I have read a lot of books
That tell me
How my body is a temple
I should consider it sacred
Worship and respect it
Because, if not me
I’ve read a lot of poetry
On intentions and aspirations
How positive energy heals my temple in rubble
I wish that I could tell them
I do not consider
This body of mine
My body is no shrine
No place for the holy
It is a forest
In between is a swamp
You will find only twisted pathways
Wetlands that will drown you
A bottomless pit
For an excuse of a heart
A shallow hole that only wants
It functions on parasitic needs
The canopies have poisonous snakes
Spiders hide in the ground
If you think this is
Young, wild and free
I am sorry
To deceive you with my words
It is a forest
That does not give birth to life
It is overshadowed by rage and cruelty
Left by inhabitants that once tried
To make a home of it
It is not free
The vines will trap you
Hang you in mid-air by your throat
If you dare venture in too deep
There is nothing saintly cherished in the atmosphere
So, if you think that this body is a temple
Go look somewhere else
Because, this is a forest
Thick and Cruel
It will devour your heart
Make you a fool
Remember the time you locked yourself inside the ribcage and hid underneath blankets of self-doubt and sadness? I haven’t forgotten how you shriveled into the corner. I still get glimpses of how we both rocked back and forth to music that would mute out the inner screams and the outside world. My fingers were laced with self-hatred and I am sorry that I clawed into you so deep that it started to resonate in every beat of yours. All that time when I wouldn’t breathe or inhale in hope that maybe, this would take me down, you banged on the walls inside my chest until my lungs had no choice. How I tried breaking you but you pleaded to not give up. There was a time when I wanted to bleed you out through my wrists and my thighs but you never left. I remember that time all too well.
I gave you hell, dear heart.
You eventually gave up. I saw the tiny grenades that I had planted on you go out but this time you didn’t make a sound. I smiled knowing how a war had been won. I took blades and butchered you but there was not even a shriek. Until, one day I sat outside your door hoping to start the pain charade when you did not show up. I kept on knocking but you did not answer.
“I hope you do not hate yourself because your soul was one of the most beautiful ones I ever had”, was the only note you left behind.
Dear heart, come back home. I never realized that there are far worse things in life and not having a heart is one of them.
I keep walking and along the way meet strangers who speak more of soul than just bodies.
I take one step forward and two back ending up in lone corridors with demons who speak of wisdom never spoken of before.
I dance in the muse of the night under the sky with no moon and only stars while looking up hoping to find God.
I hear lies on the lips of priests who have black hearts preaching to the crowd of goodness in the world.
I stare back into empty eyes and find stories the world never knew before.
I have seen broken wings take charge of the air with a single struggle.
I open up like a book to whoever shows me kindness and a bit of love.
My inside is rubble and my outside is just the same. I carry scars like warrior marks and my heart chained to the walls of my ribcage.
I howl at the moon and see through the mountains the dimly lit city below waving “hello” to me.
I hear sirens when the lights go out and screams when people surround me.
Nothing is audible to the world around me but I hear the thud of a broken heart and screeches of a dying soul.
…Everyone speaks of home as a destination and here I am trying to carve one on spot.
I like how delicate you are from the outside but within you is rage that is comparable to the seven pits of hell.
I like how you smile and laugh with your friends while lightning bolts strike your heart and wound it.
I like how composed and calm you are even when a hurricane is at its peak inside your mind.
I like how perfectly imperfect you are and carry it all like art.
I like how broken and damaged your entity is but you boldly show your scars and claim them as warrior marks.
You are the truth I found in a valley of lies. A work of magic and art that I deciphered. Every time, I fall short of words to describe you. Everyday, you leave me baffled with your being.
I cannot put your being into words because there hasn’t been a word invented to describe a broken universe which is so rich in love and life. Maybe, one day I’ll find a word that is made for you or maybe there will be no word and you’ll always be a work of art.
I walked among the crowd
I was a part of something big
I feel alone walking
Chivas in hand
An ocean spray to the mind
Jesus, I think I finally found the meaning of life
They say that in your broken places, you are stronger than before. I disagree.
You are not stronger but decayed. Your are plagued and infested in those broken places with hate, hurt, agony and pain. Yes! You are not stronger but in those broken places, you are dying.
What in the world is more stronger than a dead person?
Simply, feeling nothing is a blessing. You are dead in those broken places and you give it a positive name, ‘strong’. You know the truth and so do I. Humans have optimism to cover the bitter reality of life.
It is said that if a person loves the places you are broken and dejected from? It is love. No, if a person loves parts of you dead then it is love.
It is difficult to love the dead for long and sooner we forget about them. It is easy to love the living for presence makes it possible.
Dead or living, we all hope that someone might love us. Someone might cherish us. The only difference is, the living hope that it will come true and stay forever.
The dead hope it will come true but rot into nothingness, like everything.
I’m a dove who fractured her wings and could not fly. I was in pain and you became the tree that sheltered me. Gave me a home so my poor bones could heal. Protected me from the raging storms and hid me from the catastrophic winds. I took refuge in your branches and claimed you my home. You stood tall in your glory, fighting for both of us.
Time went by and my broken wings healed. You saw me as I flew away and I didn’t hear you call me back. You didn’t try to captivate me. You encouraged me to soar the skies.
I guess, because you always knew that this broken dove would come back to you. No matter, how high she flew or how many trees she claimed as hers, there is a part of her that only you will have.
You will welcome her with open arms, no matter how much time has passed and even if she crashes down from Eden, your branches will be the only place she will first take refuge.
For that, this broken dove cannot thank you enough.
“Good things in life unravel themselves, slowly”, her father used to say.
Years later she found it to be true. The love she had for her unraveled itself, gradually.
Age 10-meeting in the playground and playing in the sandbox
Age 13-together a journey towards womanhood. She cried the day she first bled and the other waited. Two days later they were on the same page.
Age 15- the boy down the street caught her heart in the palm of his hand. For the first time, there was no joy for her friend but jealousy.
Age16- One happy in her surrounding. The other confused. One cornered by lust and the other by drugs.
Age 17- One lost her virginity and the other found her sexuality.
Age 19- He broke her heart. She was there to mend it hoping to be the glue that would stick her pieces together. She helped her depressed soul and the other gave her a home.
Age 21- She declared her love for her. It poured out like rain in a desert.
Age 22- The barren land bloomed with roses and jasmines. Search of soul mate came to a halt, at last.
Age 23- Both wait outside the court for the same-sex marriage law to pass.
“Good things in life unravel themselves, slowly”, her father used to say and they surely did.
I want to devour you in my lust
Be the warmth pulsating in your veins
The pleasure that eats your heart up
Chains and ropes mean nothing more
Than an eternal claim that you are mine
Mine to begin with
Mine to end with
Bruises and marks is what I will leave
For I am a lion
Who marks his territory
Little darling, dont be afraid
When Im done with you
Your world will change
You’ll crave the pleasure of my skin against yours
You’ll cherish the pain of our innocent sins.
The truth is I’m frightened. Everyone is in life. However, I’m a bit more terrified at the thought of being vulnerable. I like to write prose and poems on love and life.
“Be free, wild hearts!”, I say, “Fall in love and kiss in the rain.”
The truth is that I’m a hypocrite. I’m the biggest hypocrite, I know and I know plenty.
I don’t allow myself the love that I preach to the world.
I’m a coward. I look for shelter in the rain. I don’t dance in it.
I pen down love and life. I spill poetry like vodka and intoxicate hearts.
I’m terrific at making people fall in love with me.
Not the constant.
I will write you love poems and tell you to give your heart away. The truth is that when it comes to myself, all I have is an out of tune heart beat and some lies to give.