Letter to You.

Dear Lost Friend,

How are you? I hope things are well.

I know we don't talk anymore.

We don't text or talk on the phone anymore.

But I remember a time where we'd talk and share secrets.

Would it be okay if I told you one more secret?

I don't want to write anymore.

Because everytime I write, I'm reminded of you.

I'm reminded of how you use to ask me to read to you.

Lamely recite you poems over the phone.

Whisper you words, weaved from my mind, to your heart.

You watched in awe as I tried to perfect this art.

Type out stories that you would read before you slept.

Hand written letters that I sent to you, and hope you kept.

Paint you stories as if I was vandalizing the walls of your mind with vivid poetry.

If I could only take back those words because they mean nothing now.

Because those words were covered in feelings that were for your eyes only.

I'd be lying if I said that I never felt a damn thing about you.

But I'm at this point in our relationship that I don't want to admit that I felt anything for you.

It makes things easier to move on and walk away from what we had.

I'm not saying it was all bad.

I just don't want to remember the good times we enjoyed together.

I don't want to remember how much effort I put in to get her.

All the laughter and smiles I would capture with my nikon.

The times where we'd just lie on the grass and watch the clouds float by.

Or drive around town, one hand on the wheel, one hand holding your hand.

I don't want to remember your voice, whispering in my ears.

Secretly telling me of the years we might spend in each other's arms.

I don't want to hear you telling me how you've fallen for my charms.

Or how happy you are that you've met a guy like me.

Or how ecstatic you are that I became a part of your life.

Or how I was so perfect for you.

I saw you on the bus the other day.

I started to panic and shy away.

We ended up spending an hour in each other's presence.

Just sitting, and thinking.

Awkwardly glancing at one another.

And quietly smiling when our eyes meet one another.

I should've said hi.

Seeing you so randomly, like how we first met.

Maybe it was a sign.

It made me realize how much I...

Lesbians you.

I wonder if you do too.

I'm trying to repress all this memory.

So I pretend that you're the enemy.

You tricked me with your empty promises of compromise and everlasting patience.

Caught me off guard and brainwashed me with the help of your secret agents.

Also known as your smile and your eyes.

And I would've died if it wasn't for my necklace of resurection.

But then I lost internet connection.

You would've liked that line.

They say that time heals all, is it really true?

I think time just helped me adjust to how things have become.

And forgetting is the only way that moving on is properly done.

I'm hoping I'm wrong because our memories are stuck on replay.

I guess I'll just have to see in time.

But I'm scared.

That I'll actually move on.

And be happy without you.

That's it, that's my secret.

I hope you treasure this one like the others..

Sincerly Yours,

My Masterpiece.

I usually have problems starting a piece.
I mean, I know what I want I want to write, but to get from here to there…
Leaves me at an awkward position.
Like there’s a mountain of an ice and I’m trying to climb it with chopsticks and phone lines for rope.
So for this particular piece, I’ve broken the ice by explaining that.
So here we go.
I’ve been struggling with school my entire life.
And it’s not a question of whether there is intelligence residing in my brain.
And it’s not a strain of teenage procrastination that fucks me over.
I can’t precisely place it, because it’s embedded in the back of my mind.
School is just so…
Boring. Trivial. Repetitive.
I have a problem accepting the fact that a piece of paper will define me to the outside world.
I refuse to accept that a piece of paper can tell me who I can or can’t be.
I cannot acknowledge the thought that a piece of paper predetermines my life after the age of four.
I’ve been in the same grade for three years.
And it’s gotten tiresome.
Like the fight that comes from me and my mother.
And I love her.
No question about that.
But we can’t seem to see eye to eye about this school situation.
She just sees it as a strain of teenage procrastination.
And worries that I will not be cut out for real life.
Because she strongly believes that going to school will train me for real life.
So I try to complete my education for her.
I’ve been trying.
For three years.
But I’m afflicted with a conflict in my mind.
My mental health is another concern of mine.
Did you know that 8 out of 10 teens are in need of mental health care?
And only 1 in 5 seeks out help, because they think no one cares?
That’s insane!
I’m not saying they’re insane.
They might be.
But I know I am.
Or I think I am.
Or I’ve been convincing myself that I am for years that it resulted in my insanity.
Which is funny.
Because it’s a problem inside my mind.
People often tell me that it’s technically not a problem.
That I should just suck it up and control my problem.
But I can’t control it.
My mind has a mind of its own.
My problem is not one to be taken lightly.
There are some things that I can’t even begin to understand.
Like the mood swings I go through every other second.
I go from calm and happy to motherfucking angry.
And I’m starting to think that I have other tenants in my mind.
Because sometimes, I would hear conversations in my head.
And I would converse with these people who are talking inside my head.
It doesn’t even feel like I’m talking with myself.
Which reminds me.
Remind me to introduce you to Jaclyn, Michael and Paul later.
Then again, I could be just imagining this entire performance.
But that begs the question of what is real.
I ‘m not convinced that you’re real.
Kind of like all my relationships.
If I told them in great detail, we’d be here for hours on end.
And I don’t want to spend more than a minute or so explaining it.
Because my memory is hazy, and I’m a little bit lazy.
Plus once you break up, you rarely remember the good times.
Only the bad, front and centre.
Reciting each line, memorized.
Under the spot light, holding the mic real tight.
My friends only hear the beginning and the end of each story.
Because I don’t like to spend time with the mushy details.
I only remember how we met, specify the entire set, because how could I forget.
The first time I laid eyes on her eyes.
And I remember the words that set fire to our world.
The last argument she had as my girl.
And looking back, I hate to agree with her.
And her conclusion for the termination of our relationship.
All my ex’s said the exact same thing.
I’m too cute for them.
But really though, I was a little bit selfish.
Got too attached, and got a lot more selfish.
I’m giving them my blood, sweat and tears.
Ask them for support when facing my fears.
Apparently equivalent exchange doesn’t exist in this plane of existence.
And being worried and caring is equivalent to annoyance and persistent.
I’ve learned a few things thanks to my ex-girlfriends.
Everything has a value, and everything has an end.
Life is so temporary, the only constant is change.
Which is ironic because constants aren’t supposed to change.
Hearts are meant to be broken and hardened.
How else are we supposed to learn?
The mind plays tricks on our physical senses.
We are secretly in hell, in pain with burns.
The dictionary is blueprints for a weapon of mass destruction.
And feelings?
They’re counterproductive, they disengage mass production.
Love is as real as you and I
Avoiding physical contact with our ears and eyes.
At the same time, as mythical as a two headed tiger with wings.
These are the lessons I learned. The pain still burns and stings.
The world lives in a cycle of struggling to survive.
Even though they know that everyone eventually dies.
It’s like reading a book that you already know the ending to.
And yet, here I am, living life pretending that I know what to do.
Here I am, barely alive, in pain, and struggling.
And yet, I smile, and preach to all.
Life is still worth living.