Prologue

I was a strange child. I spent countless hours peering out of my bedroom window, observing the world move, yet I was motionless. I would save every movement that I saw; a picture frame imprinted in my memory through a window frame. The irony is I still feel that way; watching the world move on and I’m not moving with it. I am a strange young adult.

I’ve been keeping journals and diaries for the longest I can remember. The main reason for it is the fact that it has always been easier for me to write events or ideas down; rather than sharing them publicly. As I was growing up I always felt like I was being put under pressure constantly. Coming from a family were everybody seemed to be a genius at anything they would set their heart to, made me feel a bit excluded. My grandparent always says, “Your grade point average says a lot about the effort you put into things.” Truth is, I was never the best student and I had a tendency of getting distracted a lot very easily, so it was hard for me to remain focused. I remember being in class and the teacher would be giving instructions, or directions to a certain task, and I would doodle in the margin of my paper; always lost in countless daydreams.

Many people that know me, are aware that I am definitely not a school person; but for some odd reason I always had a deep connection with words, and Literature was the only subject I was outstanding at. Even if English is not my primary language, I always felt a fascination and enchantment that was indescribable every time I would read a story, either for English class or simply for my own amusement. One day I walked into class and my teacher called me to his desk, I immediately thought he wanted to discuss my lack of participation on the previous weeks; instead he went through some files on his computer and lastly he printed out a scholarship application. He wanted me to apply for it based on my writing, and music skills. I clearly remember him saying, “I really want you to apply, I believe you’re a great artist overall and I know you can do this; I believe in you!” I took the form, gave him thanks and smiled. I walked away… I set down on my desk, stared at the paper for at least a good 30 minutes. I had no words, and let me just be clear and say that my G.P.A (grade point average) wasn’t at the time enough to even graduate and get my diploma. How is it possible that someone could have such high hopes when most of the time I feel as if I’m not capable of achieving my own goals? I wasn’t used to the feeling but, it was wonderful for someone to have faith in you. I was there, and in front of me was my future.

Hey there future! So, ummm you tell me what’s next…

I think the most essential part of being a writer is the fact that, we might die more deaths than the average person, but only because we have lived more lives. Poetry is a metaphor for life and humans have worked to reflect our lives in poetry the way other craftsman have left their marks on the world in stone or marble. The effect of poetry as art is similar, and as profound, and often as lasting and durable in its own form. I consider myself to be just another human being, crafted from nothingness, looking for somethingness.

It means imagining I could be my own hero in this story, that for once all it takes is an open mind with paper and pen to leave a legacy behind. That’s what this book is about, “A Step Closer” to become who you want to be, to go where you aspire to go, to be yourself and embrace it, to fall in love with words.

“We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are we stay alive for”

―Dead Poets Society, 1989

Starting From Scratch

I will write poetry to you dear.

If that would make you see how precious you are.

The sorrows of tomorrow no longer I shall fear.

The thrills of the unknown are gone within a blink of an eye.

I gave you truth; hypnotizing summer nights

fulfilled with eternal and unconditional acceptance

of who you have become.

I love the way the breeze took away your worries and despondency.

I love the way you gave in at the climax of our love story.

Poems designated for you; and only for your eyes to read, although they don’t always have a clear beginning, middle or end.

It’s simply, the abstract emotion you make me feel when I hold my pen.

If I could write poetry dear,

I will write to you every day.   

Midnight Sonata

And if you’re still breathing after all this pain and the stars have yet

not fade, you’re the lucky one dear because for ages now

my days have been gray.

Long days, meaningless nights.

The tides come and go, come and go.

Mostly, they just go, leave me standing on a starless beach alone,

gazing into gunmetal seas searching for the glint and glimmer of hope.

Some things hurt,

and tonight I am picking shrapnel out of my flesh

from your words and dropping pieces into this fish tank,

watching them through glass do that silly dance object do when flirting with water.

Thinking, this time, this time, you won’t sink me.

I don’t know what you were aiming for, but you missed. 

We were ellipses in a draft of masterpiece we were never able to finish.

Not The One

I am not the one you are looking for.

There are thunderstorms in my heart

and your skin is resistant to showers that fall upon it, 

or so it seems. 

Slicking off and collecting in iridescent puddles at your feet. 

Your hands are not cupped to catch feelings that pour out of me in sheet music, 

ruptured melodies, a tambourine shiver of words your ears aren’t ready to hear anyway.

Too many praises, not enough apologies.

Too many lighting strikes reminding you that you are fragile and fallible, 

that you still have so much work to do (as do I).

And my origami wings were not designed to unfold in the roughness of your hands.

And find more happiness in a simple sea breeze than any amount of money, 

more inspiration in a small act of kindness than all the Seven Wonders of the World.

When I close my eyes at night I contemplate the criticality of staling murmurations, 

over-analyze subtle key changes, and add new legends to my soul map.

All before tucking myself into the black hole of my bed 

and collapsing into a love language you will never even attempt to understand.     

Mental Illness

In 360 B.C.E. Plato wrote, “Love is a mental illness.”

Modern science has since given weight to this claim with studies

that show similarities occurring in brain events involving love and lunacy. 

Our romance is a chemical dance between dopamine,

adrenaline, and serotonin.

So when I tell you that every time I smell sandalwood on your skin,

hear your name from another’s lips, feel your breath on my neck,

see your face; 

I’m a wreck because my brain lights up like a city at dusk, 

my veins all flood, the planets rust.

And when I say I’m crazy,

Deranged, lovesick and struck,

I’m not just making this up.

My dear, these are all symptoms of the madness that is love.