Some Poems from the Past

Again

My mom, with tears in her eyes, said
"If you hurt me again,
I will not care about what you do
anymore."
I cried.
Because I realized, how close to the edge I am.
And to become dead to her, is death
of me.

Karma screams at me, all the time.
I hurt her, so he hurts me in turn
over and over and over, again.

I never cry, not because I don't like to
or want to, but because
I'm a living drought.
And those rare passing showers,
I cherish greatly.
So much that I often peer into the mirror
and watch with awe
as my face scrunches into damp deformity.

What gives him the right
to pull the rug beneath me
over and over and over, again?

I keep assuring the world
that I'm alright.
That he's the last person on the face of this earth
who can hurt me.
But I used to think I would be the last person
to hurt her, because I love her so much.

We always do the things, we're not suppose to.

Independence Day

You used to be extraordinary to me
and I, your ordinary.
But finally I realized,
it's the other way around.
I was your something special,
your worldly possession.

We held onto each other on that teacup ride,
spinning spinning we lost control.
When we got off, I couldn't hold it together.
You left unscathed.

6 months of beauty became ugly
in a month's time.
You were never really mine.

I hurt over that, latching on
never letting go.
Wilted was I, fast becoming Cupid's sigh.
Using telescopic eyes I see space.
You've become someone else's shooting star.

Eyes shut, hands clasped
I wished and wished
for something holy, sacred.
And I got it, my final goodbye.

Not to you.
Not to me.
But to we.

Left in Dreamland

Black
He brought to me the spectrum of colors
with fresh new rollers.
We're going to start painting your world,
he said.
Hesitation was afraid.
Where do we start?
I wanted to know.
He poured crimson around me,
of what looked like a ... "Peach?"
No silly,
it's a heart
you can't see because you're within it.
And that was my relationship with
Black
We work together painting his visions and
I never knew what they were till I ask.
Soon I stopped and
Black
took no notice.
"I'm sorry, your art is no longer appreciated here,"
I laid it down;
He turned and left my ground
with his bundle of colors
save for one.
It was a can of blue, with a note
to say, "It fits you."
Day and night I paint over
our past labors
canceling out all the residue
with my blue.
Blue figures in a blue world,
they all blend.
But Pablo and I
will be the only ones to understand
Black
may have left blue
but I left you.

Dry Spell

The sound of cars rushing by
The voice of reason losing way
It's so unnerving.

I thought I knew where I was
Who I was to become

in the grand scheme of things.

But people run
and they turn into lost blurs,
composites of rejected colors.
And definiteness and determination
are soon shot.

I never protected myself from harm's way
because I thought

it was the only way to live.

Yet I find myself not living with a reason
just simply breathing to see.

I thought I knew who I was to be
but even the most clear headed
can find themselves locked in a dead end.
I refuse to back up, because it won't be enough.
Not enough to cheat a smile
on the tear stricken face of a young girl.

After all, I'm not five anymore.

Being Buoyant

I am a castaway on an island
You dropped me off once upon a time
been two months, here I stand.

Every passing day made it clearer
To experience romance, gives life
and purpose derives from it.
But when it slips through
into the cracks of the earth
all the once perfect scenes of us, vitiates.

I had the picture of you,
crystal in my mind.
Circumstances became boulders
and this borrowed boat of ours
became shambles.

I came ashore,
telling myself you drowned loving me.
Words of empty comfort is what it is.
But my mind need not tell my heart.

I don't wish for you to save me again,
I only dream of the feelings
that kept me afloat.
Buoyancy is what I'm searching for.

Cancer

We were electric.

I was a cigarette that you lit
my first smoke, start of a six month binge.
My lungs soon gave out
but habits are hard to break and
my longing became cancerous
as you linger by, delirious.
It doesn't matter, you have no cure.

There are days when I'm convinced
that it's better.
And then I relapse
and false hope remains as so.
They all look at me with somber eyes
feeding me with chemo lies.

Before operation,
I prayed hard.
I prayed that you never say
you love her.
Not until the day
you find that you love her more
than you ever loved me.

You've found another spark.