My writing

I don’t think of your hands anymore, but my dreams are plagued with the feeling of being held.

I tried doing something new and wrote a somewhat structured poem – a sestina (a simplified version). So that’s why some lines are much longer than others. Oops. I’ll explain what a sestina is at the end of this post.

I spent yesterday morning thinking of what to write.
I typed out a text and imagined you reading it on your phone,
And I realized it would pass through your mind as yet another minor inconvenience eating up your time.
You’d send a quick reply with a furrow of annoyance on your forehead (saying, I have things to do more important than this). No, I can’t have you read it. I need you to listen

And watch my lips form the words my hands cannot bear to write
Because my eyes cannot stand seeing them illuminated back at me on my phone.
Your ears will have to suffer the weight of the truth and listen
As my mind learns that it can both speed up and slow down time.

I need you to give me something more valuable than those gifts that sit untouched in my mother’s jewelry box under my bed. Like say, your time.
If only you took the time to really see and to really listen
To the things I did not show or say, I might’ve sat down in my kitchen to write
You a love letter inspired by our favorite foods, rather than have been frozen in a catatonic state, my hand clutching my phone.

I slowly lost track of time
Until my roommate came home and pulled me out of my stupor with fleeting concern, “What’s so important that you spent all morning staring at your phone?”  

I didn’t know how to tell her that you took over my mind again when I heard your laughter on the bus last week and so here I am, sitting and thinking of what to write
Or if i should even write anything or if I should just forget about what used to be or if I should beg you to listen.

By 2 p.m. yesterday my phone was at two percent and just before it died, I knew what to write:
“Meet me by our oak tree at 5 tomorrow. Please,” so that you can finally listen as I tell you that I don’t love you anymore, but I still miss you after all this time.

 

Mkay so a sestina is a poem with six stanzas of six lines and a final triplet. All stanzas have the same six words at the end of the lines, but in a different order in each stanza. The triplet also contains the six words, but two per line. This is the pattern (each letter represents a different end word):

  1. ABCDEF
  2. FAEBDC
  3. CFDABE
  4. ECBFAD
  5. DEACFB
  6. BDFECA
  7. ACE or ECA (You can mix the order of the B, D, and F as long as you put one of them on each line so you have 2 of your 6 words on each line.)

My simplified version used 4 words (write, phone, time, and listen) instead of 6. This was super bumpin to write, so you should try it too!

Here’s some more examples: Warscape with Lovers, Clue, and Operation Memory.

My writing

Maybe I Should Write The Poem

I want a poem about girls like me / I’ve read poetry about girls like wolves with tongues that throw daggers and eyes that smolder / I’ve read poetry about girls with flowers in their brains who leave butterflies in their wake / but none about girls like me.

The girls who speak a little too loudly but not loud enough to be heard / feel just a little lonely but not enough to find solace within themselves / who can’t stand what the see in the mirror but won’t do anything about it / who love to dance but don’t know how to carry themselves / the girls whose bodies exude neither fiery confidence nor dainty grace.

Where are the poems about average girls / the ones who aren’t enough of anything to be / muses.

My writing

neil armstrong’s s p a c e b o o t s

This poem is inspired by this super wild fact I learned the other day:

Did you know that the astronaut Neil Armstrong actually left his space boots on the moon? I didn’t.

I don’t know what it is
About the silver orb flying
High and illuminating the darkness
That makes me feel
A little less lonely
When my whole world is asleep.

Maybe it’s the comfort found in knowing
That a pair of giant boots
Sits up there all alone,
Much like myself.
That their existence is so far away
From everything I know.

Or maybe it’s that I’m alive in the midst
Of space exploration:
The limbo between you, with your
Space boots that you left
In the safety of the moon,
And the many others that will follow.

My writing

3 a.m.

I wonder why
There are so many cars out
At three in the morning.

I’ll admit it;
I’ve been there before.
I’ve been on one of those
Strange
3 a.m. roads.

But I know my story.
What of the hundreds of others?

The run down car.
So ancient
That it shouldn’t be working.
Where does it need to go?
Why couldn’t it wait till daybreak?

The flashy convertible.
Laughter and music
flowing out through the windows,
Infecting the dark night sky.
The one of a kind magic
Only found in 3 a.m. cars.

A bulky van
And a family of five.
I wonder if the passengers are awake,
Gazing at the stars
Or sound asleep,
Dreaming 3 a.m. dreams

Are they coming back
From a road trip?
A vacation?
Did they like it?
Or are they yearning
For the comfort of home?

The occasional 3 a.m. bus.
So many passengers.
So many destinations.
So many stories.

The people on 3 a.m. roads-
Are they running from something?
Or
Are they running towards something?

Either way,
Some things cannot wait till the morning.
Sometimes,
3 a.m. roads
Are the way to go.

My writing

Love Like Bones

I have a love like bones
Both human and primitive,
It guides all that I do.
A secret mechanism
Lying beyond what the eye can see.

I have a love like bones,
Much like your own.
But mine has its own marks,
Its own dents and cracks.

My love like bones
Falters and breaks from time to time.
I can only ask it to do so much.
But I know in the end, it will all be alright.
My love never fails to mend.

My love like bones,
Dependable and strong,
Yet holds all that is dear so gently.
My friends, family, and passions,
Enveloped in its warm embrace.

This love like bones
Has hurt and healed.
It helps me bloom,
And grows as I do.

When times get tough,
I remind myself to ask,
Where would I be
Without this love like bones?

My writing · parody

13 Ways of Looking at Nighttime

This is a parody of the poem “13 Ways of Looking at a Black Bird” by Wallace Stevens.

I
Among twenty-two houses on Diamond Court,   
The only moving things   
Were my eyes searching the night sky.   

II
I was of a billion ideas,   
Like a sky   
In which there are a billion stars.   

III
The moon glistened in the vast sky.   
It was a small part of the universe.   

IV
The sun and the moon   
Are one.   
The sun and the moon and the stars   
Are one.   

V
I do not know which to prefer,   
The allure of mysteries   
Or the thrill of fear,   
The darkness approaching   
Or the light receding.   

VI
Waves crawled up the beach   
With coarse sand.   
The reflection of the moon   
Trembles on the water.   
The mood   
Flickering on the ocean
The imitation of a cause.   

VII
O brave campers of Death Valley,   
Why do you imagine golden suns?   
Do you not see how the darkness
Shrouds the figures
Of the beasts about you?   

VIII
I know wicked scandals
And terrible, destructive secrets;   
But I know, too,   
That the night brings out
What I know.   

IX
When the moon descended out of sight,   
It marked the end
Of one of many cycles.   

X
At the sight of the night sky  
Lifeless, without a single star,   
Even the jewel thieves
Would cry out sharply.   

XI
They drove through California   
In a Toyota Camry.   
Once, wonder came over them,   
In that they mistook   
The stars in the sky
For constellations.   

XII
The sun is sinking.   
Nighttime must be arriving.   

XIII
It was dark all morning.   
It was freezing  
And it was going to freeze.   
The moon hid
Behind thick, ominous clouds.