My throat tastes sour and I can’t breathe.
My heart beats at the expense of my sanity.
What can I do but grit my teeth,
And blame myself for vanity?
Yet, even in self-deprecation, it seems
Cruel to neglect truest affections. Never before,
Never will be one more worthy that I beteems.
So I searched for the note, the very end, at my very core.
These puny thoughts plague words and mind,
‘Til the tillers tilled and crushed more than kind,
To set parched earth free from drought,
To grow anew a stubborn sprout.
I will live.
There are all types of heels,
each with their own song.
Some hurried, some hollowed;
some wandered, some echoed;
some weak, felled greek
So, we walked and strutted
the stage of life, like Macbeth,
full of fury and sounds, inverted.
Each thud of heels full of wrath
for sounds make no imprints in earth
but merely words and remembrance.
Home is the place with wings, a land
of careless snacking, dancing to go
meet beloved. Still on the edge of the garden path
eased the fog, which veiled windows. Out
upon the horizon unperceived, a scoff
nicked at the disk of light. “Where to?”
Knives of sunlight clashed above the questioner.
“No human should enter these grounds, no brig
or wheel should penetrate
what He had made with his own hands.” But,
no one saw beyond the Book. In lieu,
do mark, in lieu, of truths not written,
organs of virtues, vessels so meek,
never to speak when the world lean
to an antichrist, but knelt like the prophet who
faced the burning bush. It was just so low
of the world to close her ears, to own
remembrances but use them not. Truth
granted but rusting, intellect rotten. Voodoo
evaluated as science, science but scam;
to be or not to be, can we continue to not see?
Read vertically down both sides: those were the three prompts that I was given for this poem.
Don’t you dare to lean on me,
For my bones are dry.
Don’t you dare to cry a sea,
For my marrows are wry.
You ask one who’s trapped in sand
To run your world, while she’s drowning in hers.
“Come on, let’s make a fairyland,”
Said you who she wants to curse
With speech in honey and milk.
To entice with a politician’s promises,
My tongue my ancestors’ silk;
But what, then, are the purposes?
Please learn from the role
That priced glistening coal
With centuries of wait: a mere symbol
of true love so civil.
So then shouldn’t the amour
symbolized worth millenniums, if not a whole lot more?
Another project in progress
Another test snuck passed.
A score just posted,
A reminder for those who’s toasted.
My God, child.
Deem yourself worthy of…
Is this just a negative poem about a stereotypical Asian value? Try reading it from the bottom up.
She said that she saw no colors.
Then, how do you explain this?
Red, crimson, scarlet,
Burgundy if it’s in the past.
He said that he was colorblind.
Then how do you explain this?
Blue, dark, dark blue.
The stereotypical color of sorrows
Was the color of the lips
That screamed for breath.
I want to know that I am made of colors
The red and blues and all around.
A collective rainbow
Hanging in a grey, grey world.