Pain is a powerful motivator
It motivates me
And my pen
To keep moving forward

My pen dances across the pages
And as the ink pours from my pen
The pain pours out of me
The paper bursting
Beneath the pen
The burden of the words too heavy to bear.

My pen dances across the pages
And as the ink pours from my pen
The pain pours out of me
The paper bursting
Beneath the pen
The burden of the words too heavy to bear.

I got this feeling where my soul is so weary that it's completely shattered.
It's strange and surreal how I don't get it.
I tried pouring it into the pages, but even the words failed to describe them.
The ink, it spilled all over my heart to fix it,
But even that ink couldn't soothe the sorrow within me.

Is it the world, or is it me, trying to ruin my soul?
I wonder how it feels to be truly understood.
Because I was always the one to understand everything, and it is a cruel curse to perceive things so perfectly.

I just failed so miserably while letting myself drown in the air, feeling suffocated yet breathing.
The wound in my heart was never healed.
It only deepened with each fleeting moment.
It bled so much that it turned the pages red.

I just yearn for someone to see the true me, not the mirror within that echoes the grief of mine.
But in the process of healing my wound, I lost everything my heart always longed for.

My soul, it is trapped in the agony of existing in this world.
It burned in the blaze of illusion and left the ashes behind,
And the wind grew so heavy that even the ashes faded away eventually.

There’s enough language inside of my mouth to be understood.
I unhinge my jaw
my tongue rolls out
you can see the words sewn into my muscular tissue.
sentences lodged deep into my pharynx.
I clean my act, flash my cheekbones.
So there’s enough language inside of my body
to create the thought in your mind that
“I’m okay.”
Pain masked in articulation.
The lack to find all the points in communication.
The curse of comprehension.
All while sitting with what doesn’t exist outside of the novel continuously writing in my head.
There’s enough language inside of the world
to prove that no word can describe
my intelligence of my own being;
with coexisting with people who become illiterate
to the dictations of my mind.

I didn’t say what I needed to say
I said what I wanted

I the poet
Who writes with a tone
Words that pierce your bones
Who seeks your very thoughts
Wishing that they not rot
I the poet
Who loves your dreams
Wanting to know the mean
Who waits for a word
Wanting the perturbed

There’s words inside of me not just my head.
They curl like smoke behind my ribs.
Yearning to be named.
Reluctant to cathartic practices.
Burnt out due to unraveling each letter
that goes through your ear and out the other
I feel the sadness in my throat
the disgust in my mouth
the anger in my head
the fear that crowds my chest.
don’t worry yourself with what I can’t speak out loud.
Silence is loud, when it’s full.
Such as my days, flooded and useless.
I hope it will all make sense
E-l-u-c-i-d-a-t-e.
I nurture the words that are only felt in my bones.
I will never know how to translate them into a sound only you can feel.

6 a.m.
The alarm sounds.
Eyes open slowly,
Fighting the pull of sleep.

7:30 a.m.
Coffee in my mug,
I race out the door.
I’m late
Yet somehow,
There’s still time to think of you.

12 p.m.
The phone rings endlessly.
Paperwork piles up,
Fork in my salad,
The first bite pulls my mind to you.

3 p.m.
Meetings drag.
Click-clack of typing,
Emails constantly pinging
Until 5 p.m.
And my hands tingle,
Knowing it’s almost time.

6 p.m.
The pan sizzles.
The air fills with the scent of ground beef.
The door creaks open
My husband greets me.
The TV hums softly.
Bowls of pasta in our laps,
And still, I think of you.

9:30 p.m.
Water boils in the kettle.
A steaming mug finds his hands,
While mine search for you.

I open my laptop,
Eyes aching from the screen,
But I can take a little more—for you.

The mouse hovers over a small document.
Tea steams as the page loads.
I smile.
Hands rest on the keys,
And I begin to weave.