The pupa, a silk wrap of emotions
Isolated, within breathing, wanting to be
the intense pronoun of self

It is silly to be one's own pronoun
She giggles immensely,
so much that, she is out of self

She is the personification of her
feminine, gentle, divine
beautiful with every laugh and flaw

Still protected in cocoon,
wanting more than these "walls"
she speaks of walls like a caged specimen

If I were a butterfly, I'd fly so heavenly
she laughs again at the exaggeration
Her will to be free, to live and be loved

Wanting to be a verb of desire
her poetic nature metamorphoses
eloquently in English rhythm and rhymes

She is harmony, form, soul,
blushing right now, not always
happy, ups and downs within home


Monster, Obey

Enter gates but beware
Demons command Head,
they wander, joke, and pest

Lost glory in hell
Drop desires in this wishing well
unfortunately no magician lives there

The solution is to contradict
control organs and intellect
Climb walls to the grass ground

Never panic or faint
remind Heart that heaven
is only a meter away


Finding the Shore

I feel the pull,
wanting to flow
still lost and found,
overwhelmed with joy

Unsure how to be,
you reassure,
navigate the boat
to find that shore

Journey of steps
to a thousand more,
connecting the stars to
a line of heart

Circle of life
bound by string and knots,
carefully stretched
can lead to more


The Painting

Like a thick pasted brushstroke on canvas, strong and vibrant,
it could have been painted with Van Gogh’s sensibility,
a connection of nature and love that melted in a moment
with our unexpected fixation of one another.

Instead our eyes broke apart from this pictorial illusion
of what true love could be, because it would be too hard to obtain.
Just 30 seconds of mutual eye staring, and the world would not leave us be;
the filtering of daily routine and responsibility came into place,
our minds would not be comfortable venturing into the unknown
but rather stay faithful to habits, and you, with the discomfort of your marriage.

If I could memorize your face, first drafting outlines with pencil,
and then coloring it with warm tones of pigment, of passion,
you would be remembered in my onetime masterpiece.
But the details keep erasing everytime I lose sight of you,
the distance separating the present to the past,
and I cannot capture the full expression and intensity.

In this intimate minute there is nervousness and excitement,
butterflies swirling in our stomachs, it is like a scene
stopped in time, a paintbrush in the air
waiting for the artist to touch the canvas once again.