the Moth and the Flame

Why is it you seduce me so with your fluttering heart and feverish blush?

said the Moth to the Flame.

You burn so brightly yet can be snuffed out so easily by the mere gasp of an insect's wings. You enrapture me with your rippling body yet singe me with your breath. 

the Moth wavered above Him, having nowhere to land and rest upon.

You lock me out yet chain me to flight. Yet why do I relish in this dance so?

the Moth, having burnt as brightly as the Flame, tumbles from the still air and the Flame wavers no more.

i'm sorry.

What's it like to cry yourself to sleep?
I wouldn't have known if not for you.

Laying on my back,
I reached my arm out to the right last night
where you usually sleep
but all I felt was the ghost
of a cold arm.
My hand clenched down on empty sheets
and you didn't rock me to sleep like you always did when I had a bad dream.

I could have hugged real tight
-to smush all your broken pieces back together,
to pull yourself together for you-
just once when you were there for real;
you were the once who needed to be rocked to sleep then.
But I stayed absolutely still then
and listened to your insomniatic husk tremble
with the weight of the world
in the dark.

And for that,
I am sorry.
I am so, so, so sorry.
I am so sorry that my insides won't stop clenching,
squeezing every last drop of hate and guilt and regret
out of my puckered face.

credit: story_thyme_guy (from 9GAG)

Mommy hugs me
She sings me to sleep
She shows me her laughter
But not when she weeps
Mom I never imagined the pain I put you through
Because I always loved you and always thought you knew

Mom, tears are rolling down my face
As I remember the memories I can't replace
Because, Mom, you've gone ahead and entered death's embrace
Mom, I'm standing at your tombstone and I'm crying because all I did was chase
After things that didn't matter and things that always changed
But you were there, mommy and you never changed

it's been a while...

hey guys...it's been a while.
so much has changed.
anyways, here are some more of my thoughts.
just thought i would to share.

when you lose someone you love,
you feel her death all over again.
every day you wake up
and you're reminded throughout your day of her
and knowing you'll never see her again.
like the mothers day sale jewelry advertisement on the radio
or that Korean tofu place that you always ate at with her.
its like struggling to not fall into a pit-
treading water at the deep end while completely worn out
gasping for air as your lead limbs sink lower.

and you still talk about her in the present tense
or else she's gone
for certain.

I wonder

I wonder sometimes how many times your lips

have carved out my name into the hanging silence; 

For mine have done yours on countless occasions.

A mute mouth, or perhaps a breathless whisper

marveling at how this cluster of syllables

can hold such emotion.

A feather-light flutter, or perhaps a burdening weight

touching a spot deep within your being.

as long as I'm with you

I could climb mountains that scrape the heavens
as long as I'm with you.
I could surface from hell-fire
as long as I'm with you.
I could beam through a bitter day
as long as I'm with you.
I could tread any current,
chaff any tribulation,
battle any demon,
as long as I'm with you.

But flame tinted leaves flutter down
around a porcelain butterfly urn,
and the battle's half lost.
Crumbling battlements
and withering standards
ebb into the stifling winds.

The Almost Ghost

Note: I was originally never going to publish this, but a change in situation allows me to. Thanks, but no thanks.

I think I saw you that night
when you were supposed to be
across the city
in your hospital bed
when I stood glaring at that spot,
now tidily replaced by clean sheets
without a wrinkle or muss,
where you decided you didn't belong anymore,
battling both my anger
and my guilt of having it.

You did not move;
I swear;
the longer I stared,
the more blurry you appeared
-however infinitesimally-

As the days dragged along,
bringing prospects of recovery
and healing,
your white shadow watched over me;
however powerless it was to help or harm.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

However, any chance of healing was
violently snatched away
by an unopened pill case
and a very
very
long red scarf.

I watched through drowning eyes
after the world shattered;
your almost ghost
flickered and faded
and now you can be whole
someplace else.

Taiko Drums

For three minutes today
I relinquished control of my heartbeats,
allowing the rhythmic pounding of
wood onto animal hide
to resonate through my whole being,
from rapt eyelash-tips
to tightly furled toes,
lightly knocking me out of breath
with each anticipated beat.

School Observations

As many Bay-Area-Californians out there know, it has rained this afternoon, which is a welcome relief from the past few days of parched lips and numbly frozen fingers.

We have been working on an essay in English today analyzing a poem this week, so our teacher kindly allotted us time in class to work on them.

So, put yourself in mind of these two factors and read on, dear reader:

raindrops patter tinnily on the parched roof

inside, inspired fingers scatter spindly words across illuminated monitors

oops ._.

It has recently come to my attention that the majority of my writing is highly angsty and depressing; however, I feel obligated to assure you all that I am not generally this "emo" in real life. This blog is mostly just an outlet for my creative (and yes, dark) energy to illuminate (or darken) your screen. Also, most of my writing just pops up in my head, and is not really in any way related to myself. To be honest, my poems scare even myself sometimes. Because I pour all my negativity and scary thoughts here, I have more time to be the bright ball of energy I usually am. :D

Just think of this blog as a small window into the infinite realms of my mind. :)

dolor, doloris m.

It hurt so much she could not see through the shimmering veil of tears.

It hurt so much she could not move with her frozen yet trembling body.

It hurt so much she could not breathe with her shrunken lungs.

It hurt so much she could not live with her perpetually broken soul.

How to Live Life - a Series of Metaphors

Living Life is
driving downhill in a golf cart
but the only control you have
is a thread
tied to the steering wheel.

Living Life is
sitting cross-legged on a PE scooter
with only the reassurance of
the feel of a friend's hands
on your shoulders
that you will not
careen off course
or topple sideways.

Living Life is
Olympic curling
where the only control
over the course of the stone
resides in smoothing the ice
lying before it.

imagination disclaimer

This is just a shout out into the void of the vast internet out there :)

Although this blog is probably situated in a relatively private corner of the web, I recently realized that what I put on here probably won't make much sense. In a sense, perhaps it makes the experience of anybody fortunate to stumble upon this blog all the more intriguing. However, I must apologize for any confusing ramblings or notions that may be noted on this blog; after all, this blog is probably more for me than the general public, if you know what I mean. :)

Thanks to you all for your patience!

The Red Wheelbarrow

"The Red Wheelbarrow"

William Carlos Williams, 1883 - 1963

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.


My Interpretation (not true)

   In an old farmhouse in the countryside sat an old red wheelbarrow; however, nobody knew it was old because of the new glossy coat it had been given from the first spring rain. The only hint of its antiquity was the rusty handlebars that Father had installed decades before. Despite this, it shone with happiness. The wheelbarrow hoped that someday its Master would come home and claim it.
   Back in its youth, the red wheelbarrow was surrounded by animals of all kinds: newborn lambs stumbling awkwardly with their unproportionally lanky legs, the proud rooster with his iridescent feathers strutting around with his head and tail held bristling.
   Now, the gamut of gamboling animals had been reduced to nothing more than a few simple and stupid white chickens. The wheelbarrow reminisced nostalgically, recalling the blazing summer days when it and its Master would travel to the creek, where they would spend all afternoon collecting plain old rocks to bring home to Master’s bemused mother. Those days are gone, thought the poignant wheelbarrow.
   Its Master had grown up, slowly ignoring the wheelbarrow’s prompts to play. Its Master had grown up, drifting further away from home. Its Master had grown up, putting on a strange uniform, never to return home, they said, until after eight years. Eight years came and went, but the wheelbarrow never stopped hoping.
   Someday, its Master would come home and sift his now calloused fingers through the collection of hundreds of miscellaneous rocks, and smile, remembering at last those long, yet short days at that forest creek.
   The chickens clucked softly, pretending to sympathize with the wheelbarrow’s melancholy yet propitious disposition.
   Someday.

Here is the real backstory: http://www.shmoop.com/red-wheelbarrow/

Happiness

Happiness is

lying on your back barefoot
in the middle of a travertine-tiled kitchen floor,
eating a handmade strawberry-jam sandwich, and
sipping milk from a permanently coffee-ring-stained white mug
at midnight
.

Observations - Fall

I'll leave it to you to guess what these mean ;)

silver and gold pearls clustered in groups of four, zipping along a boggy highway, the pair on the bottom pale reflections of their fog-piercing counterparts.

fluttering through the recently rained autumn air, chocolate, gold, and pumpkin spice leaves, from damp confines of the rooftop gutter, freed by benevolent janitor's tinny echoes of his (t)rusty rake.

In the Car & NPR

an aroma of white leather seats,
parched and baked in years of stifling afternoons

crackling from an old radio,
a broken voice of the bereaved father
grieving the sudden loss
 of his beloved only son

"Death by accident is worse than from illness.
At the very least, the family has some time to prepare themselves for the final moment.
I believe we should all have some about of promised time with our loved ones
before they are torn away from life.
The randomness of a fatal accident cheats and jerks the time out of our grasp."

a smear of pine tree silhouettes,
a rainbow sunset,
blurred through the eyes of a girl
touched by profound words

Thought Scraps

While I was snacking in the car today, a lovely verse of prose came to me:

Slowly, but surely, she felt a heat spreading through her body, the warm flames licking her insides originating from her heart and coming to a smolder at her neck and cheeks; she had eaten too many hot cheetoes. 

I hope you found some sort of entertainment from this small tidbit straight from my mind this hot, muggy California afternoon. Now, carry on with your wonderful life :).

Some Maybe Poetry

Random Fragments 

a wisp of breath,

the chill of death

a rooster's egg,

an amputee's leg

a flawless moon,

the she-wolf's croon

hands raised in prayer,

neck wilted with despair

Love (a tentatively accurate description)

Love is

a gentle voice that scrapes down your spine

and sends tingles up your back.

Love is

a gaze that pierces through your soul

and leaves you breathless and gasping.

Love is

two pairs of wandering eyes

that connect for a moment too long.

Love is

a bright burning blush
that trickles hotly down your throat.

Love is

the side that only you get to see.

Love is

frustrating and desolate and melancholy

but mostly magnificent and stunning and exhilarating.