Seven thousand miles and more away Distant from my mind Lies that which I used to call home Alas now, my memory faded.
Though still, I remember the cacophony of harsh sounds, the myriad of car horns ever so rambunctious, frightening, yet so vital, contributing to the atmosphere, the life of the city.
The bustling noise of the crowd. Sound passes through my head, the language is foreign, only to be drowned out by, the roaring firecrackers, scaring evil spirits away.
Much now have I forgotten, but still I’ve yet to forget, the ravenous crackling fire, as it devoured joss paper,
the vibrant fireworks, soaring towards the heavens, radiating vivid colors to bleak, dreary night skies. As if a brush to a canvas, an explosion of beauty.
So close and yet so far, out of grasp, but still within my heart, mind, soul, within me remain fleeting memories serving to remind me, of a beloved location. Seven thousand miles and more away.
The “Healthy Fast Food” The Mexican-American Place The Craved Restaurant Huge Burrito Restaurant
Oh Chipotle, you put a smile on my face when I am down I can always rely on you to keep me sane The familiar flavorable taste overwhelms me and I crave you Just like the first time we met Every bite I take fills me with delight Even at the end, when there is just a sad piece aluminum foil left I can still taste the flavors on my tougue I know you are not gone, Just waiting for my return
The “fake” Mexican restaurant Most expensive fast food Food Poisoning Food The used to be favorite in America
But Chipotle, I know that you’ve hurt people too Hurt them with your flavors With your sometimes bad facilities Your sometimes bad guacomole Made them not trust you Please apologize And fix your ways Otherwise I’ll be scared You might hurt me too
But Chipotle, Don’t get me wrong I still love you I love biting into that mixture of Rice, cheese, salsa, Different mixture everytime
Because Chipotle I can never get over you
Let them be as a cheetah Always running, chasing, stalking But constantly hunting
I’d rather be a strong stubborn turtle Staying in one place like a cloud Silently looking over the Earth
To have your house on your back To travel without boundaries To graze the vast blue ocean Or undisturbed plains
I’d rather be a pacifist, and if then devoured by predators, Then to be wandering the arid savannah Where they are bit and stung By bloodthirsty mosquitoes
I’d rather be a lone soul Than a pack wolf. If I could run jump, and hunt, I’d rather be a strong stubborn turtle
Snow.
A coat of white.
A beautiful sight.
A joyful brightness in the dark of night.
Air filled with tranquil silence
Landscapes which would seem ordinary
Transform into a scene from story book
Illuminating everything, trees, buildings, alike
With the falling, anticipation builds in children of all ages
k-12, waiting for the call.
School’s cancelled
A day of relaxation, fun
nostalgia of sledding rushes into mind
The back-breaking shoveling forced upon by parents
Doubles as an escape to the winter wonderland
The cold wind caressing your skin
The falling crystals melting as they hit your face
You fill with bliss to the point
The cold does not bother you
Snow.
The stifled sounds
Drowned commotion past the doorway
Vocals from mobile bodies
That idle in the hallway
The sterile walls above my head
Encapsulated.
The stationary figure
Idle in bed
Metal machines
Thick plastic tubing
Highlighted by the one shard of sunlight
That divides the room
Late afternoon
Carefully she lay
To the beat of the medical
metronome Suffocating.
The sheets that blanketed her body
Forced alive
All hours awake
The record fills the room with music,
As it plays softly.
Its large, golden petals shimmering in the dim sunlight.
A new song begins to play,
And the record continues to spin over and over in circular motions.
Lyrics float out
Of the flourishing flower,
Which blooms from the surface of a wooden box.
But when the record stops playing,
The air becomes empty.
It feels dark and lonely.
And the music no longer fills the room.
I am what I am,
I love being myself.
I don’t change just because of what others think or say.
I stay true to myself.
I am not afraid to express my opinion,
Because I know that no one can change it.
I try my best at everything I do,
And I never give up.
This is who I am,
And I am what I am.
November 2017,
“…are you ready for it?”
An album where all is said;
reputation exposed.
Pages of gossip about me,
they don’t know that drama loves me.
Like floating rocks in a sea, useless but appealing.
I will not sink with the pressure.
No one has the right
to determine another life.
And with that, I leave this to you.
Words of wisdom, strength,
and above all else, reclamation of power.
The clock strikes twelve
I spend two hours counting the number of hours in a poem.
Now it is two o’clock
One hour passes by as I try to figure out what to do next.
Then I spend two hours counting the number of hours in the poem.
Now it is five o’clock
One hour passes by as I try to figure out what to do next.
I sleep and eleven hours come and go in a click of a clock close by and broken.
Now it is five o’clock
Four hours pass by as I write the poem.
I sleep and eleven hours come and go in a click of a clock close by and broken.
Now it is eight o’clock
Four hours pass by as I write the poem.
Eight hours slowly pass as I read the unending poem.
Now it is eight o’clock
Three hours pass as I try to fix the tired, torn tool that travels through time.
Eight hours slowly pass as I read the unending poem.
Now it is seven o’clock
Three hours pass as I try to fix the tired, torn tool that travels through time.
The hour hand trudges along restlessly while nine hours pass as if it regrets being part of a clock.
Now it is seven o’clock
I meditate. Then I realize an hour went by so I go back an hour.
The hour hand trudges along restlessly while nine hours pass as if it regrets being part of a clock.
Ten hours pass as I try to look for the stealthy poem.
I meditate. Then I realize an hour went by so I go back an hour. Now it is two o’clock
Ten hours pass as I try to look for the stealthy poem.
The clock strikes twelve
He lays in wait, silently anticipating the rush of battle
sharpening his rusting orange blade
envious of his purposeful siblings.
He yearns for blood,
to burrow deep
within an
unsuspecting
host, to
have
a
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