statue angels and stone cold kings.
mine their hearts and steal their rings.
turn them into crowns for nobles unbound,
sitting with Arthur at a table so round.
ancient martyrs and modern heroes.
tales of rebellion and battles they go.
fighting horned demons and winged serpents,
with blood on their hands they feel the repentance.
they drink their rum and consume the alcohol,
waiting and watching for the hammer to fall.
yet no news came of the hellish flame,
that was said to burn them all.
my love, he enjoys the springtime.
the butterflies / they follow him
like dogs on a leash, cover him
they make him a crown from their
beating wings, like hearts upon
his head. he begs for deliverance.
only the butterflies hear his
whispering words to gods / he
hopes will hear / but he forgets
yet again / that he is a god himself
made of everything / they have ever
known. he is substance and lack of it.
i envy him with his hands of grace
his tongue / of lace instead of knives.
he asks for liberation but he liberates
my soul into worlds / unknown
filled with golden feathers and halos.
my blood runs thick / his runs thicker
with soft hair that / turns golden in
the sun, he shines as bright
as anything / i’ve ever known
brighter than the halos of the angels
filled with colors that could best
the boldest / painters, he is a painting
in motion / this i know
he is art come alive and dancing
through the clouds and heavens
to reside in the sun, where holiness
runs free like children in the street
and i hope he is never forgotten
like how he has forgotten all
that he was and should be, like
he has forgotten / someone like me.
what are we without our dreams?
our imagination, inspiration, aspirations.
what happens to a dream forgotten?
when our thoughts are like dough,
and dreams are no more.
what drives the stars to shine?
what drives the gods to thrive?
what drives a human to be kind?
what would be of us if Prometheus
didn’t sacrifice his freedom for our knowledge?
dreams in us strive, thrive, make us kind.
we are humankind with the stars on our side.
we shine with the hearts of dreamers,
and with fire in our hands,
and the dreams in our heads,
we will make our own constellation.
i think i see you in my nightmares. my therapist says i am insane. i say it is the heartache.
for once i wish to forget what it feels like to be forgotten, even if it means forgetting you. i wish i hated you while you loved me, so then i will know how it feels to be forgotten by me like i have been forgotten by you.
i scatter myself into piece like broken mirrors at my feet because it is better to be broken than to let them see me bleed. i tape myself back together and hope that they will never know what i have done.
i want to rip out my fucking hair because you are the reason i can’t breathe but you are also my air.
i hope you drown, sink to the ocean floor and let the fish swim among your bones.
it doesn’t matter if you stay or go. i promise this, i will still see you in my nightmares.
There weren’t Legos as much as
baseball bats and shoulder pads.
We would hit plastic balls
in home runs and we would
tumble down hills with our
baseball bats and shoulder pads.
My brother threw for me
as our father threw for him,
but all I know is Father’s anger,
and he does not throw for me.
Brother showed me how to strap on my armor, and sometimes the bats would turn into swords. Then Father’s anger couldn’t hurt me anymore. Our skin was made of steel and our swords were made of diamond. If our father was the dragon, then we were the knights to the rescue. Clad with our baseball bats and shoulder pads.
But metal can rust. I saw my brother rusting, and then I became dust. What was left of us? Baseball bats became wood again. Shoulder pads weren’t armor anymore. What we once wielded was now our greatest fear. What we once used to fight was now used to shield us from the flames. We were surrendering.
Then, ‘we’ wasn’t ‘we’ anymore. It was my brother, and then I. As if I were an afterthought. The baseball bats rotted away. The plastic of the shoulder pads melted on me. I was burned in the end, but not by the dragon.
My meadows turned to ash, the flowers wilted. And there I stood in the wreckage. All that was left was a baseball bat, and some shoulder pads.
The dragon had failed to burn those. He rusted my brother, burned my flowers, and turned me to dust. But he left my armor, and my weapon. And though the dragon won before, and I shake when I hear him roar, my bones are made of steel. My heart burns inside my chest, while my frozen skin crackles. This is my battle cry. Because maybe I can’t fight fire with fire, but I can fight it with ice.
So I grabbed the baseball bat and put on the shoulder pads. Now it’s time to face my own dragon.