The boy I am is grasping at straws.
Something, show me how to be a man.
My aspirations are now long lost.
I’m crying, dying, suffocating,
Staring at empty hands.
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Learning to Draw #1: Pre-instruction Self-portrait
I hope to learn the basics of drawing over the next couple months, both as a passion project and as preparation for a career in patent law. I love drawing in class and pretty much wherever I am, but I’m always reluctant to just sit down and commit myself to drawing something because I’m very aware of how much I suck at it. This week, I bought Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain by Betty Edwards. The first exercise is to draw a self-portrait before any instruction just so that I will have a reference for marking progress in the future. The best part of drawing this self-portrait is knowing that from here on out, this will be worst drawing I create. The only road ahead of me now is that of improvement.
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At The Met
Colors, in my ear.
Paintings that I hear.
Van Gogh often speaks with me.
Conversations flow unevenly.I think his hearing’s on the fritz.
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NTBA
Tell me I’m a heartless stone, watch me cry,
I’m too proud to dial the phone, you didn’t lie.
Or maybe dial tones mean more to me,
‘cause metronomes won’t casually rip into me. Know this:
there’s more to see
when I’m ignoring you, it’s not apathy.
It’s not anything, my heart’s an empty sheet
that’s been wiped clean by what you did to me.
Poems, notes, whole symphonies,
that you erased into history.
A tree of life, you chopped me down,
gutted mercilessly, pound for pound.And all I dared to do was show you what
family could be when your mother bailed,
aspirations could mean when your dreams failed,
love could heal when your boyfriend bounced…
Now I get it, so I’m leaving, like the rest:
unannounced. -
Gravity
You used to be mine.
Remember the Brooklyn Bridge at midnight?
The sounds of a sleepless citypaused
for the silence of your eyes.
There’s gravity in your smile.
Even the moon and the river
find solace in your tides. -
The Worst Writer’s Block
How can I be inspired when I’m too emotionally stable?
Forget skeletons, I don’t have dust on my table.
I see these guys sourcing rhymes from gangsta post-modern life.
Am I too old-school? I want my house, 2 kids, praying faithful wife.You call me sheltered, but I’m not who you think I am.
I’m X Factor, Fear Factor, between Mad Hatter and Candid Cam.
Yes, my table’s clean - I’m an adult and I dust it.
My mouth is clean, I don’t curse, my flow is fine without it.But I’m not clean because my hands have never ever touched dirt.
I brush it off, step over it like the ass that won’t let dirt hurt.
When the cop pulled me over and made a hurtful racist joke,
I ignored it, drove home, and didn’t even tell my folks.
When kids blamed me on 9/12 for the tragedy of 9/11,
I didn’t tell them I was Christian, Indian, cried last night till 7.So how do I rhyme when I’ve dealt with all my pain?
I’m past it, won’t rehash it, won’t write till I’m insane.
“No pain, no gain” is every happy writer’s bane.So do I hurt myself, then, so I can write with feeling?
So I can open my eyes to the trauma I’m not seeing?No. I won’t drink to sadness. I drink my sadness.
I dropped the binging back in college.
No more blunts, I decided.
Left the LSD inside the fridge.I got tested, dropped 40 pounds, built those muscles that the ladies see.
But it means I can’t write. I can’t rhyme. I can only read. -
My Rhythms of Life
My every emotion is part of the rhythms of life.
Desperation is inhaling, begging the world to give me just one more breath, one more chance at life.
Anxiety is driving, sweating at the traffic light, nervous about seeing her when she opens the door.
Fear is waking up, knowing the world outside my bedroom is more frightening than my nightmare.
Love is pressing play, the moment my senses are overwhelmed by the newest and most meaningful of every beautiful thing.
Forgiveness is turning on the light, choosing to make bright what used to be the darkest of rooms.
Embarrassment is answering my phone, when it rings during class, and my ringtone is the iCarly theme song.
Comment or message me! What emotions are part of the rhythms of your life? And plenty of guys in their 20s watch iCarly, right? RIGHT??
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American Girl, Indian Boy
The friendship we formed from across the street,
Broke barriers my family built from across the ocean.
And when you came to my room to play Pokemon,
My Grandma chided me for the shoes on your feet.But we were twelve and how could we know?
That bare feet do not make up for being white.
That Indian boys do not play with American girls.
That racing bikes with me could make you a ho.And when they had their way and our friendship was void,
And you moved away, and I went to an all-boy school,
A decade passed, and I made my own culture,
Hoping we find friendship again: American girl, Indian boy. -
Her Story
I made an explosion in space,
called it the Big Bang.
Birthed time, killed stars,
when physics applied,
You were my special case.
But now you’re 28, your wrinkles show.
You trip out of bars like East Side
is an aspiration
for hipsters with life goals.
And who the hell am I to disagree?
Your story is yours, make your ending.
But know it’s coming:
East Village lifespan is 30.Every drop of vodka with cherry liqueur,
is a love story turned sob story,
middle finger to 40. -
The Steps
The steps I took to follow you
took me places I never knew,
a man could touch with his bones and flesh,
fingers twined with emotional mess.The steps I took to follow you,
through hidden doors I never knew,
could be made open by brute-force will,
defending armies you made sit still.The steps I took to follow you,
past secret truths I never knew,
lay naked before your deserving feet,
that walked these steps to show me me. -
Land
You’re smiling, staring me down intently.
The tickle between your toes?That’s sand, honey.
For the first time since we met,
we’re not drowning.And we’re going to be okay.
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Monsters
The monsters that lie underneath my bed
Are not as scary as what’s inside my head. -
Scotch Tape
The lies we tell ourselves,
like tape on two halves
of a broken CD,
keep us together.And save us from silence.
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Tap Tap Dance
born. die.
tap tap.
inhale. exhale.
tap tap.
hug. push.
tap tap.
sing. speak.
tap tap.
you. me.
tap tap. -
Flutter
You dance like a honey bee
that flew into a lily field:
euphoric about the possibilities,
but unsure what to do.
