I keep telling myself that
tomorrow or soon after
I’ll forget you as I would
the sunrise of each morning,
majestic in its grand display
and searing deep into memory,
but fade again with half a day,
receding to the moonlight.
Yet here we are again, or at least me,
sipping once more evening coffee,
forgetting for a moment we
are not what dreams pretend,
and tonight I won’t sleep again.
No more coffee in the evening;
I keep telling myself that too.
Slowly catching up to the end point. Only two months now and this project will be done. Isn’t it sobering at time how you hardly notice a day passing and then years pass by?
Sleep slips by slowly as the seconds go
in the city never knowing dark of night,
eternal youth in dance and life and crowds,
the beauty products covering its sky —
May all its glamor forever hypnotize
the restless spirit seeking tales to tell,
the endless advertising of an Eden
just above the sewage smell.
New York was a lovely experience. Vacation feels good. May I get the opportunity to take more of them.
Truth be told, complaining’s easier —
Were all my problems solved
by trading places for a day,
I would return renewed with hope
and another hundred for tomorrow.
Likewise, sleep and dreams are easier —
Imagine if I did succeed,
did you imagine it? Even novices
can stage and dream elaborately.
Yet so few did ever dream
of dreams failing to materialize.
Strength is not what we do when everything goes right, but what we do when faced with hardships.
The weight of words is strong,
and intentions are but feathers,
yet one would steer the birds,
and downward pulls the other —
But when tired wings feel hunger,
not loftiness nor pounds will help
better than two kind hands
outward stretched with seeds.
“Deeds, not words.”
In another face or hue,
another foot or so heightened,
another extra joke or two,
lies a lover’s smile brightened;
but of that world or life unknown,
that narrative’s perfection,
belies a well-known truth
that fantasies are just as taxing.
Isn’t dreaming so much fun? How many would we lose to it were we not required to return.
The mountain peak sat innocent,
its snow the flawless crown to all
whose eyes looked up assured
the white remained unthawed —
The hair too weathered innocence,
trading luster for the sacred,
yet eyes looked past, dismissive,
insisting dyes be added.
The innocence of youth can’t last. Would you want it to?
Too many drops of rain
simmering now warm latte,
waiting for the day to warm
beneath umbrella’s shade;
Too warm the searing sun
melting spoiled frappe,
wishing for a little rain
to cool exhausted face.
You know that saying, where the worst thing we can get is everything we want? Yet somehow, we never stop wanting.
A lie in beauty for benevolence
could almost make a happy truth,
the currency of trust and confidence
enacting good acts for the few —
But what of those not lied for,
condemned to lesser good?
That despite achieving gains,
reduces kindness to a mood.
It’s good to be aware of your biases, but if awareness means nothing more than that, does it matter that one is aware at all?
Now there’s a face that’s makeup friendly,
the shadows cast by sideward lighting
enhanced, contrasted, in degrees until
exotic merges with convention,
where roses blush compared to lips,
and sunsets pale compared to cheeks,
a beauty worth a thousand likes
existing static for our flicks.
It’s silly, isn’t it? Looks aren’t everything, but they affect everything. You can choose to not play, but at what costs to your own benefit?
The roads are loud on Saturday night,
leaving behind the weekday’s burdens
into flashing lights and blurry signs
of the life habitually forbidden —
So down went another shot or two,
spilled was another glass of beer,
not a bother to remember Sunday
comes after all the slurring cheers.
Isn’t curious how the two most wild nights comes before a day of sanctity?