let me be alone

when i show you my work, you tell me i have talent
but here is the truth - loneliness is the key to cultivation
anyone else in the room is a hawk in wait
every sound i hear is a step closer
i can measure in seconds how long until they look
there is something weak in being a poet
and something that should be hidden
the concept of poetry is something too unusual and too emotional and too weak



2. let me hide myself

you tell me i have talent, but i tell myself i have this insecurity:
im worried of writing too beautifully, im worried of being too personal or too unpersonal, im worried,
the thing i desire most is a disconnect between the words on the screen-

-and my keystroke fingers typing them
a wire sheared in half, red and blue cords spitting out of their black cage, neutrons and protons that will never reach a destination
it will be better if i'm reading another's work and not my own



3. let me have other dreams

i have this insecurity, but i also have big dreams
i dreamt of starting government rebellions with pens and ink
i dreamt of fantasy worlds with their own big bang: my first word
i dreamt of heroes battling with swords while i battle for the best phrases

but these are only things i dream about
and poetry books are not full-length novels or epics
i will never have inspiration for fifty thousand words or reach into double-digit chapters
but i wish i could



4. let me have this dream

i have big dreams
and this is why i will show you my work

I am not your maid.
I am not your personal cook.
I am not a butler for you to boss about.
I'm not your employee...
Your slave, nor am I anything of the such.
I'm not a *** doll.
Or a pillow to cuddle with.

I am a person made up of water, blood and flesh.

I think.
I feel.
I bleed.
I cry.
I laugh.
And I live.

Please don't confuse these things.

For I am real.
And you shouldn't take me for granted.

There's an ***** missing in my body.
Right between my heart and lungs.
An empty space filled in by bone and blood.

It should be there,
Instead,
it pains me that it's simply not.
A missing section of myself and my fellow humans, lost to evolution.

There's an ***** missing in our body.
An empty space between the heart and lungs.
A vital piece of something important,
That we've all mistakenly forgotten.

There's a piece missing.
The section between heart and lungs.
An ***** that can compute the pangs of lust and lack of oxygen,
when falling in love.

In death.
A grave marked (Y)ours,
Remains, an empty plot.
The story left unfinished.
A poem left to rot.
The fraying ends of a lover's knot,
cannot and will-not meet the end
at the melting ***.
It will remain an empty plot,
wrought with metal and without a  
weak-spot.
For true loves knot,
cannot and will-not
ever come to naught.

There was a moment when I thought you saw me.
Royal blues tracing the arches of my cheeks,
the space between my lips and nose.

I thought you saw me.
A moment in time,
A single moment in time.
I thought you saw me.

Was I wrong?
Probably... most definitely.

When you turned and walked away...
I knew then...

You never saw me at all.