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What works
When you can' t seem to express
The things done
When you can't say why
When you lose them
But love them
Who can't fathom the loss, pass by
When you slap him, hit him
Because you love him
The deafening silence comes slow
When such loved foreshadow
Haunts you
And nobody wants to know
When you have them
But never had them
When everybody
Has their own battles
When you hardly care
But you want to care
Let the rain shatter
When all you have is God
Alone on a rooftop
Only on a rooftop.
She
The light flickered above her while she was working on her newest project. Her stress is evident, the number of pages so plenty, her text messages coming, she’s done so much, will she not finish anytime soon? Why bother, why bother. . . She wants to get home.
His coffee tastes well with a cigarette puff; as satisfying as the grocery bag in hand. He places the white stick of death in his mouth then puffed; mouth then puffed, slowly dying. Why bother, why bother. . . He wishes to go back home.
The girl with the Skittles, who plans to buy her friend a gift. She wishes to buy a scarf, maybe because it was cold where she was. Her heart was excited to have him. Is she disappointed? Nobody knows, nobody knows, not even she. Why so alone, why so alone. . . now. . she just wanted to go home.
And this is how she writes, neither poetry nor prose. Neither brilliant nor mediocre, so she thought, so we all thought. How she wishes for honesty in her writing. How she wishes for her mind to be full of clear thoughts, ideas, and humor. How she wishes to see things beyond herself – to see things beautiful, not just black and white, not just white on white. No holding back.
She saw the light flicker – light then black, then bright then black. She saw the cigarette puff – it was gray in the night sky that lived to make stars shine, but it was raining that time, and the stars were too shy to glow. Still, she knew beauty, merely knew beauty.
She saw and described, thought and described, lived and tried. But why bother, why bother. She was alone; she just wanted to go home.
Poems Inspired from the Bordom of Math
ALGEBRA FOR COLLEGE FRESHMEN
I know no faces
In these four spaces
With lovers
And their chases.
I see no biting
No smiles enlightening
So many
In a place so inviting.
I saw my lover
My almost lover
A crowded day
I don't remember.
Away from the spotlight
Inconsistent in sight
So quiet
Hoping it right.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
THE MESSAGE I WAS SUPPOSED TO SEND MATEO (save in phone)
Omg
I'm solving crappy math problems.
So crappy
I cannot do
Too crappy
To comprehend
I want to write,
Even in Fil. . .
Numb
Why wouldn't you let him write?
Why wouldn't he write?
Why couldn't he write?
Why did he ask?
Why, why, why in the first place. Even if i ask, I can't remember how it felt. It's good he merely asked, and never did. Burdens.
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