My words have become my tears

And it’s not a pleasant thing to read

But what else can I be

Than someone fighting

To keep the lights on

In the image of who

I’d like me to be

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Tinder Drummer Boy

there is a small, missing chunk of skin
from my right ear that makes me
feel sorted like a meandering cattle.

i remember little, besides
the aftermath. lying underage
we met at your neighborhood bar
and i followed you drunken, half-witted
home to your punk rock basement
where you played drums
and the whole world
spun like a disco.

this was five years ago,
but i don’t forget
how i awoke: bloodless in heart,
earring ripped from cartilage,
confused where i am,
confused who he is,
confused how to find my train home,
a soul of a lost girl
flapping carelessly in the wind.

a dirty sheet in the center
of a metropolis.

from an unknown DC neighborhood,
i walked home, stopping halfway
to draw a sketch of drumsticks
in an otherwise empty notebook,
mourning a rhythm
much stronger than words–

I’ve written so many poems

and in the past year or so, shared few. I’m debating whether or not to create a new blog since I’ve felt so many changes in my writing approach since its beginning. I started with shameless idealism. I got too serious. I experimented. I overdid it. I “quit” for a year and a half and stumbled back. I got lost. Reemerged. Took a leap of faith and found it again…. and now, I’m fighting for something brighter…but I don’t quite know what…

It’s funny how my hate and love for these poems oscillates. I see beauty in many and ridicule others. A few no longer make any sense. Plenty feel like diamonds in the rough–strong concepts + imagery that have potential–if only I gave them a bit more focus… I see places that I edited too much and unintentionally whittled away. And occasionally, I marvel.

The best version of myself feels grateful they’re all here, as well as a little regretful for the times I didn’t believe in them.

I’ve been experimenting with many new forms lately: journalism, copywriting, feature stories, flash fiction, creative non-fiction, satire, and even screenwriting. Poetry will always be my heart though. It’s the first form that ever made sense and the only one that has ever been intuitive.

So, if anyone is still listening, here’s more poems–and possibly some other structures. Thanks for being here.

undetectable poison

Flowers and coal dust at Pithauria coal mine, Jharkhand, India. From the series The Coal Cycle Wallahs, 2009planted seeds in my psyche
that seeped deep through
everything once clear
and bright. a rose in a coal mine,
I shriveled in sincere denial,
and rationalized my inability
to feel the sun. i fell in love anyway.
with your turbulence, i threw dreams away
like dirty white flags, and laid awake
listening to the fucked up rhythm
of my heart. i fell in love anyway.
with the warped butterfly
that flapped its wings and left me
in a pile of dirt to be washed
away, anonymously
in the ocean:

my heart now misses its life raft.

from the edge of the earth

an uncharted soul will drive you anywhere,

transform your heart to a peacock feather,

fan the flames in your amorphous eyes,

while your mind collapses spontaneously into back flips.

tell me, is oasis one of those truthful lies? 

do we ever learn to walk amidst tidal waves? 

or does this water just continuously tumble through us?

I want to know if a decision breaks me or creates–

if the splinters of me thrive best scattered, among alien lifestyles.

I walk until I shrug,

until my feet become oversaturated in dirt and my hair consumed with tangles,

my pockets filled only with gratitude.