My mother wanted me to become a doctor,
Like the rest of my siblings and cousins
But I'm irreconcilably afraid of sharp things and blood
It's why I've grown good with words
It is also why I've never got my heart broken
I wanted so bad for my thoughts to come into existence so
I've become what I am
It feels like everything I've done in my life I've done out of spite
At no one in particular, perhaps at terrible books and washed out cliches
No blood was shed, in that silent war
Only disappointments
I guess it is why I have a tendency for trying to fix
Things well beyond repair
A hack of sorts
Bending over rags and bones
Writhing affection and wriggling bonds
Strange, you could run to the end of the world from
Your destiny and still bump into it in a back alley.

Nah

I never leave this tight suit of awkwardness, do I ?
Even in a bustling crowd I still hide within
When I'm laughing out loud I don't expel all the air in my lungs
And when I'm with you, I always see myself reflected in your eyes
Do I always look this broken ?
Stuck in a rift between shadow and light
Does my voice always seem to dither between two notes when I try to fill
In the gaps between our lines ?
Have my thoughts always stripped so casually?
No wonder I'm told how I disturb the rhythm of folks
When all I did was gaze too long and say not much
Listen too well and forget too quick
Perhaps I'm not made for the sunny days
Being exposed to the harassing gazes of curiosity
Perhaps blending in is a trade I missed among all the trades I tried to master
But is it so terrible that I stopped trying to change?
Started to paint the background I chose to blend with
Is it such a dire straight to be a misfit?
A civil tag for those who took the red pill
I wonder
I like the way I am, never a dull moment.

There is a secret joy in not telling the people you love about each other. Precious gems better be kept apart so each could shine more grandiosly. 

To Vulcan II

I asked the Lord for solace and He showed me your apparition
That was around the time we met, now that I think of it
But I mistook your face for that of the one I had thought
Was my fated person
Timing was always off with us, wasn't it ?
"If only", drips from your temples as you drench
Yourself in regrets


When I say that you've found me at a strange point in my life
I don't mean the clutter in my affairs
It feels that I shared a womb with restlessness that I drag it along
With my shadow
My heart is closed now, and when I get up in the morning
There lies on my tongue a need for shrinking back into myself
When no one is looking my way.



It is I, first
This body, this face, this mind
This heart
My limbs
My poetry, my cliche idea of art
It is I, now, and there is no space left for somebody else
Yesternight, you visited my heed at dusk
A guest, unexpected, and didn't knock in that ashamed realization
You stood at the door for hours, listening
And I thought that perhaps too many strangers have stood at this door
Waiting for me to come out of my stupor of sadness and self-indulgence
I love it inside
And I'm not going out anytime soon, but
Shall we talk through this door, perhaps ?
Humor me.