label.

you've become a label in my heart.
there's nothing else, really, that comes to mind.
except maybe the treasurechest memories i'll never redeem.
never resurface from my
rather, tattered
fiery
conscience.

you've lost all hope from my disposal,
venturing into other women's hearts.
a fool,
such a blatant, obvious amateur
(when, in fact, you have went SUCH a longer way).

but you never really learn, do you.

i should have taught you from the start
that love doesn't mean self-centeredness
and that your fury was my demise;
i thought i had implied that enough.
didn't imagine you were denser than all
the oceans of the sea
the earthquakes of the heavens
the clouds of your opaque conscience.

you're a jerk.
open your numbed-skull head.
you've become a label in my heart,
i'm sorry to say.

and you're nothing else to me.


He's a label, now. A depressing thought, but it's true. A very straightforward poem, I know.

Nomad

My nomad,
my lovely stranger;
your face is kind and sweet.
What do you want to eat?

Fellow nomad,
my good acquaintance;
your eyes are deceiving.
What am I believing?

Darling nomad,
my most honored companion;
your lips defy me--your tongue is twisted.
By nature have you been cold-fisted?

Lover nomad,
my dear, my partner, my love!
I don't want to say it's true;
Who are you?


Question... who did I fall in love with? This describes relationships at the beginning, when lovers hardly know each other and start relationships without fear. It's only when we get to know somebody that we realize if that person is truly right for us. My nomad... my wanderer. Do I still love you?

Catharsis

So delicate and blind,
this tranquil piece of glass,
weeping above a table top
while brimming with both water and emptiness.
No ears to hear,
No faces to see,
but only intuition and faith
(of a god, perhaps).
Yet elegant, the noise,
the tremor
the shuffling
the rambling
the thrashing--
a Paroxysm of a foreign stranger!
The floor can only dance with so much repulsion
as the walls clamor with equal, but dainty, defiance.

And the glass?
No mercy.
Break-wall-shatter,
glitter and ice;
that elixir is doomed upon the floor,
the water clinging on to such delicate barriers
behind glass chambers...



Hmm... After I cried today, I just felt like writing a poem describing how I would cry so easily. I don't know if you're able to compare the glass to my personality, but yeah... that's what I'm trying to convey. Basically I feel like my ability to control my tears is as thin as the glass that holds the water within... and that unexpected surprises (like that earthquake in the poem) can cause the glass to fall and shatter, water spreading everywhere.
And I know this probably sounds really weird right now... but I was just inspired to write this. I guess the poem sounds emo, but I really don't mean it to be.
But please... don't lie to me. I don't want you to pretend like what I tell you is consoling you when it actually isn't. I don't understand what it's like to commute, and you don't understand how it's like to dorm. I guess I got upset over that whole argument since you seemed to regret your college choice so much, and I wanted to help you feel better...but, like you said, since I felt as if I wasn't of much help, I got a bit sad, I suppose.
I'm just a glass of water, and I can break down easily...

But like you said... it's not stupid to be like this; it's just part of "who I am", which is true...

...There's no use crying now. I just wanted to vent. And I often feel inspired when I have emotions like this.

Gepetto - Revised

His eyes are like mine.
Innocent.
His smile, his cheeks, his face.
Lovingly crafted
(who else can tell you that?).
And then I breathed in him
(and me, as well)
an illusion of the rule.

But lo!--
though sparse and dainty--
A rotten tree trunk,
Moistened by tainted lips
and corruption from glass eyes,
seeps through the pores of his
soiled face.

And friends are rare, no doubt,
as he is blinded by the cool azure
of fairy dust
to pursue lustful desires
and fantasies--
these fairytale creatures!
Snakes of the sort.

But alas,
though a creation so beautiful, so perfect
(His smile, his cheeks, his face),
I've built with gears
solid as jello,
sturdy as ice,
prone to imperfection.

My little boy...
Black as the sun and pale as the moon,
forever exposed in broad interview.


This poem is about the imperfections of humanity and how God created humans with their own free will... About how He made his creatures "in his image" and "likeness", though still prone to evil, temptation, and sin. Gepetto is the God figure in this piece, as Pinocchio represents humanity in general.

Scrapbooks.

Tell me something.
(Oh, no. I didn't say to tell me the TRUTH.)
But "is it me you're looking for?"
I can't help but compare
(or is it YOU doing the comparing?)
I'm sorry that sometimes it's hard for me to trust you.
The rumors
The gossip
The lies
I only listen to that,
but not YOU.
Not your lips, no.
And I ask myself why
I would avoid the TRUTH over YOU.
You seem to hang on so dearly to the past.
(Ever so dearly.)
Can you move on?
Is there "room for me in your heart"?
Sometimes I wonder.
When you looked in that room--
for that old pamphlet--,
Were you looking for Her?
I read those past entries
(call me "Detective").
I know what she was to you.
But what am I to you?

A farfetched stalker, that's for sure.


I'm pretty much jealous here. I would think about my boyfriend's past girlfriends and would believe that he still thinks about them (romantically, perhaps) from time to time (although this is utterly false--hence the "farfetched stalker" bit). I don't remember in particular who the girl-in-question is... There are too many to name. But don't mind my envy. Happens to the best of us.