All decisions unmade and paths not taken,
words unsaid and people unmet, doors
left open, skin untouched, hearts unbroken,
stories all unwritten and untold, shores
uncharted and places unexplored thrive
in parallel universes: where the
maybes and the perhaps can rest easy uncontrived. The odds are infinite; wrought
in time and space, and I try not to dwell
on the existence of another self –
happier elsewhere; without regret; held
by hands gentler; the future still undelved.
Poem made in tribute of the passing of the physicist Stephen Hawking.
I am cursed with such forgetful fingers.
All things I touch go unremembered –
duplicates of keys sit on my dresser;
I savor books and bathe in every word,
with hands pressing against spine and paper
in desperation. I fear and dread loss
and to be lost: pebbles and crumbs linger
on the paths I dared to take, all because
my memory cannot sit in one place.
Forgive me for pitiful excuses
(all things can go and be lost in a haze,
with you the lone exception; all wishes
can go ungranted, but the one where I
plead my mind not to forget you); lies
that I stutter and bumble through
for a slim chance of a touch; a slim chance
to memorize your being; a chance for you
to be the one to recall who we once
were, if I dare betray my own heart; my
own self and look upon you, years later,
in puzzlement. Remind me, and sigh
into a kiss, intertwine our fingers,
warm my hands with yours – bring me back to this
moment, when I loved and wrote and feared oblivion
i approximate the distance between us
am lying on my bed –
and you lying on yours, possibly,
or sitting in a straight-backed chair,
drinking coffee and overlooking the city:
where i am but a speck of the view,
where i cannot be seen,
close my eyes
feeling the miles
stretch out before me – and
am sitting beside you, and
walk with you,
with my arms constantly brushing yours,
am close enough to feel your breath, where maybe,
maybe, if i inched just a little bit closer,
how many centimeters there are to cover
til my skin touches yours,
until you look in my eyes,
until you kiss me – maybe, just
i’d be close enough.
until there is no more distance
to think of,
or to measure,
but of only how far
your heart feels
from what mine does.
Note: 17 days into trying to publish one post a day and I fall back to a poem I made last year to keep the streak up. Creativity gods, please help.
She is the sole witness to the whispers in the dark,
The fire of guns, the shadows and silhouettes Hidden from sight – growing
Larger, advancing on a victim –
And the blood that stains the streets
That reeks to the heavens;
She is the sole witness to the cries of children
To the wail of a mother, to
The panicked scream as a door is struck
Down; bodies clad in blue sworn to
Secure the safety of the masses after
Their lives, heroes of a society
Broken, never to be mistaken; to the
Sick and innocent dead by the hand of
Their own people, their lives reduced
To a statistic and scorned as the
Disease that rots away civilization,
Better off dead for progress, the
Hypocritical progress that is supposed
To grow but kills and is lost in the
Lines blurred between justice
And ethics and the rights of every
Human being turned into a punchline instead of a priority and
By God, she watches every night,
She does, she counts the minutes till
Dawn, she wishes the clouds were
Thicker to hide her,
To stop her from giving them light
That aids them – but in darkness too in her Absence they are all the more aided,
And the glowing streetlamps of the
Country bathing the pavements in orange
Are brighter than she is – and she
For the sun
We wield words
as both armor and weapon,
but too often,
forget what we are in the battlefield for.
To write is to explore a hidden jungle deep within us,
but to write is also to transcend self-discovery:
it is to serve,
it is to cause,
it is to ripple across hearts and minds
– across generations, even –
it is to remember,
and to remind;
it is to fight,
it is to heal and
it is to reflect.
we are to serve as writers to those who cannot speak what they feel,
we fight not with the glint of of both shining armor and weapon but with the armor scarred, bloodied (we fight not with the beauty of our words,
but the message; the truth,
that it holds);
we are to serve as witnesses to those who doubt, who mock;
we sing the melodies for the voices unsung.
we must not keep
getting lost in the wonder,
of rhyme and rhythm that flow through every verse.
We escape it.
We produce for heroic matters.
Art is the extension
of a human being’s soul.
Colors and paint,
words and ink,
graphite and portraits,
brushes and pens and charcoal
in a clutter, on a desk
or in a corner of the room:
they tell you more
of who a person is
than what they themselves
With that, I have a confession:
in between the lines and verses written
are secrets taken to the grave
memories that have long faded
and tears quietly shed.
That realization is how my vulnerability grew
with the knowledge of others who read what I do.
If you knew where to look,
If you knew what to see,
you could gather all of my weaknesses
the easiest way to break me.
Writing is supposed to be selfish,
and reading is, too.
so I beg you
not to divulge
what you might discover
hidden in between
rhymes and rhythms
and figurative speech.
I beg you –
interpret me selfishly,
shroud my emotions,
fit my words into your world, and
listen to what resonates within;
and not the confessions hidden
in every verse.
For art is the extension of the soul,
and art is my soul’s absolution.