Born of the Same Blood

Born of the same blood

But born with different faces.

We are made with mistakes,

But I am made of many.

Unforgivable, unforgettable,

Only some can be erased.

Products of the same fate,

Products of the same name.

We are similar,

Yet could not be so far apart.

Because, where one is loved,

The other is forgotten.

Where one is loved,

The other is punished.

And my many mistakes

Often lead others to forgetfulness,

And they often lead

To my own punishment.

Born of the same blood,

But treated like different species.

One is vermin,

The other is gold.

The writer

If I were a sentence,

You’d be the novel.

If I were a river,

You’d be the ocean.

If I were paint,

You’d be the painting.

Everything I do,

And everything I say,

Leads me  to you.

I can take another path

Or halt myself at once.

But a painter

Cannot stop painting.

A river

Cannot stop flowing.

And a writer

Cannot stop writing.

And I cannot stop

Coming back to you.


How do I fix someone

Who’s been broken

For too long?

How do I hold their hand

And promise them

That it’s only a matter of days

Until it gets better?

How do I turn their grey sky

Into a vast blueness

With no clouds or rain,

Only sun?

How can I be loved

By someone who has never,

Until now, felt love?

How do I stay up all night

And listen to the sadness

And the worries?

How much longer can I ask,

“How can I help?”?


Endlessly Free

He heaved her from the ground,

Constantly afraid

Of her belonging to someone else.

He plucked all her petals

Because he feared

Others may find her beautiful.

Finally, he put her inside,

Not wanting anyone to see her.

Without the sun she wilted,

But without her petals

He never noticed.

There she lived and stayed,

Slowly and silently dying,

Rarely speaking or fighting.

She had lost hope in him;

Her one true admirer.

And when he came home,

Holding a ruby red rose,

She sighed a breath of relief

As he discarded her on the street.

There she lay, hopeless,

Yet endlessly free.

Ready to wilt,

Ready to die.

Smoke my pain

You smoke my pain

Like a cigarette.

Enjoying every breath.

Every deep inhalation

Bringing me further down.

Burning me out

As if I were paper;

As if I were nothing.

The only comfort I have

Is that now your lungs are full:

Full of me.

Your poison is my pain

And it will destroy you

With every breath you take.

as we get older

As we get older

We learn to button up our feelings

Just as we learned to button our shirts.

We discover that the alphabet

Not only creates the words “fun” or “cat”,

But “pain”, “fear”,

And “love”.

It also becomes clear

That there is no monster

Hiding in the closet,

But , rather, our sexuality,

And our shamefully large clothing.

Our skin isn’t just for

“Chinese burning”

It’s for actual burning,

And fire isn’t just for candles,

It’s for lighting cigarettes.

We don’t need bedtimes,

Because we can never sleep,

Living in fear of overdue homework

Or wondering why no one loves us


Battling for affection,

Fighting for some of the attention.

I guess those two things never change.