The last drop of fuel
has vanquished within the fog
of vacuous steam,
and the words are asphyxiated
by the author's incompetence
before his toes even tap
upon the starting line.
It's even a hassle
scribing these simple words
without grinding my teeth,
headbutting defeat,
and fixing the channel
with which I once could
transform the bulging of veins
into the unraveling of stanzas.
With a pitter-patter here
and a tick and tock there,
the hourglass spins itself towards nausea
and still no denouement
from a muse that replaced burning passion
with a scalding charcoal mind.
How could I let them get to me?
How could I let them make mockery
and triviality of the art
held with the greatest sincerity,
leaving me a pigpen
of unanswered questions
tinged with urgent frustration?
Did I really just end this with a question?
Monday, February 23, 2009
Friday, February 6, 2009
Strands in Space
I've been thinking about this one for a long time...well, there was a big space of time in which I didn't, but with my sister's 22nd birthday around the corner, I decided to finish it. In this poem, I am foreshadowing when we are both of old age and on the last leg of our lives, and we are both saying goodbye to each other for the last time (let the "awwww"s commence). So, here it is...
It was that wide screen sort of moment,
where the night sky stretched like navy blue silk
and the stars bedazzled through the atmosphere,
the perfect scene to begin the end.
With leather hands upon wooden handles,
the tense preparation rocked to and fro,
and each sibling knew they needed to state their vows
before there were no hands, big or small, to follow.
Like she had all the decades of her life,
the sister sprinted head-first through the pack
and began the ceremonial encounter,
tears already rimming the outlines the eyes.
"My warrior growl would have simply dwindled,
my loving strength would have never surfaced,
were it not for the development
of my watchful eye towards you.
I give you a thanks that spans across galaxies
for making me realize that the woman running in this heart
could delve much deeper than her surroundings,
and form a bond that gives much too pride for one lifetime."
With a breathless exhale tinged in red excitement,
the brother nearly jumped from his rocker,
more than ready to begin his greatest wordplay
and make them both depart with a bang.
"I don't know how my life span would have thrived
if you had not looked me straight in the eyes
and made me realize that layers are nothing
but barriers for the tangled lands of your cock-eyed innocence.
You were not just a pillar of strength;
you were a carrier who made the human spirit contagious.
If they could not quiet you as a mortal,
Lord knows how they'll try in Heaven."
So each said their piece,
and with the peaceful fog
clouding both of their minds,
they realized it was time.
It was a quiet disintegration,
with each participant smiling, eyes slowly closing,
freeing themselves from their bodies like stardust
towards their own constellation in the sky.
It was that wide screen sort of moment,
where the night sky stretched like navy blue silk
and the stars bedazzled through the atmosphere,
the perfect scene to begin the end.
With leather hands upon wooden handles,
the tense preparation rocked to and fro,
and each sibling knew they needed to state their vows
before there were no hands, big or small, to follow.
Like she had all the decades of her life,
the sister sprinted head-first through the pack
and began the ceremonial encounter,
tears already rimming the outlines the eyes.
"My warrior growl would have simply dwindled,
my loving strength would have never surfaced,
were it not for the development
of my watchful eye towards you.
I give you a thanks that spans across galaxies
for making me realize that the woman running in this heart
could delve much deeper than her surroundings,
and form a bond that gives much too pride for one lifetime."
With a breathless exhale tinged in red excitement,
the brother nearly jumped from his rocker,
more than ready to begin his greatest wordplay
and make them both depart with a bang.
"I don't know how my life span would have thrived
if you had not looked me straight in the eyes
and made me realize that layers are nothing
but barriers for the tangled lands of your cock-eyed innocence.
You were not just a pillar of strength;
you were a carrier who made the human spirit contagious.
If they could not quiet you as a mortal,
Lord knows how they'll try in Heaven."
So each said their piece,
and with the peaceful fog
clouding both of their minds,
they realized it was time.
It was a quiet disintegration,
with each participant smiling, eyes slowly closing,
freeing themselves from their bodies like stardust
towards their own constellation in the sky.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Standardized Centralized Assessment Aptitude Test Quiz Exam
I wrote this one during my 12th grade AP exam a bit less than a year ago; almost forgot about it completely. Thought I'd post it here.
"My my, how scholastic!"
Thought the token poet
as he watched the other aspiring white-collar donning
skim through their standardized papers
and sharpen their No.2 pencils
as lazily as possible.
Meanwhile, he sat there, puzzled,
with a certain question constantly battering his mind:
"What the fuck is the point?"
Angelou and Dickinson were not born for concrete philosophy.
They did not form a flourishing union with the pen just to become
some mathematical code to be deciphered
by the future lawyers of America.
The art of writing...
Once again, the art of writing
Is exactly what it is:
An art!
It is meant to seep through the skin
and challenge its taker for more than 40 minutes on the dot;
meant to be more than just a crossword puzzle;
meant to be more than a just a chance for multiple choice questions
to pounce on their puberty-stricken prey
with inferences on tone, subject, and syllogisms in between
They are the speaker.
You are the audience.
That's the beginning of the journey,
and the end should never be the same
A few months later, token poet gets great news:
FAIL WITH FLYING COLORS.
"My my, how scholastic!"
Thought the token poet
as he watched the other aspiring white-collar donning
skim through their standardized papers
and sharpen their No.2 pencils
as lazily as possible.
Meanwhile, he sat there, puzzled,
with a certain question constantly battering his mind:
"What the fuck is the point?"
Angelou and Dickinson were not born for concrete philosophy.
They did not form a flourishing union with the pen just to become
some mathematical code to be deciphered
by the future lawyers of America.
The art of writing...
Once again, the art of writing
Is exactly what it is:
An art!
It is meant to seep through the skin
and challenge its taker for more than 40 minutes on the dot;
meant to be more than just a crossword puzzle;
meant to be more than a just a chance for multiple choice questions
to pounce on their puberty-stricken prey
with inferences on tone, subject, and syllogisms in between
They are the speaker.
You are the audience.
That's the beginning of the journey,
and the end should never be the same
A few months later, token poet gets great news:
FAIL WITH FLYING COLORS.
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