Dreams on Clouds | Poetry Breakdown

TW/CW: This post and poem contain allegories and discussions of suicidal thoughts and death. If you or someone you know is in a crisis, call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-TALK (8255) or text the Crisis Text Line ( text HELLO to 741741)

I see the rolling clouds, forming under the wind’s watchful eye.
There is freedom in the movements,
more fluid than my mind flows. 
When I learned that clouds were essentially water vapor
therefore, it means I wouldn’t be able to lay upon the clouds.
I wondered what there was really worth living for?
Sometimes I wished the windows were open so 
I could kiss the sky and ground with my scalp. 
But I traced the horizon with my finger, 
as far as I could see.
And I preferred the mystery of what I couldn’t see, the beyond – 
	the clouds between my toes
	as I run and run
	and spin and spin –
	dizzy from it all.

Rain or Shine | Poetry Breakdown

It’s almost like I become a completely different person
whenever I feel the deepest sighs forming in the cavities within my chest. 
8AM mornings turn into 11AM
Bright sunshine into a curtain of fog
Golden honey into artificial sugar packets
Airy steps into heavy stomps

And when the sigh gets released,
it feels like the eye of a hurricane,
a false sense of clarity.
Even as the storm continues to loom behind us,
our routines quickly resume
How were we supposed to know that mistrust tends to be a side effect of optimism?

Now, every time the sun comes out from behind the clouds,
showing off the pigmented blue skies, 
I squint and shield my eyes. 
Rather than rolling up my sleeves to welcome the warmth,
I cross my arms and declare,
	“It’s too hot outside.”
	(No longer satisfied)

Paint the Dots | Poetry Breakdown

Wheels to rails – a grinding and shaking
as sceneries pass by in a blur
melting all the greens and browns together
in a fluid paint stroke. 

Strangers sharing seats, conversations exchanged
and memories filed away as a positive chance encounter,
like water droplets on separate paths
accidentally merging together. 

Your shoulder on mine, 
connecting all the way to the fingertips. 
As time continues to pass, our minds sync more.
Unbroken bonds manifested in a pulse, a squeeze, a gaze
like a blend of pigments mixing to a new color. 

Dare to be Red | Poetry Breakdown

I always thought the color red wouldn’t look good on me.
Instead, I sought out colors you would always find
deep in the richness of dirt –
a mossy green
a golden fungus yellow
an earthy tan
a silver pebble.
I couldn’t help but admire the brightest of colors
and especially how they shone on the skin.
Mystical like the stars
Alluring like flowers
Dangerous and poisonous.
As I tried on the brightest colors,
I suddenly shone, sending me reeling.
	But if felt good to be almost daring
	to be almost unnatural
	nearly artificial but
	just as attractive. 
A dual persona – maybe that’s why our blood bleeds red when cut as I become pale.  

Duality | Poetry Breakdown

The bright and welcoming scent of a blossoming honeysuckle bush
brings me back to joyous summers of running wildly, dancing hair.
	But when the flowers fall, become trampled – 
	as they rot away creating a sore drunken stench that’s almost nauseating
	especially when accompanied with the metallic scent of blood,
	wincing after a scraped knee. 

The chatter of butter bubbling in a pan – 
a toasty aroma that makes my mouth instantly water. 
An afternoon snack, a loving gesture like a tight embrace and 
the words, welcome home. I’ve missed you.
	But when the smoke rises from the blackening butter,
	voices escalating with pointing fingers and teary eyes. 
	The meal grows cold as the sun dips beyond the horizon –
	a shroud of darkness with no intention of turning on the lights. 

The woodiness of a pencil as it’s ground to a point in preparation for an exam. 
Lining them up parallel to the paper so they won’t roll off – 
am I nervous from the lack of preparation or 
am I spilling with information?
But when the lingering wood coats my sweaty palms,
staring in disbelief at the multitude of angry red marks –
a night of wasted efforts. 

I forget.
I can remember
my sweet and sour.
I take and keep precious memories, lessons learned. 

Double-Edged | Poetry Breakdown

Whenever you asked me, 
“What are you even afraid of?”
I eventually realized that there was no right answer. 
You would follow up by saying,
	“You’re just holding yourself back.”
As if I had a choice. 
I was still little so my fears were simply something larger
like the fear of depth, heights, and volcanos. 

The question ended up following me
whenever my voice shook,
whenever I hesitated,
or even if I had an ounce of doubt. 
I didn’t like that I felt stuck in my room. 
I didn’t like that I needed to cancel plans only to be just in my room. 
I didn’t like it! No! No! No!
It was a double-edged sword – 
would I rather be safe as I know from routine or
be where I know I could be safe but the “could be” 
had other subtexts that were too many to answer in time. 

Hand hovering over the doorknob,
being careful to not make the floorboards squeak.
My existence is just a forethought
so I thought it was polite to keep it as such. 

Now I have an answer to your echoing question,
	“What about you?” 

Dust | Poetry Breakdown

Under the same atmosphere,
the same stars, 
I would find myself searching desperately for a shooting star
to send my hopes, wishes, and dreams.
I carried them for miles and
as my feet grew tired,
I looked up at the night sky less –
rather than being a comforting shroud,
the night became like a looming shadow instead. 
The sun became hot and blinding.
The rain drowned and washed me out.
The wind toppled me over. 

When weather is just a routine from the Earth’s
diligence in motion,
my bitterness shaped from carrying my hope,
seemed all for naught. 

I constructed rules that were meant to bend expectations
but all I could think about was “what for”?
What for, what for, what for…
For what purpose does this all amount to
if I’m the same stuff as stars? 

We are the Home We Build | Poetry Breakdown

We dream of traversing the unknown,
to lay our memories upon them and being able to call them ours. 
We dream of floor to ceiling bookshelves,
sculpted seats suited for comfortable silences,
sunlight streaming and reaching every dark corner. 
We dream of erupting joyous giggles and thumping feet
exploring the vast rooms throughout the home
hand in hand in hand in hand,
a continuation of generational love. 

And I cannot wait for the day when blisters form
on our palms from hammering each nail one by one,
until our house becomes a home. 

You, my darling, are my rock.
You make my heart beat and my blood rush.
My lungs expand with your breath of fresh air. 
You make my words come alive –
my muse, my ink, my light. 
You are my home – 
your welcoming arms, 
your sturdy foundation,
and the safest I’ve felt compared to anywhere else –
your rhythmic, passionate, soulful heart. 

Tiny Warmth | Poetry Breakdown

I want you to hold me like I’m a baby bird you found on the ground.

Practically weightless

Fluttering heartbeat

Radiating tiny warmth

Curious yet fearful eyes.

I am so small but the weight of a life

is nothing compared to anything you have felt before.

How long until I learn to fly,

until my eyes are no longer filled with anxiety?

How long until I learn how to build a nest

and make it my own?

Please take care of me, but

please don’t hold me back when you should let go.

Don’t Wait for Me Please | Poetry Breakdown

I wish I was a wallflower on the walls wherever you are.

I just wonder what you think of me,

if something ever reminds you of me,

or am I just a faded memory even though

I saw you last month.

I’m just trying to say that I have my regrets

of not saying what I should’ve at the time,

but what can I do now?

I just wish everything would stop

so I could catch my breath,

feel the sun’s warmth,

hear my heart beating,

and freely speak.

My mind won’t stop wondering and wandering

even though I’m bumping into walls and corners.

Such foolish wishful thinking

as I watch you get further

as you get smaller.