Creative people often limit their art or limit themselves because of their shyness. I’ve been writing stories and poetry since I was young (since around second grade-ish), but I didn’t really take writing seriously until about 7 or 8 years ago. I was always quite shy, very reserved, and extremely quiet. My friends at school would tease me a lot and say that I was a mute. It was either “yes” or “no,” and that’s about all the words I knew how to speak out loud. I loved writing, but I was terrified of sharing my work.
I’ve always wanted…
Wisdom disguised as wonder,
the childlike reaction
to see anything but lines,
anything but division.
There is only this to them,
the fire trailing,
painting the sky
until it becomes nothing but pink,
nothing but a distant glow,
nothing but a flame dancing slowly
towards its sleep beneath the waves.
Oh, how beautiful it is,
to care for all the little things
that somehow still seem so big.
What do they know
that we have forgotten,
those secrets to live so freely,
beautifully, without regret,
What do they know
of chasing the light,
of dancing like wild creatures…
You are sharing an experience and a part of yourself.
A while back, my best friend gifted me a traditional shaving kit and I swore that was the best present ever. You know, one of those that bring the cup with the shaving cream inside, the one where you use the soft brush and warm water to make the lather. Oh, and when you finally put the brush up to your face it’s like getting a massage by a thousand tiny hands… You know the one I’m talking about?
Yeah, one of those. But, soon I realized that…
Letters lost in drawers, maybe dreams too,
lost in dust and time and treasure chests,
destinies crumpled into pieces of paper
that were never read,
like constellations never mapped,
codes never deciphered.
What could have been
had the right words been said?
Was it the split second that made the difference,
or the irresponsible spending of it,
the tongue sliding across the envelope too slowly,
the breath sealed, the fragment of soul
unknowingly shut away?
Was it in the hesitation that it was lost,
the minute you chose to be the minute too late
for it to reach…
A poem of love.
We were born running,
lost without control in nothing else
but freedom, but joy.
Oh, yes, we ran straight into the water,
the ocean claiming us
as one of its own.
Our skin turned into sand and sea foam,
and we danced in the infinite particles
that we became.
Is this what it is like to love?
Formlessness. Grace. Fluidity.
Do you remember
when the sun claimed us after,
when the light evaporated
the water that we lived in,
only to then become clouds
within the sky?
Oh, how we danced, sweet bird.
How we flew…
A poem and reminder to myself.
Is it like this, our form of capture,
tossed into the wind to find a way to fly?
How else to record it if not here in the sand,
if not in the shifting earth
that is erased by the tide
like a slate wiped clean?
Is it the light or something else,
something we claimed to have had more of
when we were young,
something we thought to have lost
when truly it was always there,
when truly we simply forgot
how to use the key to find it?
What is formed by…
The basics of human interaction.
Never before has it been easier to form connections. The internet. Social media. FaceTime. Fast transportation. It seems like it’s almost impossible at this point to ever reach a moment when you are completely by yourself. But then, why do so many of our interactions feel empty at times? How can we still feel lonely even as we are actively engaging with someone?
I was recently trying to make plans with a friend, but the communication was awfully slow and our schedules never matched. I was patient and I understood that things just happen, so…
May the wander never lose its lust, and may these hands never stop embracing the scratches, the bruises. May I continue to fall if it means venturing into the unknown, if it means finding joy in undiscovered places and living fully with every passing day.
There is a silver lining in every collapse, a way of learning how to stand where no one else before has, a way of climbing and flying when it seems we are doing the exact opposite. May I laugh despite the hurt and never grow tired of getting lost, for it is in the journey…
Thank you, mom.
Lighter worlds to live in,
feathers where rocks once were.
It is an easier time to be alive;
for all the heavy things you carried,
out of this you paved a way.
some were invisible,
some at times too much to bear.
How to ever repay a sacrifice,
one that in spite of it all,
you claimed as a gift?
How to measure
to all you’ve given?
The love. The patience.
The difficult wisdom acquired.
“Thank you” will never be enough,
and this I know too.
Two simple words
are not what you search for…
The beauty and grace of the unknown.
Oceans to cross
and mountains to be moved.
How deeply must we feel
to reach the point
where we believe these things
Blind men to see,
and those locked in silence
to become creators
What faith must be buried within,
carried so firmly and safely
like a child yet to be born?
What beautiful faith
to believe these things
before they are true?
Miracles to be dreamt of,
to become realities
when we wake.
Stars to bloom like flowers,
and angels racing to pick them from the skies,
to toss closer to…