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VesselYour heart is a compass.
Broken, perhaps, but I know
It’s always searching for the North Star.
Which way will your beard point tonight?
Because He'sHe’s listening
Millions of them.
A flash of red
And a navy hat
No warning – now motionless
With skin turned to shadows.
Broken TongueSo he says to me,
I’m not trying to be offensive,
I’m just saying, its obvious English isn’t your native language.
If English isn’t my mother tongue,
I don’t know what is.
I speak broken English,
I speak non-existent Cantonese.
All the kids who look like me on TV
Hold the vocabulary I let sky dive off of my tongue.
I never had a full conversation with my grandparents,
Instead, I would communicate by uttering keywords
Like a Command Prompt, words such as 奶 or
面包, words I could never pronounce properly for the life of me.
Sorry, could you repeat that? I don’t understand.
It’s not that I don’t want to talk to you,
It’s just that…I don’t know how.
I think English, I dream Cantonese,
I speak…broken tongue.
I Hear America Singing...It's Out Of TuneI, too, have heard America singing,
And I have to say,
It’s not nearly as enjoyable as you make it out to be.
Hearing the country sing is worse than
Watching the first rounds of American idol
But you wouldn’t know anything about that,
Now would you?
The following is a list of complaints
I have of this country’s vocal ensemble:
The sound of carols
Is covered by the businessmen
Who falls flat every time they try
To pick themselves up again.
I’ve seen them drop dead
Like Trees in a forest –
And in case you’re wondering
No, they don’t make a sound.
I can still hear the strained notes
Of slaves when they grew this country out of the soil
Echoing from the past
And for you to not be able to hear it
Leads me to question your hearing ability.
I’ve heard soldiers sing anthems
To keep enemies awake as
A torturing mechanism
As they march towards the east.
I’ve seen teacher’s
Sing in a monotonous
Fashion to their students
I Know A PlaceI know a place
That no one walks
Beyond the burning bridges.
From Shackles through rooftops – I know
A place no one walks
With crimson churches
And vacant houses; now blackened.
UntitledHe’s looking for a WOMAN – He says,
The previous was lacking, too unpredictable.
He wants the curves of a Sine function without
The head to comprehend it, I suppose.
A soulless monument that he could squeeze
His own into for his own enjoyment.
She told me, she’s looking for a MAN,
With arms of steel that can shoot
To the heavens; with a body like shields
That could protect her from
The cruel titans of the world.
In the corner of the room,
There’s a person resting
In Solidarity – silently waiting
That never showed up.
Welcome To The InternetSet our sights for the constellations?
Nah, we brought this track from different dimension.
While you’re still look for the towers of Babylon.
We’re moving onwards. Haven’t you heard?
This is what the internet sounds like
So login and tell all your friends.
Hard to believe data’s only a click away
And yet we got to start writing its serenade.
They always told me to live in the moment,
Busy living in just about every timezone.
Always a step ahead from these other kids,
They all center me like Saturn’s rings.
Take a pic, wow…instant hit.
All our heads are saturated.
Made easy for these billionaires
Ha. Welcome to the internet.
If I were your GodIf I were your God, I would make it rain
Vodka, so you’d be so drunk off life
That you’ll begin to realize that the only
Way to be saved is to save yourself.
I would switch Bible and Qurans,
Qurans and Torahs, So when you
Open them up in your hotel rooms,
You’ll realize words in a different language
Can be just as beautiful. I would
Give you broken wings. You’ll never
Be able to fly with them, but you’d start to see
That your purpose isn’t to fly in the sky,
You’re place is here, it’s now.
A message to the brokenYou drown yourself
in liquid sorrows,
letting the salty mess
burn your wounds,
and the sadness
to drip in your mouth,
consuming your words
and you say
you deserve the pain,
but I want to dry your face,
and whisper in your ear
how the clouds cry too,
while they hold such beauty,
and so do you.
Pretty metaphors are for pretty girlsI told you to stop
spewing pretty metaphors at me,
for with each elaborate comparison,
I feel a bit more
detached from this world
And maybe I don’t feel so strong at the moment,
but would you be
if you felt like the entire universe
was resting upon your shoulders,
and someone was just there saying:
But you’re stronger than the powerful beats
of a butterfly’s wings
And maybe I do need more confidence,
but would you exuberate it
when the part you hated most about yourself
were the freckles that have speckled your face for years,
and someone was just there muttering:
They’re not flaws,
but rather stars that form constellations
Yes, I can’t help but hate
all those unrealistic metaphors
you choose to pelt at me when I’m low,
yet the irony is,
I know that those beautiful words
are realistic in your eyes,
So I can’t hate you.
dark circlesi haven't slept well in 14 days
my eyes droop pretty colors
'50 shades of purple and grey,
they're bags and they're designer'
making jokes is how i cope
with chapped lips and constant chap-stick
it tastes like honey and mint
i laugh and say i'm addicted.
hooded lids and sleepy smiles
during lunch at subway
my friends ask if I'm okay
I say that I'm just tired.
but really when I see him with her
my heart sinks to the tiles
she's pretty and witty and sure as hell she can sing
and i'm just a loud bone-collector.
when I see her with him,
dancing and laughing and grinning,
the ring on her finger
laughs at my singularity.
for as much as i lie and as much as i try
my loneliness still creeps in,
because no matter how much they protest,
i'm still the lowly fifth-wheel.
walking behind them on sidewalks
that are wide, but built for four
smiles and laughs when they look back
but the frown creeps evermore.
pelvis peaks through paper-thin skin
and knuckles white and pale
my ribs are empty, my bo
Clear WristA clear wrist, barren of scars,
as opposed to skin sauntered in marks,
tells a trickier story than it's soiled and raw,
uncaring, unkempt counter part.
Bravery, I think it holds,
the strength to bare unimaginable loads
of pain and suffering through endless times,
and withstanding the agony of sleepless nights.
Some think it is fear, the reluctance to cut,
but I believe it opposite, it show courage and guts.
To bear your pain without a nick on your wrist,
is like a solider braving his terrain while being torn limb from limb.
Agonizing as it is, to hide your pain,
you do it so well, and no attention you'll gain.
At the end of the day, it's not cry for attention,
rather a cry for the victory that's silently mentioned.
Your scars are those not self inflicted,
and despite the gnawing intention,
to harm yourself and ease your pain,
the scars you earn are rightfully gained.
In a room of those who have jumped the gun,
and left traces of blood deep in their arms,
do not be tempted to do the sam
specter boys have always looked best sinkinghe says,
i want to count all 206 &
feel the notches of your ribs -
i want you, weary boy, to
phase yourself down while
you are burning inside out.
i will seethe inside your skull
like thoughts, like cigarette filters;
you will thank me as i molder in your marrow.
These Faded KeysOf all the keys I click
As we speak each day,
It's the back arrow
That's faded most
These white letters
Would surely tell you,
I reply to everything -
But the key reading "enter"
Will be the one to explain
Why it still looks new
I want you to know
Just how much I care,
But I don't want to be close
Out of the fear of losing you
But please remember:
I dedicate these words to you,
Sharing them to the world
Rather than clicking away
At the faded key ~
Keep in Touch!