Where the water is dry,
Where the fire is wet,
A river of tears stream from my eyes.
Where the sun is dark and gray,
and the sky is mucky blue,
I wander with no place to stay.
Where lips curl downwards,
where the only noise is a spark of hatred,
I climb outwards.
To the west of despair,
To the east of endless flares,
To the south of gloom,
To the north of wilted instead of bloomed.
Why does the sea call me like the rolling tide that pulls me in? Why does the tide need me like thunder needs lightning to create the perfect storm? Why does the storm intrigue me like a million little dots in a collage of abstract art? I am the sea. I am the tide. I am the thunder. I am the lightning. I am the perfect storm. And I am a piece of abstract art.
When we fade into the darkness, who remembers us?
Are we nothing more than the dust we return to when our time is up?
I remember when I was young, I dreamed about fame.
I always wanted the whole world to know my name.
Now, my dreams, my visions, my colors are tame.
I think about a legacy, and these words come to mind:
"Legacy. What is a legacy?
It's planting seeds in a garden you never get to see."
If this is all I am,
If I'm meant to be a lamb among wolves,
then I shall turn these wolves into sheep.
This poem is inspired by Hamilton, specifically this quote.
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"Lose yourself in the art of selflessness," they say. Lose yourself in the art of forgetting yourself by dedicating your heart to the meek, the poor, the hungry, the homeless, the thirsty, the naked, and the oppressed, for what is better than a life of poverty and self-service? No personality. No flavor. Just gray. Selfless, abnegation gray.
Her eyes are a festival of warm tears;
her ears are a melody of cold fears,
for the aria she once heard has turned black—
black as a tire that has hit a flat.
The world is a void of endless solitude,
for the world she knew is quietude.
Vibrations rise through her feet;
now, she won't accept defeat,
for if she is the mighty dragon,
she will wave the flag and
sing her battle song:
I can hear,
I can hear
but in a different way.
I can speak,
I can speak
but only with my hands.
Deny me or don't;
tie me with rope;
I certainly won't
give up my hope
to be seen as someone
who can hear
and speak.
Creamy-walled rooms bare the marks of each year.
Another year passes;
another year is gone.
An influx of new and old faces smacks me with tears;
once the wound has healed, another mural bleeds into dull palettes.
Another year passes;
another year is gone.
New voices. Old ones fade to oblivion.
Each face shreds like paper into the garbage of darkness.
Another year passes;
another year is gone.
Intertwined with the watery mural of the pane,
mounds of bricks pass by my eyes.
Each one holds a story. Each is different.
It's funny how the bricks seem to be the stronghold of history, of stories when everything comes and goes with the fast life of the clock.
The rooms never hold the same people.
The bricks never hold just one story.
The air is never the same.
But time rushes and rushes and rushes;
time, a rush of autumne that start anew when eyes blink.
And in the end, life comes down to one question:
Will they remember?
I stand in a river of happiness.
Everywhere I turn,
I see my face against the mirrors of smoke,
Lips contorted into a smile, when really, it is broke.
I thirst for it—
Passion beyond compare,
Compassion to despair
I lust for it.
An addiction feeding me;
I cannot quit.
What fades is the need to be free.
Not unfit,
but out of wit.
Nothing seems to sit
with me.
I feed off a mirage—
a mirage of happiness.
In the night, stars dance across the ceiling as a neon parade swarms the circle.
Vibrant diversity rings in each color, in each promenade.
A mass of euphoria, of ecstasy, takes over each swing, each dance, each act as they contort themselves, risk themselves, outcast themselves all for the sake of twinkling under the stars.
Me? I'm the ringleader.
I stand high on the tightropes with my hula hoop and flags, signaling for each animal to pass through in their stampede of dissonance.
While everyone else in the audience is a smear of gray, of mob mentality awe, I stand out like a checkered array of black and white.
Ballerinas plie across the wires and ropes;
Contortionists stretch their limbs in mistrewn directions;
Daredevils eat fire and exhale it as if it were nothing but air —
for all the crowd knows, it is.
A parade of misfits, of diversity warps the audience's minds with awe and reaction.
Dazzled in the starry praise for such a moonlight occasion, I, the ringleader twist into a bow:
This life is no carnival,
although things do appear larger than life sometimes;
it's quite the opposite in fact:
Life is a masquerade.
Thank you for being first heartbreak.
Thank you for putting all at stake.
Thank you for making my heart ache.
Thank you for breaking my heart.
You pushed until I saw red.
You pushed until the last straw.
I saw it. I broke it. I know it.
Me. You. Not us.
Me. You. Not us.
I threw my mind away;
I abandoned common sense.
Now, I've been free ever since.
Thank you for being the one to lower the bar.
Thank you for making it clear what goes too far.
Thank you for making me as mad as a hatter.
Thank you for making it easy to put no much flatter.
Thank you for being my first heartbreak.
