Mourning Idealism: Prose Poetry

Nothing prepares you for the ache of mourning. I am mourning my idealism today, trying to hold onto the ideals in a quicksand hug while reality grapples me like an inseparable birthmark. The trajectory of growing up is learning how to make a coral museum of grief inside the wormholes of your heart. Unable to build a Lego bridge where your idealism kisses your reality, unable to write yourself a soft epilogue.

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Unlocked Outposts: Prose Poetry

When did we start folding our souls like an origami of backspaced texts? When did we decide to play Russian roulette of “what ifs” before displaying fragments of our hearts to people? When did we become security guards with 7 years of experience to keep an eye on the people who wandered in our minds? When did we master the warfare of defense mechanisms with self-depreciating jokes? When did we construct an outpost to prevent the softness of vulnerability?

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The Witchcraft of Adulting: Prose Poetry

They didn’t tell me growing up was nurturing houseplants of responsibilities and often failing to water them because you are binge-watching a DVD of nostalgia on nights when loneliness sublets you it’s house. They didn’t tell me growing up was walking in circles in my room past midnight trying to remember the face of my imaginary friend. Dimming in my mind in slow motion like the night mode of my phone.

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Matter and Multiverse: Prose Poetry

This year you saw morgue taking human walk-ins and loneliness getting into a life long committed relationship with humanity. Homes appearing in claustrophobic nightmares and dream-catchers sanitized in alcohol, freeing your past demons because the present time is an infinite while loop of a horror movie. Demons are lurking in empty hallways, past demons seem weaker in comparison.

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Did it hurt when you fell from Heaven?: Poetry

Did it hurt when you fell from Heaven?

Tonight, the sky is the graffiti of stars, the salsa dancers seducing the manifolds of space,
Air, full of exclamation marks like conspiracy theories discussed in neon alleys over pawnshop cigarettes.
You see her, polaroids of wonders of the world in her eyes, casting long shadows on your wall visits you once in a while,
A fallen angel with a crooked halo and an ancient forest for a smile.

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But tell me, Why do you Love?: Poetry

But tell me, Why do you Love?

4.5 billion years from now, the Milky Way and Andromeda will intertwine in the Newtonian snow globe of fates,
The ‘survival of the fittest’ humanity shrinks into indivisibility, smolders into supernovas in outer space.
This four-letter word will exist, an irrational number in binary codes of continuity,
Because you and I are matter, uninterrupted and indestructible beyond infinity.

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SilverLeaf Poetry

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