So profound was the stillness,
And heavy was the dark,
I could not rise and see the morning.
So piercing was the silence,
So clamorous was the void,
It pricked my ears like needles
And drew me near with siren song.
A shadow in the darkness,
I crept thoughtless towards the empty.
It wrapped me in clandestine,
And dragged me into the obscure.
A sleep from whence there is no wake,
A night without a dawn,
A place where twilight kisses dusk,
And all light dies in silence.

O you, sitting on the highest power echelon of this country
Revolution is mere change of masks???
O you who orchestrate these stage plays to ridicule, already ridiculed masses!
O to you,
The unnamed, the invisible nucleus of power
Have you ever seen the revolution?
How it looks like?
O You
Yes you, who pretends to be the only savior of this country
Do you promise, from tomorrow, all the people will sleep with full stomach??
Health and education would be free??
Justice will be accessible??
O oooo
Have you ever seen revolution?
Do you know how it looks like?
Or I am too naïve to ask this…

Down the dusty grey gravel road
Violet jacaranda trees blossoming
Under the clear blue skies

I always talk about how one day
I'll submit a short story to the New Yorker.

I tell people that I'm “working on a novel”
and that “I'll let you read it when I'm done.”

In reality,
I'll never finish the novel.
I'll never finish any of the ten novels
that I've started.

If I do finish,
I'll never let them read it
because it isn't good enough.

I'll never submit my short story
to the New Yorker
because they wouldn't want it.

Never mind that I've read every issue
of their magazine
dreaming of being a part of it
even a small part.
I wouldn't even need my name in it.
I just want to be in it because
everything they publish
is beautiful.

I'd love to finish a novel
but I lose hope
in my characters before they can even
breathe a single breath.

If only I believed in my characters
as much as my friends and family believed in me.
Then maybe, just maybe
I could finish something.

I guess I finished this ****** poem,
but that doesn't count because
it's more of a stream of consciousness
than a real piece of literature.

If I was but an beautiful and pure exotic green leaf
I would be tied to an amazing oak tree with a very strong belief
I would be tossed with the breeze of the wind from side to side
and I would try my best and keep myself tied

I have but a wonderful way to frolic
and you would think i'm very much jolly
From season to season I change my appearance
I know I wont die because I have reassurance

Out of nowhere today I was simply wrong
I started falling slowly from the tree to the ground
and I just couldn't believe I went from green to brown
now I have nothing to do but just settle down