Hopeless Romantic

I've never been a hopeless romantic, for love just isn't for me. I've tried to lure people with love poems; Tried to convince them that it was more then just words on a page. And each time it worked. Each time, each person, believing those words were unique.

"The most {fill in the blank}", I've ever known. But I couldn't understand if I could make them drop their trusting hearts into my hand as fast as the ink dropped onto the page. They wanted the bones in my body, they wanted my soul and my mind. So I spilled out all my emotions on a page, the ink not dark enough to convey the darkness in my head.

So no, I am not a hopeless romantic. But I am eternally, devastatingly romantic. Because romantic doesn't mean "sugary." It's dark and tormented - the furor of passion, the despair of idealism you cannot attain.

People are not poetry, and if they were; I would spend far to much time trying to write a poem as lovely as they. To watch them crawl their trembling skins into my writing, and watch as their fears leave them like sleep. Let me marry their frightened breathe, and may the rhythm of my writing march them gently to dream.

I am not a hopeless romantic. I just write and write, in hopes that one day someone will rehearse my lines. In hopes that someone would someday tell me, "they'll treat me like the sky. Join up all my insecurities and bundle all the flaws. Create a new constellation and search for it endlessly."

Tell me they wish to, "Hold my hand in cold nights, Travel the vase expanse of my mind and scare the evil spirits and thoughts away." Tell me that they wish to fall asleep the the pure sounds of my heartbeat, and wake to taste my tantalizing skin.

Maybe I am a hopeless romantic. But when I write and type up words to fulfill the hearts of others, I can taste the lips of my lover by the third line. I could feel the heat of their skin by the fourth, but I want them here by the first.

A Letter To Myself

Dear Young Khietharelys,
You are everything I never knew I wanted. I’m not even quite sure what that means but I think it has something to do with how I turned out in life. We were meant to be this way, and we turned out great. You're the most amazingly, astounding, wonderful girl; Lady, in which I have ever came to know. With your jumps, I’ve learned to jump higher, and I thank you for your strongness. I thank you for your beauty, your grace, and your strength to carry on. No one is you and that is your power. . . You are art, even when those around you stop admiring, even when he left. You are special and you are so worth it, worth the planets and the stars. You are not ordinary you are not just another person on this earth, you are an achiever; Keep your heart full, and your thoughts positive. . . And you will do wonderful things.

Dear Other Woman

"Dear Other Woman, I don't wish for you to get hit by a bus, or for someone to beat you up; or anything like that. Instead, I hope that you fall in love. Like truly fall in love. I hope that he is everything you've ever asked for, and so much more. I hope he is the source of your happiness, and that he'll be the first to make you feel beautiful.

Then, after one or two years, I hope to god that some girl just like you swoops in and ruins it all. I hope you scream and cry into your pillow every night asking yourself why he woke up one morning after his cup of tea; And decided that he preferred her light green eyes over your mocha ones.

 I hope that every time you try to kiss him after, you taste nothing but the lies that taint his lips. And after it's over, I hope that you never receive an apology. You never get answers. I hope and I pray, you blame yourself for the longest time like I did. Then maybe, just maybe, you would understand."

Voices

I have gotten used to the radiation.
This I have repeatably said.
It is not revenge, anger, or frustration.

This is my life's new direction,
It's not all in my head.
I have gotten used to the radiation.

They told me I wouldn't feel the alienation,
Can you hear the wailing of the dead?
It is not revenge, anger, or frustration.

Slow, invisible, suffocation.
It lingers down, beneath my bed.
I have gotten used to the radiation.

Inhumane mutilation.
To my death bed, oh so it led.
It is not revenge, anger, or frustration.

A critical, wasted life, situation.
Disfigured words left unsaid.
"I have gotten used to the radiation,
It is no longer revenge, anger, or frustration."

In Afghanistan

He was dreaming of his youngest daughter who still slept in his arms at days when thunder and darkness consumed the sky. Who would wrap her tiny arms around her father's neck and cry, to remind him that this day would maybe be their last goodbye.

But the fighting outside got much to heavy and they took him from the ward. So as he said his final prayers to the one and only lord, They pulled him out and put him right up front to board, the fallen, the sick, and those who couldn't take it anymore.

There was little he could do there except clear away the lost blood, hold severed limbs, which made our poor hero very Grimm, he handed equipment to nurses and tried not to get rattled as soldiers were baffled, straight in live battle.

His pain cold and selfish, he felt quite small, his reality insignificant, compared to those who fall. Our hero left broken, his comrades laid in sacks; An unannounced father, and a son never coming back. A war fought with nothing gained, a war with lives lost so inhumane.

The sand once brown, now turned around, drenched in red from the lifeless bodies bled. His heart fighting with his head; they all said that God was on his side. That when he killed it was justified.

But what he felt for the war was only bad, for all his friends were sent home in body bags. They told him be strong, be mean, he's not a man, he's a killing machine. Their child at home will scream and cry, for they won't understand the reason why.

He couldn't hide what was beneath; These were the days one could say that even the sky had teeth.

Rest In Peace to those who fought

I Regret Everything

What if, the guy from math class; You know the one. The one they had announced so early in the morning, in the schools old, mucky, ugly hall. The guy who wasn't coming back after all, his seat now abandoned, no one seemed to notice. . .

But what if they had? His world had crumbled underneath his "perfect-student" mask. What if I had noticed that the thought had crossed his mind. That the only A+ he could ever give was the blood type hidden in his veins. What if, I too had told him that my mind was once quicksand that dragged my soul into its depth.

That the world thought me a hazard, with each word I spoke, I had meant. That I too was under stress, covered in caution tape and filled with cement. What if I had told him, that people are not poetry. What if I had told him, that I knew he wished to be less awkward, that sweet nothings could roll from the tip of his tongue, that he could even be better. 

What if I had told him, that if he was poetry he would be my favorite line. That he was a magnificent word I was yearning to define. That ever since I had seen him my eyes were fixed, he was like a poetry book and I a starving artist who was gruelingly hooked. But people are not poetry, although he would have been my favorite book.

What if I had told him, that instead of poetry he was simply a book. That his book did not have enough pages to cover his happy ending but I was willing to rip out pages of mine to fulfill his. That some of my pages have suffered fires and some are still burning, but if he had wanted the pages to my life's sequel, he could of had them!

What if I had told him that his dull, dirty brown eyes were far better than the deep blue of an ocean. That his eyes hinted at a story that I wanted to read through, they were a fix of melted chocolate when I was looking for something sweet. That he was something mysterious, something I couldn't meet.

What if I had told him that when he did what he did, I swore I saw red in the sky. As if his very blood has tainted the nights sky. That the rain kept on pouring there was no end in sight, when he had laid frozen where there was no light. I wished I could have fought the tiny voice in his head that had told him, "I wish to be dead."

What if I had told him that he wasn't here alone? That we all have been trapped in different hells, no one was against him; It was every man for themselves. Maybe, just maybe, we would both be better.

A Letter To Myself

Dear young Me,
I am sorry. I am so sorry that you had to deal with depression alone, that every step you took felt like knives where jabbing at your feet. I am sorry, I am so sorry that the one man you trusted and gave your all to, tore you apart as if you meant nothing. He ribbed at your skin, and pulled out your heart. I am so sorry that you allowed him to make you go cold. I am sorry, that you had to carry the weight of the world in one hand and pull the weight of depression like a chain on your ankles. I am sorry.  I am so sorry, that your father broke your heart before any man could, I am sorry. I’m sorry your family was so dysfunctional that if you were to step up and say, “I want to kill myself.” Everything would shatter. I am sorry.