Poem:
A choice filled with desires.
Take whatever you want,
but leave everything you have behind.
Choose your attires,
cause it’s your life and not your death, enshrined.
Meaning:
A forced reflection on your life which shows what makes you happy. If you choose your desires, leave your life and achieve. If you choose what you have, be grateful.
When I die, I’m coming back to haunt the shit out of everyone who ever screwed me over in this lifetime.And I will be immune to your puny exorcisms. And if you’re on my afterlife shit list and you happen to get yourself dead before me, don’t consider yourself off the hook. Poor you, living or dead. I’ll be an Asian ghost. And Asian ghosts don’t fuck around. I’ll have fifty snakeheads. And in each of my heads, will be a clever brain. And each clever brain is going to remember exactly what you did. And the heads will take turns sleeping. When one sleeps, 49 sisters will be awake and sharpening their teeth on the whetstone of memory. And each of those 50 snake heads will command a set of dog-loyal hands that will salt your heart and shove it in your mouth eternally, and you will swallow again and again and again, motherfuckers.
Just saying.
Under the soft shadow of an olive tree,
where my grandmother once stood her
fingers brushing the rough bark, the cool
evening air settling on her skin. She told
me stories her voice like a lullaby, as if
the land itself hummed with memory.
Ramallah, then, was not a city of loss but of
laughter spilling into the streets, of young men
and women dancing on rooftops to the rhythm of
a love song no one could forget. She met him
there, my grandfather, a man from a distant
village. but to her: he was the only one.
They sat beneath that same olive tree, whispering about
a future that felt wide as the sky, her hand resting in his,
as if the soil itself had promised to keep them together.
The scent of jasmine in the air, the taste of fresh bread,
the sound of the city fading into the hum of her
heartbeat–
Spoke to me of the quiet mornings, of how the sun kissed the
hills of Ramallah, painting everything gold, how their love grew
slowly, steadily, always reaching for the light. They were young,
full of dreams that felt as simple and eternal as the olive
branches, strong and unbroken.
But that world shattered one evening when the
first crack of violence split the sky. The streets
that had once echoed with laughter now
carried the heavy silence of leaving, of
knowing there was no place to stay. She fled
with him, the olive tree and its promise left
behind,
her heart still tied to the roots that no
longer grew beneath her feet
She’s a quiver on the dotted line
A slit in the sun spewing out
A rush of light shining in her hair
She’s a whisper nipping at my ear
I’m a pudgy blotch
On an ocean floor
I’m a baby tooth rotting inside a pearl
Even if I was a sloppy kiss on a silver star
She wouldn’t love me
The way she’d love to be his
Not that she might never be hers
Just that she could never be mine
I’m not a brooding mystery
Foaming at the mouth
I don’t strut with an overbearing musk
Or swing around sweat-kissed, calloused hands
I’m “a rug who was once a beast”
And there he is “a beast who was once a rug”
But can’t you feel it?
The metal eyelashes and the eternal night
Can’t you taste the crisp moon on your lips
And can’t you hear the dandy lions howling in the wind
Can’t you?
Like you said you did
And don’t you forget
The synthetic affection that painted my tongue pink
Oh and how you might just go crazy on me
enough hear my breath crackle and heart spudger
And what I wouldn’t give to just tell you yes
But then that’s all it would ever be
Your head between my thighs
As I close my eyes
She’s my piece of obsidian. Always there, fully formed within my heart like a crystal embedded into the side of a mountain, warming it when it falls cold and dark, and cooling it when it overworks and overheats. She’s my piece of obsidian. She might be dark and edgy to the unappreciative eye, but those are unique and alluring traits that make obsidian so special to me. She’s my piece of obsidian. She’s speckled with gold or quartz or marble or crystalines on the inside of her core, beneath her pristine, sleek, and mesmerizing pitch black surface. She’s my piece of obsidian. Formed from the hottest of magma and coolest of winds through her experience of life. She’s my piece of obsidian. Solid and unwavering in her devotion and love. She’s my piece of obsidian. Someone I know I can turn over and squeeze in my palm for comfort and protection, knowing she will never crack or shatter. She’s my piece of obsidian. Her beauty is the color of onyx. I know the howling winds and driving rains in life will never erode her. She is my fully formed piece of obsidian, a beautiful example of it. She is my piece of obsidian and mine alone, to cherish, respect, admire, and love for all our years.
I tell my wife I love her,
and I tell the pizza delivery guy
I love pizza,
but we all know
the love I have for my wife
is not the same as the love
I have for a large, cheese-laden slice
that arrives with a crackling box
and the promise of melted joy.
I could sit for hours
debating the merits of love
in the languages that know more than one word—
Greek with its agape, eros, and philia,
each kind of love neatly boxed
and given its own name
like a set of fine wines,
distinct and deserving of their own glass.
But English,
with its single, wide-armed word—
love,
that catch-all phrase
that cradles everything from the warmth
of a summer evening
to the warmth of a pepperoni-covered crust—
is a little less precise.
It’s like a coat that fits everyone,
but doesn’t always flatter.
Why is it that we are left
to explain the difference
with our eyes or our tone,
gesturing toward a deeper meaning
that love alone can’t hold?
Is it some historical oversight,
the English language too busy
inventing other things—
like the lightbulb and the internet—
to bother with a more nuanced word for affection?
I love my wife,
and I love pizza.
But if I said that in Greek,
perhaps I would have said eros
for my wife’s beauty and touch,
and philia for the friendly, familiar embrace
of pizza on a Friday night,
a love that fills the belly
but can’t compare to the way my heart
beats a little faster
when I see her standing by the door.
Maybe we need more words,
more ways to say the things
that can’t quite be captured
in a single syllable.
Or maybe, just maybe,
we should let love
be the only word that matters
and let the rest of the world
catch up
Without hope,
One cannot have love,
And love
Unfairly abounds,
All conquering,
Resulting hope,
As heart
Savagely surrounds,
And brave is my mind,
That dares!
It dares to restrain
My heart,
And it bleeds and bleeds
Golden hope,
That tears
These binds apart.
Rush-ing.
The word pounded. Two thumping syllables, like his heartbeat when he saw her. He stood in the cold, mind made up, and called the cab. His friends thought it was too soon. He should just wait and appreciate the present.
Why couldn’t he take things slow?
Why was he so hurried to hold and be held?
Rush-ing.
The driver was so slow, too slow. On the snowy curb, his foot tapped and his mind raced. He’d only known her a short time, but they were in freefall together. The last few months whipped by them, a blur. They were hurtling, excited and unsure, towards the beginning of the end. The only parachute now was for her to say it back. Maybe it was too soon, he thought as snowflakes landed tenderly, clinging to the ground.
Rush-ing.
She wasn’t too far. He could run there before the car would get there. He had to say it. Today. The air outside was frigid, but the words warmed him. His steps melted the lingering ice as he began to run.
Rush-ing.
Ding-dong. Her doorbell rang and he was gasping. The words were a molten syrup in his body, sweet and hot and intense. They surged from his stomach, coating his throat and smoldering behind his eyes.
Rush-ing.
Too soon.
Rush-ing.
Her eyes stole the thought away. Only the words remained.
Rush-ing.
“I love you”.
Rush-ing. Rush-ing.
“I love you too”.
Jealously poisons me each time you smile at that other girl.
Like Dido, I am plagued with my infatuation with you.
It’s driving me insane, I feel as if I am on fire with
my passion for you.
When you’re away from me,
I am like a doe, a doe who is
Lost in the woods.
My heart yearns for you when
you’re gone.
Eventually, you will set off for your own Italy.
Eventually, I’ll die from
the grief of losing you
forever.
Our lives seemed to be on a path to an intersection not knowing you were the thought that left me speechless, For you my idea of love can never be reminisced without the thought of your aurora,
For you how could I be less than but greater to any other, It seems our time together makes things feel “Right”, For you our hearts touched with our 1st kiss I never denied loving you knowing our bliss would be above everything I ever perceived, For you every thought is everlasting but I think actions speak louder than words when I’m just holding your hand and we can see past anything, Just knowing with you in my arms I can really feel you,
For you is never a topic, For you is everything, For you is reaching out into the stars and seeing what the moon had for breakfast, For you God gave me the benefit of knowing you there was never a doubt, Why would I question him,
For you I can never say that I was the same man yesterday, because when I see your eyes each day, I know I could be a better man
POETRY FESTIVAL. Submit to site for FREE. Submit for actor performance. Submit poem to be made into film. 