I am officially challenging myself to write 50 poems and 5 short stories. Once I complete my 50 poems and 5 short stories, I will buy myself xanga life =)

1

It is heavy being gold.
Some prefer silver or diamonds or deep colored jewels,
but this is not yellow, not metal, not a currency for kings.
This is gold, pure and gold
that pools in our stomach to reflect the laughter from within,
gold that glistens through our pupils as stars to someone's galaxy,
gold that can feel the ceiling of the sky,
gold that takes no shape, cannot break, and melts but never boils.

But sometimes gold forgets its purity,
as we allow ourselves to be gilded
and allow that which has no shape to be outlined, to be painted,
frosted, garnished, and dressed to perfection,
because sometimes we forget it is heavy being gold.

I want to write more. I always do, but I feel like I need to be inspired first. Do I look for inspiration? Is this an active search in my surroundings, or is this an ongoing unearthing of something internal?

Lightning blinks across the sky. We wait for thunder, but it doesn't come. The night, however, is defiant to quiet.

The gutters cluck deep in their hollow throats. The concrete plates snap at streams from the roof. The splintering sounds thankfully only shoot splintery splashes from hard surfaces. Rain makes every thing crackle.

Meanwhile, the distant air hums, busy with the rain over there.

Wake may own my body
and sleep may own my mind
but the whisper of your lips' embrace
holds me still
over days
under nights
and through the unnoticed twirls of time.
Sweet, soft, soft like air
love's dance has no body
only time remembers the rhythm,
the serenade of your skin.
My eyes close,
my muscles try to die.
Allow dreams to whisper you my response.
There will be nothing left for love to own.

Tiny and branded in smooth ridges,

my white button,

popped,

turns me On.

My eyes can receive the world,

this is square, and that is circle,

don't ask me about color, don't ask me how I feel.

My mind unwraps without a crinkle

I can hear you now.

These thoughts, not mine, but at least I can claim to have some.

I'm getting a signal.

When did functioning become so easy?

My manual reads:

blue button--sleep

white button--operate

      Warning:

may cause loss of will to live

I've learned over the years that if it hurts, keep hitting it, because if it's easy, you will fail. Easy only applies to things that you don't want, things that don't matter. Kindergarten was easy. Making mistakes is easy. Failure is easy. Nobody will teach you if you don't already know, because they all know we're in a race where not every one is a winner. You don't have to call it what it is, but losers exist and there are a lot of them.

I've also learned that people are a lot stronger than you give them credit for. People change and get stronger. People including me.

Maybe it's time for me to get back in the game, because sprinting for your life until each breath you gasp for fuels the fire charring your lungs, until your limbs dissolve and your body forgets to exist if not for the pain and desire driving you to win, until you do win and each breath is not fire but tears that you toast to your victory is the closest thing to a purpose that we can get outside of what biology and evolution dictates. Every person should know what it feels like to have had that purpose at least once before death. Otherwise, what a waste of life. We are what we are today due to billions of years of evolutions and extinctions, and we get to experience the products of the infinite universe for a couple of decades we call a lifetime. Don't waste it.

To come a wiggle of a finger will do.

A wave of a hand and it's adieu.

For every blink and every kick,

it takes a tug or a flick

of the strings pinned to your wooden skin.

It's that simple, no illusions or tricks.

I helped you walk while you grew a spine,

but now even your nerves and muscles are mine.

I can imagine no surprise, upsetting or pleasant,

that you'd be capable of while so content,

living a puppet life of consent and relent.

Really that's not even a life anymore,

and there's no way to share what isn't yours.

I tried to give you guidance and gifts

to make you better to make me happy,

but those presents are of the past,

like expired painkillers and spoiled fruit

preserving headaches and breeding flies

for our future.

Perhaps my problem is impatience,

for habits of a lifetime cannot be wished away.

Perhaps I need to accept your budget and appreciate your present--

that empty box of placeholders for happiness.

The imitations are at least nice.

They are cozy, sweet, and getting better every time,

but whenever I take a closer look, I recognize

one less present I'm willing to accept.

Silver, like the cool breath

of platitude

Winter, like the spiked walls

of isolation...

 

It's like this.

I tried so hard to be beautiful, to evade

roses of her lips--and infinite depths of despair--and burning rage--and crashing and ebbing waves of emotion--and eyes like a bottomless ocean--and sleep like death--and death like sleep--and suffocating love--and drowning sorrows--

I tried so hard that I forgot

to be true.

I forgot that, in truth, the writer obeys the soul,

no matter how carefully the mind selects and positions the words.

Simple, true, nothing desperate, nothing to control,

but, what? Even that is not true.

 

I get it.

That's the A.

 

 

scarred boots, no heels, sexy

freedom, firetrucks, slow motion

key hole, rust, highlighter

three, three, three, five           hundred               fifty                        five.

 

crap, underwear, underwater, scuba, coral, candy, sugar, fiber, spiders, juice, C, B, philosophy, discussion, life, biology, true, maybe, wrong, 800, luck, damn, Hoover, vacuum, fibers, slippers, poetry, lines, holes, rings, promise, wait, hill, knoll, murder, invisible, UV, rays, marine, barnacles, sex, no, freedom, firetrucks, mirror, boredom, fissure, money money money for love, tricks, monkey, acrobat, photoshop, tan, cancer, soft-shelled, credit, epithelium, adore, store, minotaur, scalp, snow, thread, needlehole, lick, stomach, Secret, perfume, ha, sla, slow, sleep, addiction, addict, bread, fluff, never mind, white, lottery, garbage, taste, shelf, platter, patter, rain, sunshine, D, sleeve, kraken, pirate, lovely, sweep, casualty, causality, check, chivalry, horse, prince, armor, Snow White, forest, dessert, archeology, thirst, patience, patients, social security, greed, die, never, die.

form, fxn, f(x), nature, nurture, nutrition, abuse

three hundred?

abuse

wiki me

I did it.

What: feel - rhymes - horange?

Is: cliche - imagery - dying?

Poetry: something - nothing - blink

?

                                                                         MEANING?

A: de liberate

Q: left-up-right-down

Who are the silent sufferers who have no voice?

It's like I can hear your pleads and sighs

in those tired eyes and stubborn lips

that love the sounds wrong for these cities.

Then who am I to judge and pity?

Sacrifice has a purpose, a hope, a cause.

Yeas, it's for the future.

How then are we to ensure

that we do them right?

Do what it takes

to make them proud,

to redeem their voice

to fulfill their dreams,

despite

the chance at a choice.

No one was born free.

They gave and gave all their blood and sweat,

and so we carry the debt of their hopes and dreams,

but we will all be free,

because times have changed,

changed and evolved these versatile lips

to sing, to laugh, to complain, to absolve your silence

in the fight for ourselves.

We believe in that for which you've sacrificed,

that today we have the chance

to dance for love

to travel to France

to write about romance

to major in arts

to follow our hearts.

We will do you proud

and live and laugh and sing out loud.

 

So cheesy, but I don't care. This is my homage to all the first generation immigrants who have made my generation possible.