Sometimes I think you never
The way your touch
seems to linger yet
fade away
It becomes difficult
to remember
how you touched my cheek
just below my dark brown
eyes, you said
“There is fire in you.”

I feel the fire
and it burns your memory
away; ashes drifting.



Spin me
and throw me
as far as you may;
hurt me, hold me,
and push me away.

I trust that you see
how much you can do
only to say
you don’t understand my view.

You don’t see my hate,
you can’t feel my love,
you refuse to see clearly
from your high seat above.

Give yourself an applause
you think you earn;
I hope you prepare
for the havoc to burn.



I just need to get out of this bubble
you know,
the one you delicately
blow from the most pure
of breath.

The one that you marvel at
and watch as it circles
in the crisp air.
It’s perfect,
it’s clean,
it’s untouched.
It would be a crime to pop.

Just pop it,
take down this shell
that nobody can see through.
Pop it with the smallest of points.
This way,
the fantastical disappears,
and what is real releases
to become alive.



I think
I could
touch you if
you were real.
Maybe some day,
but for now
you are invisible;
and I am
letting you go.


Remember Me

Do you remember
taking my hand in yours
telling me to run
to the field with the blue flowers?

Do you remember
watching me twirl
with the wind
telling me to smile more?

Do you remember
asking me to listen
you had something to say
about how we love?

Do you remember
promising me
you will not forget
because time is no traitor?

No, I remember
you forgot.



That secret
you don’t want to tell
it is messing with honor
and breaking your mind
I see it



I am one
I think you know me
I know you want to tell
There are these stories
All unknown


Oak Tree

Why did you choose
to lay by this old Oak,
do you not see that the roots
are curling up instead of growing
long and free?
The branches are chipped
the leaves are wilted.
Stop twirling the leaves up
in the air expecting them to fly
only to be disappointed
by their affair with gravity.

There is an open meadow
calling us to play.
Come play its game,
so lush and green,
most like its fantastical presence.

“I do not wish to play its green games”
Green comes with the price of greed,
a game that is fun for none.

I will sit here under this Oak Tree,
it has no games to play,
it has no green to offer.
Rather it gives me nothing
in return,
other than just a place to lay to rest.



We slip in
and out
of our skins each day.
We try to find
the holes to slip
each part of our bodies into.
After we find where everything
we go about our animal-like
We talk, touch, feel
our way to the sun’s end.
We slouch into our homes
robotically, in the end,
when we are all alone,
we unzip our skins.
Looking for the places
where we detach pieces from our outer layer,
only to expose our true selves
to an empty room.



In corners we lurk,
in ears we wrinkle words
of truth or deception.
Twisting tales and knotting tongues
we are all the same.
What changes us are the ears
who listen and choose for themselves
what is truth and what is fiction.


Tuesday Rain

Walking through a huddle of trees
curiously tall, green,
and growing,
we come across a meadow;
it is filled with those weeds, you know
the ones we make wishes on.

You decided to pick a bunch of them,
those weeds.
We wish for them to grow,
spiral into the air,
then eventually fall,
yet not to worry,
these wish vessels grow roots,
the nourishing dirt helps develop
potential to become something beautifully
How much are you willing to grow?

it depends.
How much knowledge are you willing to soak up
from the Tuesday rain?

You do not quite know,



There you stand
tall, rich, and strong.
In your throne
you see your people
with wide eyes
you gaze in my direction.
I am the marble to your seat,
the feet that you wish to use,
and the finger you want to point
to say,
Come down from that chair
you think so highly of,
come down and see this
people for they see you
come see how wide these eyes
can grow to see
come to this land, so vast and green
we call as country.