Month: March 2015

Four letters of instability

I won’t be ready for love
A dim light illuminating an alley
Because I want myself
You and I
To come home,  safe
I won’t be ready
For it’s salted wounds
Leaving scabs on the skin
Pressing cotton bandages on it,
Rubbing it with ointment
Because I love
In that way only
I won’t be able to remain selfless
When I want the best for you
I want the best for you
Even if I’m not ready to go with you
I won’t be ready to cry
Pound my fists into your chest
Sobbing that it’s not meant to be like this
No flowery gardens
No steam rising out of the kettle
Because you put two sugars in your tea
And take your coffee black
As midnight.
I won’t be ready to see our children
In you
And them in us
No matter how many times we won’t get it right
I won’t be ready even if I want to be
I mean it’s careless that’s all
A girl who has had her heart set on one
One day, one month, one year
To obsess over the collars of a shirt
Ridges around your knuckles
Encompassing your face
As if one day I’ll forget it
But I won’t…
I won’t be ready for love
Like springtime afraid of blooming
Hiding behind the backs of winters
Peering out like a child from behind their parents
For the first day of school
Now looking distinguished and alright
For the last day of school
I won’t be ready for that love
Where it’s sickening to want it to be right
When it should be enough
To be here
Honest to say I’m afraid
That I won’t be ready
To love…


To my twelve year old self

I don’t think you’re bad
For being sad
Pinching at your skin
Wondering how in the world it will end
I don’t think you’re less of someone
Trying to be better than someone
You grew up trying to be
Proving it’s wasteful to see
Only the brightside of things.

I don’t think you’re not trying
Despite all echoing
In your ears that you’ll never make it
Perhaps have to fake it
It’s a trip to paradise
When all one wants is to suffice
Exactly who they are in sorrow
Right here, right now not tomorrow

I don’t think you are a lost cause
Just because you pause
Whether to go or stop
Fight or flop
On your bed again because it’s hard
To get far
When you feel like you can’t
Mean anything outside of a rant

I think you’ve got time
To be just fine
Even if the words don’t feel right
Whether you listen through doors,  the whole night
I think you’ve got time to be brave
Letting each moment when you are, collect in a piggy bank to save
I think you’ve got time to fail
Learn it again with prevail

You won’t be the person you wanted to be five years from now but that’s fine. You are only on the tip of the iceberg of accepting who you really are in spite of all the changes. You are more than this…

We are who we are: an analysis of a literature feen

I relate to all of the stories I have read, although I have never traveled to any lands afar than my country. I have not scurried around the earth seeking refuge in a new place, where I hope to see something I have never felt before. Literature has been and will continue to be the definition of the last straw and a better time to come. It will drive you in the dark professing a love that can only be labeled as dangerous, but each time it feels better than being safe.

When I was a young girl stacking Nancy Drew books by my waist side in the library, I thought there was nothing better than being teleported halfway into life without knowing what would happen next. Its suspense of turning each page adamantly hoping to find answers, though when answers were not found I hugged each book close to my chest. I clung to it as if this is who I was; a heroine, a villain and alas something more…human. The bravery of the American Girl books, The Royal Diaries and C.S. Lewis’ books triple-dog-dared me to be brave. I don’t suppose there is anything wrong with not being brave but there is some level of fear that makes us move forward. I don’t remember exactly when I began writing or why, it was a natural inclination that these words must come out and I cannot suppress them any longer. On Mother’s Day in 3rd grade I wrote a poem so enmeshed with emotion it would reflect a love letter. Now I remind you that I fought with my mother as most young children do when planning their birthday party that their mother knew nothing about until the day before. More than ten kids were coming with an invitation mimicking the Lisa Frank era. I fought extra hard to squeeze the words out of my hand, straining past my wrist and finally onto the paper how much I loved her.

People do not write to be read. No? One writes to let go of the things that happen around them or in them that can no longer reside in themselves alone. In retrospect, people who read for the sake of reading; gather information quickly, skimming over certain parts to find the right plug-ins and scarcely see craft, perhaps. Those who cherish books dearly, clinging them to their chest, missing nights of valuable sleep and discussing endlessly why the book was brilliant or completely terrible are people I fall in love with. You see it isn’t about whether the book was necessarily good enough to make the Best Sellers list, no it was the book simply being given the opportunity to be read.

When I was in high school, we read the novel ‘Lord of the Flies’ and had to write an enormous essay concerning it. Oh, how much I hated the book. I groaned and wailed that it was awful, while slipping in words of what it was actually about in as well. Our class analyzed it and those who felt comfortable enough to enter the round table discussion taking place in the middle of the classroom, stated their stance. The maracas shook and our teacher added more insight to what she felt would be valuable in our prompt. What themes were represented? What about good versus evil? At the end of the semester, I complained about the book entirely too much but I remembered it for what it was. I remembered the literary jokes that came with it and I remembered it enough to be like most people who brag carelessly oh yes, I have read that book. What do you mean you haven’t?

Literature revolves the universe, whether it’s fan-fiction, sci-fi or good ol’ Jane Eyre. Literature has a place whether we have experienced most of its stomach contents or not; love,lust,jealousy, goodness, evil and existentialism. By default, we have experienced all of these.

When I was a young girl thumbing through the seventeen magazine at the age of twelve in the doctor’s office, I realized words have a way of changing what we believe and who we say we are. Words are significant far as image, but it doesn’t mean we will not change our mind what we think later on.

Play with your food and see if you like it

It’s times like these that make me forget who I am and what I was for a moment.
I entrust in you the deepest sympathy that we have decided to corner off ourselves from the world, although we still loathe in it. Not one ounce of energy can dissuade some from feeling hopelessly enraged that their lives are not going to plan. Some might even curse under their breath commuting to wherever it is that they go.
“If you could do anything without fear, what would you do?”
A phrase without a doubt every teenager, young adult and perplexed grown up has heard. But I ask you, would you do it if you knew you would lose friends? Are you all trusting knowing that other people will come along to support you emotionally, mentally and honestly?
The world is not a place of just doers and thinkers, no, there are those who tinker with their mind always making hypotheses what their life can be like. There are those who began each morning invigorated and excited, swinging their bedsheets off themselves and stand powerfully. Though, those people do change. Mornings become somber, a groaning fest how one cannot face the world. No? Perhaps not today. I want to stay home and never leave this nesting place.
I entrust in you to know that people are true in intention and act without cause of creating damage to themselves. Some silence things they can no longer bare to hear, others directly run into new directions and some well…
Tinker with the bolts, the screws and the hammering tools. Some sit like a child on holiday, trying to figure out all that is everything about their gift. One by one all decide what’s really important the gift itself or believing they can attain it like a dream.

Write like you’ve got nothing to lose

I began to write fluidly and exasperated that the words could not come out fast enough. My mind raced faster than my hand,  and the pain of my wrist began to kick in. Those simple fragmented clauses and overly scratched words seem to dismay me over time. Writing has no guidebook, tips that are useful but at many times not. The best books I have read carry smaller words and the author pens a feeling. Words couched simply without fluff but the feeling…does it ooze like syrup. It leaves one trudging away hoping to not relive the past but it is quicksand. The soles of our shoes stayed mostly planted on the cement and it seemed frivolous to try to get away.
Writing, some say is like falling in love, it’s euphoria of the first introductions. Some say it’s coming to terms that this moment could expand in endless possibilities. Writing is like falling in love for those who’ve frankly never be in companion with anyone. The ones who day dreaming that life is worth living if it’s not alone…if it doesn’t feel alone.
Crumpled papers, discarded word documents and arms folded across our chest, a writer seizes every opportunity to find reason to have run on sentences.

Leave the light on even if home is not where you think it is.

When someone tells you a story
It’s one that cultivates imagery
fuels so much imagination.
The greatest storyteller
carry the weight of a certain silence,
perfected pauses
sometimes leaning in and rubbing the bones of your knuckles.
Telling a good story
is like learning how to speak
and teach someone else at the same time.
It is one and the same
When someone sighs deeply,
fumbling with their hands
as if there was a bit of string in between
I find their posture reassuring.
I too
tend to
between allowing others to read what I wrote
learn what I have
see inside my home
without cleaning so much
where I feel like I am hiding what I truly am.
When someone tells you a story,
it’s an expression of describing what it’s like to come home
after a long day of wandering
even if they never left the house.
It’s as if they describe what it’s like to leave home
for the first time
with some retreats of their first upbringing
only with the dismays they are not different
but even so
what makes them the same
keeps them whole
rooted on the inside.
I wondered what it was like to change
abandon it all
accept and reject all in one swoop.
When someone tells a story,
I begin to understand that we were all there
in our way
to things we have felt
and things we have not.


What is the sound of thousands of Indians rolling their eyes? This evening sitting in traffic, suffocated by a furious heat, I listened to the news on the radio. There is something odd about being alone in the bubble of your car, right next to someone else…