend
up until he met 'is 'orrifyingly
last I seen 'im was yesterday,
a brighter afternoon in May
when butterflies and sparrows
go all apeshit o'er the skies:
come to think of it, we had the
most awkward of goodbyes.
he was going on and on about
spiked wheels and a flying trout
or was it a swimming eagle?
bottom line is, he was twitching
all the time and he never does;
he was never seen smiling.
He bought a round for the house
said something about 'is vows
and all I could think of
was who this man was -
whoever he was, he wasn't Ted -
'cause I never heard him cuss.
so I tailed 'im, out of the bar
and into the street to his car
and you know what I saw?
I saw a van pull up close
to where he was and they gunned
'im down before throwing 'im a rose.
no, I didn't see who shot 'im
it was dark, no place wasn't dim
I did hear something, though,
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