I sat there like a museum of moments,
a mosaic of emotions
as she dissected my personas
and did an autopsy of my past.

Memories climbed my spine
from the forgotten attics in my heart
with every question, she asked.

But my tongue was a drought
and my voice box was a rust box,
as the child in me
was bullied into quietude.

My edgy, messy and raw memories
molded my perception,
rewrote my interpretation
and deepened my experience.

There was underlying vengeance
as the layers of fabricated scabs were scrapped
to disclose the deeply entrenched, tender emotional scars.

As the present, struck a cord
my limbs would turn into cement
as the echo would bring me back
to the endless street of time
and I would be dragged
through open wounds within me.

The pain would seep in the nooks
and crannies of my soul.
At every jibe and remark
one more part of my flesh
would be chiseled away.

The sky would join in my sorrow
as the clouds gathered like sheep
summoned by a shepherd
and then we would begin to weep
our unresolved issues
onto tissues.

I revisited the bathrooms
that became sanctuary in high school
with its gossip soaked walls
and tear-stained countertops.

I dream of the people
that have lost their way in my memory;
a fabrication of nostalgia.
But the tranquility of waves,
can’t even erase the memories of their wrongdoings.

My past engraved itself
into my muscle memory
ingrained its teachings
and matured my sensibility.

The dim shadows that would creep
And the blues that I would pour
are becoming budding flowers in my chest.

Weaving from the same web
I was entangled in
building from the same sorrows
I was drowning in.

I began connecting,
understanding its stem
stitching my memories.

I write for my younger self
who felt silenced and erased by the world.

I shape all the tainted pieces of memories
into art and paint shades of my past
as each is soaked in a memory.

I craft subconscious relief,
breathing memories
into 6 alphabets
that were strung into paragraphs,
beginnings and end.

I reached out to corners
to bring out
sunrises and sunsets
and reignite dying embers
as I de-spell the damage that silently reverterbrates through generation.

I find home in my skin
and love myself, whole;
Shadows, crevice and all.

a river bed lies profoundly dry

out in the remote west

showing no visible signs

of any trickle's zest


each day bringing the same

emptiness of refrain

thirsty river banks are feeling

such a sustained pain


the wanted gift of moisture

being absent far too long

a river's course slowly dying

to feel a dampness of song


soon the summer's scorch shall

be again upon the river's trace

in its despairing hour it will beg

for rain's life giving grace

every now and then my pen runs dry.
i forget how to swallow the words of others, as if any thought can be truly organic.
why isn’t there a farmer’s market for ingenuity?
how much to buy a phrase that could finally satisfy me,
a phrase that would finally make me stop after years and years of
nomadic poetry tried to string together meaningless events into a story
that actually made sense?

every now and then,
my pen runs
dry.
i spit all of my words out in search of answers to
questions i shouldn’t ask.
i was parched.
i have so long been parched.

one day
i will set my pen down
and one day
i will look up to the sky in this desert of my own creation
and i will stop trying to put the pieces together
( there are none that fit)
i will close my eyes
and let the rain fall.

Pain makes people wage a storm.
Most would release the beast in any form
without hesitation, without fear;
without minding the damage,
they wouldn't even mind the effect they manage.

As they release their storm,
they thought they could also release their pain;
but little do they know,
that they actually pass on the pain.
Instead of having it ended,
it continues to grow;
resurrecting, from one to another soul.

But mine is different--pain makes me silent.
There's this huge hole within my soul
which I couldn't even detect.
There's this heavy atmosphere
that prevents me from breathing.
I would like to wage a storm, but I couldn't.
I would like to release my pain, but I couldn't.
All that I could do is feel it.
Endure it.
Suffer from it.

Silence is all that I could offer the world;
not a storm, not a beast, or anything
that would cause some damage to others,
but silence that only brings damage to myself.

At least I wouldn't be able to hurt others;
the pain would just end within me.
Or so I thought it would end.

The birds fall from the sky.
My eyes are dry.
The buildings collapse on top of me.
My eyes are dry.
I realize I cannot cry.
My eyes remain dry.
I let out a sigh.
Still, my eyes are dry.
I realize you're going to die.
My eyes want to, but they cannot cry.

I'll remember the time,
When your words and smile,
Made me new.

It makes my chest sink,
In agony of what could have been.
A love I wanted to give,
That fell, pointlessly.

I still fell for her,
Even when she told me not to.

I'll remember the time,
When the words that escaped my lips,
felt like the perfect me.
Now only letters remind me of her voice,
Poetry for me.

When every word I used was for her,
And they ran out.
A drift of space,
A burning drought.

I'll remember the time,
When I told myself to stop writing about you.

Your bliss turns to blues.
You're in the bottom
but now you know
your only way is up.

Your warmth turns to drought.
You can pour gasoline
in the dying fire inside of you
to feel warm again.

Your love turns to lost.
You may have lost in love
but in the first place,
you found it.

They say, the only thing
that is constant is change.
But can bliss, warmth, and love
be constant........ for a change?