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Heart, if you must love

I pray that you get

to love the kind of love

that gives birth

to a star.

The kind of love

that creates

a little more beauty

or a little more light

in the vast universe.

And if you are gifted

with that star…

Heart, always be grateful

but do not just rely

on the sparks

to warm you

in the cold

and in the lonely

hours.

Heart, I pray you learn

to translate your beats

into music;

and make sense of your sadness,

make sense of your anger,

make sense of your pain,

make sense of your hate,

because love is all about these, too.

And on days when you get tired

and there will be such days…

I hope that someone could

watch your star for you.

If there will be no one there

to keep the fire burning

to keep your light shining

I pray that you will still

find peace

and the courage

to embrace the night.

Resurrection

We all wanted to be found

We sing, we write, we dance,

We participate in the art that is life

Feel the beat of our hearts in songs

Feel the weight of our thoughts in words

Feel the rise and fall of grace in our moves

Inaudible are the pain behind the melodies

Invisible are the ink stains in our hearts

Intangible are the consequences of missteps

Still, we rise from graves of doubt.

First prose

I needed a home for my thoughts
so I was tempted to write you
But there’s this looming fear of baring myself
—another display in the circus of life

I needed a home for my thoughts
to make a cozy space for the pain
Or it would find a way to explode again
the aftermath of these vagabond feelings

I needed a home for my thoughts
and finally convince this chaos to settle
And so I knock and plea and bargain
for I can barely afford the rent!

If Inks were Wine

My ink betrayed me,
spilling out my vulnerable heart;
No, I don’t want to start.

But here I am, wishing,
my pen on hand — the magic wand;
dreaming for words
to console me, define me, unvex me.

In my mind’s eye, I look like a puzzle,
perplexedly unresolved;
A pat on the back, the Author of life draws nigh…

Nonetheless, a nincompoop,
losing grip playing with words;
No, I don’t want to start and sigh,
pining for clean white sheet again.

*12/30/2014

29.

Still waiting for my first gray hair
Still holding on to my teddy bear
Still overthinking thoughts in my head
Still finding it hard to get out of bed

Still hanging out late at night
Still choosing flight over fight
Still reminiscing good old days
Still stuck with old fashioned ways

Still bad at meeting deadlines
Still consuming trivial headlines
Still crying over little things
Still working on my dreams

Still waking up insecure
Still finding the cure
Still sky watching
Still star gazing

Nothing’s changed.
Nothing’s changed.

Still here.

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Penning my thoughts of the season
revisiting memories of the past–
the shadows that clouded my reason,
places where memories of pain seem to last

No matter the number of bridges you burn
there are pages that cannot be unwritten
And as you patiently wait for a good turn
the gloaming words and anxiety heighten

But the twisted tale that ever haunts me
is that of conquering and re-conquering selves
for as I write and edit and edit and write me
this recurring battle ground never ends

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