These nights make me blind.
I see only halves of your faces and impossible dreams of love.
I imagine a longing in every move you make.
I let go of myself to the comfort waning moons and blankets of lies.
I see only the days of hope, never looking back at today.
These nights make me blind.
I see only what my heart yearns for.-
"I deserve better. I deserve better. I deserve better," I chant to myself. But if you were a tradegy, you are one I will gladly relive.
-
She asked if she could stay here for tonight. He beat her up everynight, she said.
This story is not mine to tell, for these wounds are not mine to heal.
"Your best is not good enough," someone repressed their after-thoughts.
This story is not mine either, to tell, for these hopes were not mine that failed.
This story is about me, and you, and about the park bench we shared in the twilights of our time.
This story is about us.
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Dear Meursault,
Not all sadnesses are the same.
Some are voids, empty and abyssal.
Some are oceans, overflowing and engulfing.
Some are remembrances and some, pointless futures.
We wish for happiness, acceptance, validation, acknowledgement, togetherness and wholeness for others.
But you came along and did away with all wants, probable expectations and supposed rationalities.
You lived away with your indifference and paralysis of feelings. Or that is what we all think.
The ultimate truth could be that there is no such thing, you said, even though you didn't say it.
Maybe this poem is absurd too, compartmentalizing 'being' into 'time'.
For you, I don't know what to wish for.
For me, I wish that you were wrong and that absurdity has meaning, however farfetched it might be.-
The dominoes season is in and we are going to fall apart, one after the other, it says.
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Dear rainbow,
In the dark battles, when I bow down, I see you in shades of blood and red.
You are a war that is tamed to beauty, the only war that could bring hope and peace.
You have humility enough to shine your brightest unflinchingly, at the end of all storms of the day.
Not all darknesses are the same I learned, for I pray every night to see you.
But how comforting it is to know, today, that we are only at the beginning, and to know that we have each other for the rest of the day, before the night falls and I go blind.
And maybe you are still around.
So when your eyes are tired, maybe you can look at me.
And maybe I can turn towards you.
- a sunflower
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To be a poet, for me, is to run from my thoughts even before they are fully formed, for I am blinded by my own words.
And for I might have watched too many happily ever afters.
I now know to avoid the 2 ams.
For my poems fall apart into mere thoughts and conversations erasing the thin line between them.
And because my everyday is not from a romantic past.
But irony is all that I love.
So I will say that poetry, is not poetry.-
What is the sound you hear late in the night?
It is the absolute silence of the loudest hopes.
It is the purest riches only the poor can have.
It is the sound of the people who decided to go ahead and dare to dream and build those wind castles.
And it is the smell of sweat from those castles.-
It makes me cry.
But not here, not like this.
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