Author: poetryfest

Say you’ve expected more
but that does not help me
Say you’re disappointed
yet taught me my ways

Discipline me for my addiction
even though you cough after a hit
Scold me for my isolation
then why get mad when I’m around

Favor her over me
despite my effort to be seen
Favor them as well
still I try to impress you

Can you tell me why
I’m the least favorite
and the outcast after
everything I’ve done for you

Tell me why I suffer
all you do is ignore me
Tell me why you won’t help
while I sit here screaming

Despite all of my effort
to get you to understand
I still drink, I still smoke
I still cut, I still starve

Begging and pleading
for you to open your eyes
Tell you all of my problems
and you turn around to close the door

Let me tell you now
that door has claw marks
it has scrapes and cuts
same ones on my body

Keep sitting there
neglecting the door
And once you decide to open it
you will never see me again.

Time heals all wounds; it refocuses pain, these aches we
hide in our hearts.
The loss that fell from our hearts used to be a bridge.
Together we could find laughter to masquerade
our tears and wails. Now there is a pit in
our hearts where our loss used to be.
We feel its absence, we recognize
our incomplete hearts, and we see
the pits in each other. Now our pits are reminders of what used to be,
of what could have been.
It is hard to admit it but
taking a step back, away
from us,
brings
comfort through forgetfulness about the cause of the
stinging tears.
Until one day we pass each other by as strangers
that never meet
again.
But hope
is like sunshine
raining on a cloudy day.
It can rejuvenate, make us
look past these losses—
be redefined.
It fills our voids
with splendid memories,
and we can laugh and cry
together without uncomfortable
tension. Then one day we’ll meet
and pick up not from where we left
off but from somewhere new, a place
of understanding or acceptance, where time always
looks forward.
And if we never meet again, I can wish you well with all
my heart

Open a conversation between the conscious and soul, a ray refracting and reflecting.

A flourish of color spectrum spectacular, a moment where all that is left, no matter how improbable must be the truth.

Where the layers deepen in a fractal-like state, a possibility for expansive analysis beyond imagination.

Life lived of many potentials, where the outcome collapses upon observation.

With each product understood, the marching hand of time greets every quark once more.

Another moment of understanding, a spiraling sinkhole of character, where the spirit window-shops upon choices past and future.

Labyrinth of insanity forcing every greener into a reality, risk and reward tantalizingly obscured, a lonely phenomenon.

At the end of it all, the soul and mind begin anew.

I carried the truth like a stone—
his leather shoes, cracked as old vows,
a maroon shamthab stiffened by autumn’s breath,
hooded embers banked to ash.
Every gesture etched in marrow:
a man laughing with his mother on the phone,
stitching futures he’d never wear.

The doctor’s verdict coiled in my clenched fist:
Two months. How? His pulse drummed
against the sterile hush, breath warm
as a promise, too vital for whispers.
But I’d seen the scans—night swelling
in his veins, a dark hungrier than dusk.

Evening shadows pooled between us
at the Leaf Hut tea stall. He hung up, smiled.
I mirrored him, my face a frayed puppet
tugged by invisible strings. Words curdled—
Two months—a blade dropped cold between.
He sipped his tea, slow, then stilled,
cup hovering mid-air, bronze leaves
circling the rim.

The final swallow left a milk moon on his lip.
Forty-seven… Alright. My father left at forty-six.
A shrug. Death’s just a train I’ll board—
why cling to the station? Each carriage
lit with might-have-beens. I close my eyes,
skip tomorrow.

I searched the horizon—saw the station’s
empty platform. He laughed, sharp
as sparked flint, while I, clutching
the script of his end, ached
in the limbo between now and then.

How life bleeds—
a breath exhaled,
its warmth already memory.

Breathing in spores in my garden.
It’s the flowers’ mating season this time around.
Petals part of the genitals that foster the seeds
Seeds being fertilized by the dirt that other flowers came from
and finally brought before the sun to flourish.
Brings a sense of unity

Sprawled in the grass
Grazing the slightly dewy material
I look up to the sky and think of a memory:

I was playing while my friend and I were seven
I ripped out splotches of grass.
Relishing the grating sound it made.
My friend stopped me
She said that they were alive.
I didn’t believe her, and continued to rip them out with more force.
I was a troubled child.

I look to the blue hydrangeas bursting out,
my personal favorites.
The white lily of the valleys,
reminiscent of the ones that used to adorn my playground like gems.
The emerging dandelions only somehow enhancing the setup.
in their fluffy, cloud-like stage.
The yellow chrysanthemums,
the favorite flower of my friend who told me about these lives.
I love this ecosystem.

I breath in the fragrance again deeply,
I’m sure I inhaled more spores.
They will return to the dirt again to be born anew.
Life is laced in this garden
Bursting with hope.
I sense of something serene is blooming within me
And I feel the hope blooming in me for life anew

Love life,
Love peace,
and enjoy the coming of spring.

the desire to protect your treasure
then be forced to give it up
in exchange for something more valuable
mahjong is negotiation

with endless patterns
and possible solutions
you work with what you get
mahjong is cooperation

to sit with family
play a competitive
but intimidating game
mahjong is connection

cool tiles with iconic symbols
north, east, south, west–
běi, dōng, nán, xī
one, two, three, four–
yī, èr, sān, sì
they go clink. clink. clink.
mahjong is Chinese

They pucker like they just sucked on a lemon and press their wet lips
against mine
Knocking at the closed door of my mouth with their tongue,
They sink their teeth into my neck until the blood pools in painful black oval,

I’m not brave enough to say “stop”
After all I don’t want to disappoint, right?

They smell like him and I don’t say anything,
I carry the shame for the next two weeks
I kiss the concrete with my forehead
And hold hands with a cigarette

No one seems to believe that someone half my size could possibly do this to me

I feel so small

The hours feel like days,
The years feel like minutes,
Locked alone in my own past and trying to claw my way out,
The white walls of the shower mock me,
I forget to wash the shampoo out of my hair again

The a violent history doesn’t hold onto these things
It surprises you with them
It smells them in the grocery store and becomes nauseous
It hears their voice in that of someone you love
It tastes them when you bite your tongue
And it makes you thankful for the numb

I’ve only received flowers twice in my entire life.
First time I really didn’t count. It was a single plastic rose bought from the beach vendors.
Valentine’s day shouldn’t feel like a last thought. Goes to show you how that “relationship”
started, ended, was the entire time.

So, the first time receiving flowers was contingent upon being open to receive a symbolic
“apology”.
Accidently found out they conceived a baby, didn’t even bother to hide the new born baby seat.
After no response it didn’t take long for him to come along like a want to be Prince Charming.
He never said sorry,
Solely showed up
With simple red roses
At my door,
saying nothing more.

The second and last time receiving flowers was used as a gesture in order to forgive a man for his
sins. It was hard for him to say “I’m sorry” for all that he had done. Simple words, no fancy
gestures we’re truly needed. Solely to be heard, seen, understood.
Yet, still didn’t,
Couldn’t take
Responsibility
For a tumultuous
Past. One that his
Two hands created.

Is it better never to have loved at all
Than to have loved and lost in sorrow’s pain,
When love departs on flights to be enthralled
With pleasures of youthful spring again.

That temptation of Eros which beckons,
To shed one’s age and cast love’s old clothes;
And search for the lost spark of heaven
In the sultry skins of fresh blooms of youth.

Oh, to be young again. When youth’s splendor
Enticed men’s ardor to my prime.
Can the fire relight love’s endeavors,
When love is ever fickle over time.

Empty hours now fill the idle days;
Walls deaf to the sound of love’s voice,
A smiling face absent from one’s gaze,
A life devoid of its cheer and joy.

Love that is lost leaves no footprints anywhere,
Nor even a Christmas day to share.