listen to me, you are going to be loved.
more importantly, you are going to love.

you’re scared because you’re older now
and you’re still all alone,
but i promise you,
you will be loved harder than most.
because you waited
and because you are made entirely of longing.

you’re not going to get the practice,
the dry runs that everyone else gets,
you’re going to get thrown into it
like a wave crashing on you
and you won’t know up from down.

you are going to be so lucky.
you are going to fumble through all of it at first,
you’re going to throw yourself out of every window imaginable
before you find your feet and your head.

you are controlled by your heart and that is okay.
you are lonely and you’ve been waiting so, so, so long.
but it’s coming
and you aren’t going to be ready for it;
people like us are never going to be ready for it
but that is why we will be okay,
because our mistakes will feel like the end of the world
and there is nothing better than feeling the ground crumble beneath you
and there is nothing better than finding out there is a surface underneath it.

you are going to love hard and probably too much
and you will be loved back so fiercely
you will want to crawl out of your own skin and float away,
but you won’t
you will stay
and you will learn to accept it.
you are going to be happy
and you are going to be scared shitless.
you are going to change.
that’s what i think love is,
when you can’t remember who you were before
and who you are after it
but it’s all okay (k.w)

Today is the first day I set foot on death beach.

I come cloaked in
Courage, honour and bravery.
A badge of promise red, blue and white,
Pinned to the dark stitching of my heart.

I hope to remember the faces at home

And I hope to forget the faces that lie here.

I feel I need to stand as one for my family and country,
Bound by the strong dark green cloth of armor

Protecting my body,

Hoping God,
Will let me live.

I shall fight.
Fight for today and fight for tomorrow.

you will know she is a poetess
if she likes to wear long-sleeves
long-sleeves that hide the scars
long-sleeves that hold her bruised arms together
long-sleeves with a slit near the shoulder
where she tried to wear her heart
(but poured it out in ink instead)

she will have long hair
or walk like she does
because hair is memory
cutting it is like erasing yesterday's you
restyling it is like recreating you.
her hair will have leaves in it
and leftover twine
from the flower crown she wears
or if she is the daring kind
her hair will have silverdust
(proof of how close her words
got her to the moon)

if she smiles and laughs
and never shows pain
she is a poetess
because a poetess writes her hurt down
in free verses and half-finished sonnets
and she cries not on a boy's shoulder
but on paper where her tears are caught by
the swooping syllables and dauntless denotations
making her words come alive
(because where there is water, there is life)

if you meet a person and assume she is a poetess
check first her palms
(if she will show them to you)
they must show no sign of ink
(for a poetess is sometimes secretive)
no, you must be able to trace the constellations
along the creases of her palm
smell the rocket smoke
and see the nebulae dotting her flesh
where she managed to catch stars.
congratulate her
and maybe, she will lift the hem
of her long pearl blue skirt
and show you the wings on her ankles
and if you're lucky, she will tell you story
upon story
upon story.

if you are able to tell a poetess from a person
and you find her,
keep her.
keep her close to where
the drums of your soul beat from
keep her next to your dreams of sailing and pink seas
keep her in the mental list you keep
of people you will never, ever leave
(and she will keep you, too)

when she dies,
wrap her body in a white Ilocos blanket.
use no coffin.
let the earth swallow her up
(but don't let it swallow her words)
tend to the fire she left you
plan to set out on a quest
to look
for other word-weavers
because it is impossible to live without
these storytellers
then go back to her writing desk
touch the last thing she held
and look for a hole
a false drawer
a hidden key
anything that keeps.
and i promise you,
you will find
more poems.
and if you spread each page out on the floor
its letters will rearrange
and form your name
and point you to a poem hidden
in a pocket she sewed inside her coat
and the first line will read,


"how to tell if she is a poetess"

In an eggshell    
          The universe gives birth to itself

She purrs her r's to ****** the cosmos
     With a spell of linguistics

That we're all humming along to

I'm speaking in tongues
     Bowing down in worship
     vibrating the outside of my mouth

This is the new sensation
     Her aura's stimulation
     Like she read me like a book

Once she felt my touch of grace
     Convulsing hips
     and transcending taste
    
Some paradise of infinity lost in karma's translation
     Where we all come back around together
     Until we're light again
    
somewhere
     in time

She bursts

I stared down fine art to bring her back
    Big banging our broken hearts
     back to the start of stars aligned
          before we were gods
          before the chaos
          
     Scrambled back        
In an eggshell

4,268 people will get married tomorrow,
146,357 people will die tomorrow,
Tomorrow I will be moving 2,724,666 miles per hour standing still,
Underneath 275,000,000 new stars,
Its 3 A.M. now,
Tomorrow you'll still be awake,
**** my bed,
For in it,
I turn,
And the sun looks over my shoulders

It's a nice day
Cool enough to wear jeans
Warm enough to wear a shirt
Mid sixties to low seventies
Even the Mosquitos don't bother me

Last Friday we were ******
Walking through the art district,
Looking at all the galleries
Listening to the music
And the street preachers
I got stopped by sister Michelle
She was a Mormon on a mission
Or something like that
She asked how religious I am
I said debate doesn't matter
I'll live my life the way I want
If somebody is watching,
So be it

We drifted off
Drinking their cup of free lemonade
As they looked disappointed
But the air tasted good,
**** good
And the energy was right,
One hundred percent
A+
And I went to sleep
Dreaming of broad street
All lit up and full of life
And I figured
Everything was going to be
Alright

In love, nothing exists between heart and heart.
Speech is born out of longing,
True description from the real taste.
The one who tastes, knows;
the one who explains, lies.
How can you describe the true form of Something
In whose presence you are blotted out?
And in whose being you still exist?
And who lives as a sign for your journey?