Do you understand?

You tried to hold my hand,
I brushed it away in silence.
I do feel sorry for you,
another leave-me-alone that you grow used to.

I want you to understand,
I get high sometimes.
Just by walking under the stars,
or a touch of a tree in the park.

Such as now I can see the time
slowing down and stretching around.
The night sharpens its edges,
and the sensation overwhelms.

Flying inside the crystal glass,
melting with all that is and will ever be.
I would like to share my experience,
but words are not what they need.

Or should I explain the sensation?
It’s like the soul leaving the shell.
Every step takes me closer
to a myth that I can never ever tell.

Sorry not sorry, I won’t pretend,
you are my dearest and I will abide.
But there are times such as this,
I will need to be alone to be alive.

Meditation.

What you lost
is your biggest treasure.
How that hurts
is a gift you can’t refuse.

When you don’t look away
but humbly accept,
along with the cost,
one breath to the next.

Cast the burden
into the wings you fly with.
You better think
when they tell you it’s worthless.

Give a prayer
to the spirits you now know.
Can you comprehend it
the quietness in your soul?

Not complete.

I wonder if we have another life
when we go to sleep.
Don’t always remember the dream but,
it must be something epic.

Waking up exhausted
have to reorient myself.
Feeling bewildered
have to relearn how to talk.

A different world from yesterday,
yet one and the same.
Have I changed so much?
A night, a galaxy away.

Hello, oxygen!
Wonder where have you been?
I must’ve been kept in a vacuum,
it muffled and grayed.

When the sun is down
and the shapes are blurred,
I invite you to hear the song
in the background all along.

It carries the day away
into a kneaded history,
where all the thoughts are relaxed
and senses run free.

Original Pain.

My mother told me
she never wanted a girl.
My father left for U.S.
when I was twelve-years-old.

He later told me:
if I was a boy
he’d never have left.
I loved my daddy the best.

I didn’t know
how to take that.
I still don’t know
how to take that.

The burden of
being seen
as less
by your own mom and dad.

Take whatever
I can get
thinking that
I don’t deserve.

Numb myself to
face the world,
all too aware of
the cracks in the armor.

Fake the confidence
tell me I’m good enough.
Prepare for the worst
is the way I grew up.

Can it be so long
since I felt safe and sound?
I’d rather be lost
forgetting where I’m from.

Looking to the stars
for signs of hope and wisdom.
Searched everywhere
have to go back within.

Don’t want to apologize.
Thank you for giving me life.
Time to take the leap,
want to see the other side.

The question.

The bugs come after mid-night, when I inquire my brain’s potentiality for sleep. The more the knocking though, the echo pronounces that no one’s home, yet the feel of the anxiety has beckoned forth the hidden tentacles, and they come crawling out, as if being awakened. Hesitatingly they weight in on the fringes of thin lines of thoughts as if to protrude into the quietness of the void and being born right then and there for the first time. Or they are to be expected, to languidly arrive at their destination and all at once, make a single strike. I can write about them.

My cello has been feeling me, I can not hide my fatigue and absent-mindedness from the strings nor the bow. My fingers’ touches zoom in-and-out of my sensory’s palate which I try to grasp and hold on to but they just slip away. Where do I mind wonder? I don’t know. I can’t recall. And that scares me. I want to be able to be present and tag along, especially when a balance is involved.

I’ve been thinking too much. Writing things down before going to bed because they seem to just shaking loose the day’s confines, but they are not fully formed. They seem to me drunk, over-worked dancers sway a little, to the night, toasting to the coming calm. Or maybe they are newly awakened, preparing for their own journeys. I wish I can go with them. I wish I can remember afterwards.

Been trying to find relief from a question asked: “do you wish you do not exist?” What kinda question is that? Upon closer inspection, it’s probably the right question if there’s that. I should be sad, but there’s no reason to be sad once I truly contemplate the question and my answer to it. So I tried to be happy for one day, and That did make me sad. It was exhausting and cheapening somehow. All my happiness (I find I do have some) has been drained from trying to be happy. So I decide that some questions are quite the waste of energy. Luckily I have energy to waste.

Ah, the poem comes on which is… not that good, bed-side pieces…

Midnight channeling,
putting a few things to bed.
“Would you rather not exist?”
The answer hang like a thread.

Haven’t I been here before?
How should I say it again?
In the distance a tree falls
not for this ink and pen.

But you asked the question
with that challenging undertone.
Can I tell you something,
a truth you have not known.

We all walk a very thin line
better not to look down.
I’ve been at a place
there’s no skeleton to be found.

This thing that carries us
turns selves into strangers,
and homes into
frat-houses with mortgages.

So put on them stupid smile,
drown in happiness for Lolz.
It’s not cheating if you lose
just don’t forget your blues.

But it’s not enough, damn it!
Can’t look away from my own eyes.
That someone you have to live with
who’s still searching for paradise.

Good night.

To a cello.

I touched your neck,
it made me smile.
Longed for you last night,
didn’t want to wake people next door.

Pile of autumn leaves,
your ambery gold subdued,
and that intimate something,
I won’t tell if you don’t.

Home for the memories,
silent till them turn classic.
Craftmanship maybe part of it,
up-tight with strings and ivory.

Hold you like a sacred rite,
are you comfortable in my thighs?
Adjusting to you this and that,
until you drape just right.

Cause when I play you,
it’s you who reach out to me.
Vibrate through and through,
doing something I don’t know.

The low makes me tremble,
the high makes me soar.
The more it flows through you,
it’s not me who play the notes.

At first glance,
you are but an instrument on a stand.
But when you are close at hand,
I doubt I deserve you just yet.

But I treat you right, don’t I?
Do you blush under my loving eyes?
What is in a cello like you,
but a devoted soul’s delight.

Waiting for light.

Should I fight or
sympathize.
Your influence is
all-enveloping.
Even the pictures
transmit that vibe.

Son of a whore
you are the one.
What are you really?
Speak louder,
only the boring ones will
turn their heads and run.
(Who cares about them.)

What are you afraid of
at this point.
Heaven opened its gates
long ago,
hurriedly an angel flew
his eyes fixed on you.

There’s no giving up
whatever you think is right.
We are all burning alive and
there’re no precedents.
Made up, wore out,
leads nowhere but the infinite.

Time to tell a story
make it your own.
Don’t think too much anymore
present it to the altar,
the only way to treat
festering wounds.

Melancholy is quaint and
useful to all art forms.
If you go nuclear
we are ready to download the software.
No worries, it’s only temporary
the sacrifice was made yesterday.

Rise up, it’s never too late.
Every minute a new universe dances
to a brand new rave.
We are never here for ourselves
but looking for the end,
and it will come sweeter than it has ever been.