This house enjambed by words

This house enjambed by words  

Faces the literary inspectors

armed with the rulers of form and structure

And there is a lack of depth in my foundations that will surely set off the alarms.

 

Someone unhelpfully pointed out for all the people with anxiety

“You only have so many fucks to give”.

Ironically, I am trying so hard

To get back to that place where I saw everything through rose tinted glasses and metaphors.

 

The more I try the worse my poetry gets

Because all I really am is just another teen

With an existential crisis she needs to whine about

To an audience that really probably doesn’t give a flying duck.

 

Ducks,

The ugly duckling who took forever to get beautiful.

If appearances are what matter in poetry,

I can say goodbye to any hope of a writing career.

 

So, god help me, who am I writing poetry for?

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Oranges (a sketch)

She was sitting on a bustling bus, trying not to think of the time slipping through her fingers, trying to focus on the people and places that flew past her eyes. As they turned a corner on the freeway she spotted some oranges that had fallen by the wayside of the traffic. She wondered if a man, rushing home, had left behind his precious cargo after working two jobs and selling from a fruit stand at a traffic light to feed his hungry family.

The more likely, and less romantic explanation was that these oranges had fallen carelessly out of a truck carrying produce to the market from a collection of ubiquitous farms. These few had broken the industrial food chain and perhaps would end in a beggar’s mouth or a squirrel’s instead of the shiny clean consumers’ plate.

The bus relentlessly drove on carrying the girl away, and nobody would see their consumption save the silent trees and the gaping sky. But no matter. All would return themselves to the earth, where they came from, and would rise again.


 After I wrote a rough draft of this sketch, I did not think it would amount to anything. However, after listening to Joe Frank’s work this morning on Radiolab’s tribute to him, it encouraged me to edit and share this piece. If you want to listen to Joe’s radio work I recommend listening to the first story on Dreamers, published by UnFictional. I don’t want to reveal too much but his storytelling has a magical way of drawing you in. A warning, the next story on this podcast episode is sexually explicit.

 

Comfort Food

I.
Raw-men, stood in food lines starving after a nuclear war and endless months of bombing.
What they say came of it was one of the greatest culinary inventions of all time.
A cup, hot water, 3 minutes to end world hunger.
II.
Sitting in a ramen shop,
I was weary after years of holding my own hate and now the weight of bearing yours was too much.
And as I drank the tonkatsu broth, it filled my insides with an empty sort of warmth;
I couldn’t tell if the saltiness was added by my tears.
You saw the hurt on my face and I think you offered your egg to me as you always do, but I said no.
III.
On special mornings you make ramen for us before school,
but on the worst mornings you can’t even pull yourself out of bed.
It’s simply easier to avoid a war if you never show up.

To my family and friends

When you learn to love a girl who lives in others’ shoes,
You will come to realize that all parts of her will always care too much and hope too strongly.
Please remind her not to forget to love herself,
every soul is like a potted plant and hers she often forgets to water.
Sometimes she will spread herself thinly
almost disappearing and she will need someone to bring her back together.
Please remind her that mistakes make her more human because this girl is always trying to be everyone’s wonder woman when there are times no one can bear life’s struggle alone.
-10/2/17

Heroes Made to Be Broken

I cried after class when my AP Lit Teacher called my classmate an idiot in front of his 30 peers.

The anger that explodes out of him flashes back memories of nights where my father used that word to extract Godliness out his offspring.

There is too much of a resemblance in the way he details his relationship with his daughters in the same way my father will brag to church friends about how much I love to help the poor, but behind closed doors, he screams at me for caring more about strangers than our family.

It hurts deeply when you are reminded that everyone is human and nobody is perfect.

Kleptomaniac

you snuck in through the windows I hadn’t barred, stealing all the pen and paper in my house.
Next, you came for my dreams.
a talisman filtering my thoughts,
every waking moment I only see you.
I kept warning myself that alarms should be set up before you steal something important, like my heart.
But I can’t help but feel each night a terrified longing,
waiting to see what you steal next.
And before I knew it
there were no fire alarms when you committed arson
and this fire you’ve set a flame inside me won’t stop burning.

The Roads We Have Taken

two paths diverged from a road
you took one and I, the other
when we look back at the roads we traveled
both of us will be sorry for what we had
But I will be the sorrier for not being the friend you wished you had

two paths diverged from a road
I had to find my own way
because you had already been long gone
when my eyes opened to see it was only a ghost of you that I had been loving all along

two paths diverged from a road
I left you unwillingly while you gaily alighted away
and it cleaved my heart in two to see we no longer had common ground

two paths diverged from a road
I hope it has made me braver in choosing my own

a response to Robert Frost’s The Road Not Taken

Golden Record: The Ultimate Mixtape

3500 miles per hour
spinning out beyond the known limits of our galaxy
is a recording
of the electrical impulses of a mind and body in love
and while I’m listening to this podcast
I can’t help but make a metaphor out of this
this is how you stole my heart
every time I look at you
you send my heart
shooting off into the dangerous, beautiful cosmos
stealing all of the breath out of my lungs
there is no oxygen in this perfect vacuum
nothing but gas and dust particles
and distant lights from suns that shone 13 eons ago
maybe nothing will become of this golden record
it will be lost in the dark expanse of time and space
or maybe
someone or something
will decipher the static of brainwaves
the sound of flowing air whooshing in and out of lungs
the thudding of a yearning heart
Perhaps they may listen
And have a tiny glimpse into the passion that defines mankind
-inspired by Radiolab

F***boy

she pushes you against the wall
after school in a hidden hallway
pushing her lips to yours like you are the air she breathes
her kisses are innocent like forget-me-nots
warm like breezy summer nights at the beach before a crackling fire
she pushes you against the wall
after passing period
and instead of passion you taste possession
her lips trail the boundaries on your skin that mark you for her own
you wonder when did your kisses become a show for the people watching
she pushes you up against the wall
After your football game
she is too sweet like candy you have gorged yourself on
All you feel is guilt when she finally leaves
Despite your efforts, she caramel sticks to parts of you
Refusing to let go
she pushes you up against the wall
After she finds you kissing someone else
her lips have become the mouth of a roaring dragon
her words sear across your skin like fire
and when she leaves you forever
all you feel is a cold relief
You used to watch her from afar
a trophy wife, you wanted to claim her
but when you finally had what you wanted
there was nothing left to make you stay
P.S. Sorry guys I know I shared this 4 months ago, but I added the last paragraph and I hope you guys can still enjoy it. Please comment what you thought. I want to perform this for slam poetry in the future.

LA Adventures

I.
There is a tree in Little Tokyo where passersby have tied their wishes on scraps of paper.
Maybe it’s the thought that the rain will wash away the evidence of naked longing that people allow themselves to be vulnerable and share their fervent desires.

“I want to make it into UCLA ‘22”

“I want to find love.”

But even if the ink washes away the memory of pen on paper,
Ink filled raindrops soak into the drought-parched soil
Where I have faith our dreams are planted and take root to blossom into being.

II.
I remember standing at the top of Griffith Observatory.
Staring at the city below instead of the planets above,
How depressing this sight is
That they call Los Angeles the City of Stars
Because we are cold and apart from each light shining below
Many are fathers, mothers, daughters, sons, documented, undocumented persons
Whom we forget are toiling at night for people who can enjoy fine dining on nights such as these
These luminous point map out those who are not resting with their loved ones
My heart is aching for these incandescent bodies devoid of warmth