poetry

There are old journals on my bookshelf
blank pages at the back
filled with unfinished poetry
similes with no synonyms
metaphors with no meaning

Snow forts built of packed wet flour
in a big orange plastic bowl,
S q i u s h
and unfold like an origami fortune
of milky dough and chocolate chips.

They just keep coming.
No matter how broken I feel,
No matter my pleas,
They just keep coming.

Sweat, cologne and floor dried liquor consumed my nose.
The strobe lights pounded my pupils, contracting and expressing in every strobe.
My arms rest against the formerly sticky counter as a I wait my turn to inebriate.
Our booth hadn’t changed a bit.

Like the Bow River, flowing North to South,
empty whiskey bottles fall from North to South in
an explosion of broken glass and blanket lies.
Whiskey flows and burns the throat, everything flows.
Flowing is the root of it, the singular truth.

My favorite depression meal starts with me
briskly snatching a cream-coloured ceramic bowl
from the bottom stack of mis-matched plates and tupperware,
collectable hand-me downs from the other Filipino families
spread across Forest Lawn to Falconridge and beyond,
buried deep in the back of the carob cupboard.

Oat milk in the Grecka poured into coffee,
swirled into tree rings, pressed by the scent
of maple macchiato mist arose in the air,
swans painted in latte art, held in a white mug.
My hands burrowed into the warm mug,
leading it to the maple wooden table,

Imperfections hide away.
knowing that any appearance they make,
could potentially ruin the surface I had to create.
The words spoken,
were so deliberately perfect
to the insecurities that laid within.

This is dedicated to:
The walls, who watched over me.
The screens, that washed my dirty face.
The darkness, which soothed my leaking and inflamed eyes.
The sadness, that sanitized the wounds within.
For your contributions, they will never be forgotten.

Poetry and Rhymes
Singing Songs and Written Words
How beautiful they are
But that is just a sweet lie

Last week after class
I chose to loiter in Downtown till dusk,
lazily cruising circles on top of my skateboard.
I chose to avoid the upcoming campus crowds
of students cramming for their semester finals
and watched hordes of suited polyester
force themselves into full-capacity C-Trains.

In the darkness of my bedroom at four in the morning, I spoke softy to god. Whispering the pain that plotted my consciousness.
Choked breaths, through the moments that replayed in my minds eye.
Salted tears snaked down my face into the corners of my mouth.

He heard the joke,
But missed the subtle tone.
With no understanding of sarcasm.
Unable to empathize with an insecurity being struck.
He heard, but didn’t understand.

We were lost in the streamers of Aurora Borealis,
the dark starry sky bearing blue butterflies—
to arrive at a wooden bridge over tiny glaciers
between lit wavering candles. An Aurora
flagging your head, says we could maybe
hold each other with your glove on my waist.

pull me away
I can’t handle the world right now
like I’m supposed to, like I used to
I can’t pretend right now as well
as I’m used to

A grey tube snakes across the city.
The metal carriage shakes in every turn.
Packed bodies on benches suit for a hospital.

if every blade of grass had a significant purpose,
would you be more cautious with every step?
if every ray of sun lead to cancer,
would you hide away forever?

Rapped In Love
Drive, Gas,
Broke, Drive,
Brakes, Work,
Walk, Sit,

```txt dElivEranCE

We start at the beginning. The anti-burial. You are being opened by the eyelids. What’s her name, again? You try to recall the colours ahead of you, and you can’t. The receipt for the store still in your jeans. The bottle used to carry wine. It’s difficult to stand up. Think hard about a location, maybe home.

startled by the buzzing alarm
but not enough to get up
class in an hour
sleeps two more

I used to think that being alone
was unbearable,
but now that I’ve pushed almost
every single person I’ve ever held dear
away from me,
I really don’t think it’s that bad

think twice before you say, stargirl;
you may not be ready.
her name slurs from the lips of broken souls,
a question that tastes likes champagne in their mouths
a burning fire to warm their numb, blue fingers.

I snapped a picture of you the other day when you weren’t looking
capturing the entirety of your face
as you lay oblivious and a victim
incarcerating the elegant flare of
your cheekbones

I’m stuck here, staring over the edge
I am my freedom, that was my pledge
Why can’t I just
Jump

Holding sunburnt breath, across bow valley
i thread & braid for the first time,
yr only acres away, across bow trail
    ought i stand up from my desk? reach across chasm & confess?

Under the late moon,
Would it be cozy or small?
you drove me with the scooter,
Like the way your write poems,
for trips to 7-Eleven,
in Moleskine notebooks,
it was two in the morning,
the profound way you use words,
with stationery;

I went to college like a bird swimming
like a woman burning in the 1700s
or like an atheist rising
I cut my nails like a narcissist killing himself
as if I’m a vampire taking a stake to the heart

I don’t let myself drive past dark
The black sky
Moonlight
Dozing off through passing lights.

Please understand I am not what you want.
‘What is a dream’ they ask of you. What is it that your heart desires?
And you imagine me.