A PROFUSION OF PARADOXES

I pace around hungry, looking for a sleek smile

silently starving and craving

for the brush of your finger against my flesh,

and my lungs breathe rapidly

in hopes of inhaling your scent

that made every fragments in me trembles

as there is a perfection in something

that can't be owned;

in someone that I cannot have.

But you see how I fail to keep my distance

you see how I tried to keep you out,

and fail irrevocably. Instead, as I was

being stripped of what is familiar, 

what is hidden well,

I took a step further, getting pulled in

into the unknown

as if everything that exists, carries me to you.

Though I am bound to scars and wound; like vines 

on melancholy walls, in the lining 

of my skin, there lives a crystal moon

and you'll remember me

in every timeless raindrops you'll see. 

Your caresses enfold me, as you taste like magic. 

Yet despite all that

if you touch me too long, you will make to me 

a long, hard crimson fissure; an irreparable harm.

Because of the brittle sense of my soul's exuberance, 

its constant lament towards that is 

soft and glimmering with silvery tenderness,

I will constantly distrust any promises, soft touches, 

and the implacable sweetness 

of your smile and words;

I'll preserve what is left of my infinitesimal being.

as I believe there are a profusion 

of things that you conceal

so I'll keep you near yet far away 
I'll hold you softly within these words, 

I'll keep you close, but never in.

—C.L.

LAMENTATION OF THE FLESH

They wish to be 

as strong as me.

What they do not know is that

behind the iron-strength,

there is an iron blade;

I carry it around, I hid it close, I hid it well. 

Like the soft rain with its rhythmic sobs,

the world could only hear the long murmuring sound clearly

so I touch my body in vain to find the wound.

You tried to touch my body,

but a thorn prick your thumb,

and an invisible air is all there is of me.

I have felt the wind on 

my second flesh; madness, I called her.

She thickens the air, heavy as water

condemning everything that goes through.

Drunken with her, I shouted at it

a night-long laments.

But when blood was revealed

behind the veil; revealing the secret
Like an unblessed moon, I can hear 

a countless number of gasp and horror.

So I say to them,

"How do you think I can do it for so long?"

—C.L.

The Wishing Box

maybe someday 

I'll learn to get up from the table

when love is no longer being served. 

maybe someday 

I'll learn to stop coming and trying

to reach someone that is simply unreachable.

maybe someday

I'll learn to walk away from what is temporary

and though unhinged,

maybe someday

I'll learn to heal what can be healed. 

and maybe someday

you'll learn to see beauty 

in wreckage, in dark places, like I do. 

maybe someday

you'll learn to touch what's broken:

to love it, instead of ripping it apart.

maybe someday

you'll learn the true meaning

of being strong. 

maybe someday 

you'll learn to shine despite the beautiful rain.

maybe someday 

we'll learn to let someone 

completely in. 

maybe someday 

we'll learn to forget someone

who breaks us, even the pain. 

maybe someday 

we'll learn to walk away from love

that only make us wonder. 

maybe someday

we'll learn to accept the love

that we always longed for. 

and maybe and hopefully 

someday come sooner 

than we hoped for. 

Hello?

Are you there?

Are you here?

Can you hear me? It? My prayers?

Does God even listening?

MESSY AND RAW—THE ONLY WAY TO DO IT. THE ONLY WAY TO GO.

Sometimes, I just want to be a poem instead of a poet.
I want to not feel so much of the pain, to feel enough joy.
To not wear so many masks. To not bear so much of all of of these, even the realm of dreams doesn't feel like a place to escape anymore. Just another routine. Just another mundane thing that is always seems so fleeting to be called a safe haven.
Not being covered with so much scars. Literally and figuratively.
I want to be able to fill the void, but how? Isn't that the question? How can I do that? Is it meant to be filled with something or is it supposed to be filled by a person? But how can I fill the space that meant to be for someone that is no longer here? (Am I even allowed? I don't think I'll allow myself to fill it)
I want to be able to choose the right one, to be able to reverse my destructive-self.
But how??????
I keep seeking answer, yet never able to find it. In the good days, I thought i need to be here so that i can go on to the place where everything will be clear. But some days I thought I was looking at the wrong places, and/or I might have missed it, too busy looking for it but not really seeing it.
Sometimes, when the days slowly turns rather solemn, the months slowly becoming somber once again, wishing for someone that's no longer here and the someone that was never here to be here, I wish I was a poem. I want to be showered with words that feel like the warmth of the sun. With words that gives comfort. With words that sounded like the falling leaves, that sounded like rain in the night. With words that made me sigh, the kind of sigh that will make the world trembles. With words that can relief the pain right here, right now.
I keep wanting something that seems to be in front of me yet so far away. So out of reach. One of the few is wanting to be a poem instead of a poet. And i'm not even that: a poet. 
All this wishful thinking is screwing with my head.
And tonight, I don't think I'm okay. I don't think it's okay, because it's not. It's not. It's not okay.

DEPRIVATION

From the brink of existence

life spills over,

you started collecting all the pieces

that are once again shattered— withering.

You started to look at him

through poetry.

Because staring him in the eye

feels too bitter, and it wrings your heart. 

The good and the broken things are showing itself in silence.

You are every shades of blue, that aches

that only recognised violent

that forgot tenderness. 

Because sometimes, it's not about brimming in confidence.

Sometimes, you just need help to remember

as you tend to forget about all the good things—

it's nice to remember, doesn't it?

But you're just a girl,

strangling out the flowers,

that stinks with desperation and loneliness,

inhaling the bittersweet scent of love.

Too much of your time is spent looking for love 

in all the empty places, 

in all the wrong people,

at the wrong time.

(It never seems to be the right one.)

The earth started to laughs in flowers,

you started to pray so hard your bones break.

You understand, but you don't— maybe you never will.

THE IMMENSE PERPLEXITY OF A BROKEN BEINGS

a subtle kind of fear,
a subtle kind of insanity
hidden beneath a lifetime of masks.
there are cries of a wasted, forgotten beings

being muffled by the world.
what is left is just blood—
blood and broken poems,
and broken minds.

the walls are trembling and bleeding out,
as i tried to set free of all the burdens i've been carrying
by knocking the doors of heaven down
one poem at a time.

yet there is a normalcy of being wounded,
because we are perplexed by gentleness and tender beings.
silence is a shattered glass you carry within
as it became the craved intimacy.

but oh, how unfortunate
that not many hearts can see
there is a resonate grace in wreckage,
how unfortunate.

if only they are willing to go in.
if only they are willing to stay...

—C.L.