why do i feel this doubt? this doubt that i was once the best thing for you, but now i have been replaced? what makes me feel like i am no longer the reason you breathe and live? a small little candy. i bought some at the grocery store outside of my dorm hall. they were orange, but not because i go to tennessee. i remember as a kid i'd get a handful from my mom's purse and eat them, and the orange ones tasted best when i crunched down on them with my teeth. a simpler time, waiting outside sears dressing rooms for what felt like hours, because i was too immature to be left alone at home. years later, i see nothing has changed, and i am still left alone, too immature to reach out and grab what it is i want. hold me close, and do not permit me to drift off very far, because i have this feeling i won't find my way back, no matter how hard that i try. so where does that doubt come from? probably on the corner of change the topic avenue and stream of consciousness boulevard.

A glimpse in my head

This song is called Remembrance 9/11 and when I heard it I pictured the Twin Towers at night.

high school haunted house

she didn't want to go in,
even though he was pressuring her,
saying there was nothing to be afraid of
and that he'd be with her the entire time.

she imagined zombie babies,
strangled by their umbilical cords.
she'd never been in one before
and had heard horror stories from her friends.

he told her it would be okay,
and that she should just come in.
"ok," she thought, "i'm going to do it,
I'M COMING!!!!" she yelled.

not for the faint-hearted

walking on the right half of the sidewalk
he stretched his left arm out all the way
and pointed the gun parallel to himself
while glancing away, down and to the right.

he stood motionless, and when they passed him,
he fired - sending half of their brain
roaring towards the parking lot in a spiral
of liquid matter and blood.

it splattered over his skin and shirt,
but he kept looking away,
the echo of the gunshot ringing in his ears
while people around him screamed in terror.

then he took the barrel of the gun
and flipped it over his head
and poetically caught it in his other hand,
where he pointed it at his head, and fired.

西方白虎

The same cat was always in the park,
old and gray - looking for a handout
in nearby garbage cans and litter.

Unwashed and wild, and left ignored,
people walked passed it every day
knowing it would die soon.

But one man in particular had a choice,
he could choose to have it live
in a home with a loving family
and toss a yarn ball around
a giant inferno of a fireplace
that would surely keep it warm forever,

or,

leave it in the park,
where it would shiver every night
and be forced to keep one cautious eye open
for someone looking to capture it
and inject it with death.

The man's girlfriend kind of liked cats,
so while he may have let it go before
he scooped it up and took it home,
where it would live for another year
in a home with soft cat food
a litter box and lots of milk.

They named it 白虎.

Catherine

A wonderful composition it would be,
and when she heard it, he was sure
that she would fall in love with him.

Over two years he perfected it,
such delicate and gentle notes
emanating from the strokes of his fingers.

But she found another lover,
and it was through deep meditation
he decided to continue the song.

He even kept the title,
her name, the same,
up until her wedding day.

It was on that day she heard,
while walking on the terrace,
a sound that struck her still.

"A wonderful song, isn't it dear?"
Unblinking and faltering, she stuttered,
"Yes, it must be for one dearly beloved."

sunspots of the heart

Gliding her hand over the fleece blanket,
smoothing out the texture
and fixing its delicate color,
she remedies the blotches from before.

With her thumb or finger
she'll draw a dark mark on the fleece,
and then smooth it out again
so it looks the same as before.

How long has she been doing this?
How many years has it been?
A tear falls off her cheek,
wishing all her blotches were as easy to erase.

for the most part i like being alone
there's no unwanted noise or farts
i can do whatever i want in privacy
and only listen to the music i like
i can maintain order and structure
there aren't any uninvited ears
and i can watch jdramas in peace

whatever part of my sanity i'd lose
by being confined to live alone
i think i would make up for
in finally being able to write poems again.

yes, everything's fine
of course i'm sure
i'm okay
i promise

my runny nose,
it must be a cold.
and some dust
must have gotten in my eye.

i look away
and contort my face
caused by the mental pain,
like hot irons on my heart.

in a playful move
i cover my face with a pillow.
i'm hiding my feelings, my face,
my tears.

i'm okay,
"daijoubu"
i promise
ok, just this once, i'm a liar.

i changed the music i liked
how i acted
and my hair

i tortured my heart and stomach,
both twisting and writhing
trying to quell the butterflies

the music on my ipod was yours
along with the feeling in my heart
and the words in many of my poems

you asked who she was
and i dodged it like a pro
just like i've always done

the closest i've become to normal,
where other people accept what i have,
vanished right before my eyes.