I’m So, So Sorry

My biggest flaw

I remember lying on Your bed, waiting for
You to come home from that walk that
You took because You needed
a break from my frustrating
inability to tell you what
I was feeling.

I did my best to muster up the courage to
say what had always been behind
my lips.

When You entered the room, I just
C R A C K E D.

Tears turned to rivers, rivers turned to oceans,
oceans threatened to drown me.
Because, even then, letting
it all spill out was not

My feelings were a porcupine quill, buried deep
under my skin. I tried to pull out the quill,
slowly, painfully. I made progress, but
I couldn’t get the quill out. I left a
third of it still down inside of
me, and now my skin was
inflamed and bloody
from the whole

I wanted to scream, but I didn’t. I wanted to
stop crying, but I didn’t. I wanted to
write these words out on Your
wall, but I didn’t.

Don’t You know that my thoughts are poems? That
they flow from me best with a pen and paper
or from a keyboard
or as a mural?

But of course You don’t because I’ve never opened
my mouth to say those words
to You.

I still keep my feelings underneath the surface. I’ve
always thought that it was just who I was. Until
You, I didn’t recognize that it is a flaw,
something that I need to let go of
in order to show trust and

A relationship is a constant give and take, and I
need to give more of myself over for fairness’
sake and for my sake and more
importantly, for
Your sake.

I do promise that I’ll try harder next time,
but I know that it won’t be with You.

Photo by Adrianna Calvo from Pexels


Raindrops on the Windshield

I’ve always admired those artists,
those poets, those authors,
those painters and performers,
who suffer for their art.

I like to do this thing
where I pretend
that my surroundings are a metaphor
for my experiences.

This led me to a time
where I parked my car in my building’s lot
and just sat in the driver’s seat
for an hour
watching the glimmering raindrops lash at the windshield
and slowly glide down the glass
as the tempestuous gales
howled around me,
thinking about all the times
that I have been sad:
the death of my childhood dog,
the end of a relationship,
my grandmother’s stroke
that robbed her of her ability
to communicate.

“If only someone could see me right now,
if only someone knew what I am doing,”
I thought,
“then they would know
that I am a TRUE ARTIST.”

I’ve always admired those artists,
those poets, those authors,
those painters and performers,
who suffer for their art,
who make their art their suffering,
who live and breathe and die
for their art.

I want to be like them.

But coming out of that moment,
knowing that I had wasted an hour
just to pat myself on the back
about its metaphorical resonance,
I realized that I wasn’t doing it
for the right reasons.

I am vain.
A TRUE ARTIST is their art.
They don’t have to pretend
to be this thing
they are not.

I want to force myself into the box
of an artist,
and that’s not glamorous or avant-garde;
it’s pretentious.
I’m pretentious.

I hope you can forgive me.

Photo by Valeriia Miller from Pexels

Happy first day of National Poetry Month, everyone! To celebrate, I am going to be posting a poem here on my blog every Monday, and I will have a short poem up on my Instagram every day except Mondays. Most of these posts have already been scheduled, so I am hopeful that even as life gets crazy hectic again soon, I will be able to follow through on this promise.

On a different note, I have a different domain now! One without the .wordpress! I am super excited for the future of this blog and my other poetry endeavors, which I will reiterate in my 100th post on this blog, which will also be coming up this month. April will be a whirlwind, but I’m so happy you are here to share it with me.

Peace out!

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