Dead Hearts

What does a heart fear

When it’s been dragged out from mud

What does a heart desire

When the outside is black and fraud

When words are seamless skies

And promises are tormented cries.

What does a heart believe

When it’s been thrown apart

Departed and desolated by the suns

And a dead haiku is but a lonely trance.

If she’s broken, she lost her spark

An when she’s whole, she’s at the wrong track.

When does a heart find truth

When it’s been hardened by tears

Overflowing and red, dissipated in dread.

What is even a heart?

When it’s been emptied tonight.

The Night She Decides To Walk Broken

There is a part of her that’s always broken
It’s something you cannot fix
Something she can’t glue together back
And yet she has decided
And it took her a long time
Banished, vile, stupid and fragile
She decided finally to walk
Bare and broken on this earth
And she pleads to be fine wearing
The scars as her skin and the judgments on her sleeves
Yet she knows full well of coming days
Where she’d be more broken and spiteful of herself
Returning to dust, crumbling stars
She would dare cry over such sadness
And she’ll stand again, over again
For her brokenness is her
This time it’s her evil and her angel
Upon her shoulders
That lighten the load while heavy as they are
Her wings are black and white
Her crown rose petals and thorns
And she walks, sometimes she flies
Knowing nothing but that each she sees
Is similarly broken yet patched soul.

I Raise a Glass to the Amputated Hands

I didn’t mind the beer or the gin or both

Its bitterness is sweet

It is happiness and bliss

a cocktail of euphoria drowned in sadness

a roundabout of stories and seconds

of life, philosophy and flamboyant tongues.

I don’t mind the cash and consequent credits

I don’t even mind whether I gulp alone or not

It’s fine, doing things by yourself, swallowing your bile,

Yet finer, counting empty bottles of beer with people

laughing of zombie memories and looking at the stars

or the polluted city lights and noise. We all feel

We all have felt that. Like grasping the cotton clouds

with a beggar’s hands, and the mist showing

the visions of your mind.

I do not mind getting drunk.

As long as I can still breathe and haven’t yet passed out.

It seems too unnatural to me.

That an empty bottle cannot match the empty soul.

Or the compulsion wouldn’t be satisfying

If this empty room couldn’t equal the empty space

of this table, and the filled ashtray it holds

It’s a shame for the eerie ashes to be disemboweled

without tribute to the fading spirit that I have.

I raise a glass to the pleasured emptiness

to the fullness of pasts in an empty coffin.

Tonight, I celebrate the paradox of my life.

I Need Help

Dear Oscar,

I am stuck in confusion and self-criticism. What happened to me? The sudden disgust for the usual conversations we had has been constantly nagging my brain. The talk of people. The talk of people especially related to you and how you talk about them. The talk of the things you had. The talk of your experiences or even your dramas. I feel sad. I feel sad that I cannot empathize and feel sad for you. I don’t even want to hear them. You know what I want? I wanted to be left alone. For you not to talk to me. Again, life tires me or our talks tire me. Sometimes I feel guilty for my coldness. I feel so cold inside. I don’t even want to hear how miserable you are. When I was young, I prayed that I could touch lives. Yet here I am. I don’t talk to people. I don’t care about people’s lives. I don’t even want to be bothered by the petty nor deep problems they had. It bores me. I guess I’m evil huh? I wonder, when have I started to be this? Or have I been this person all along. A jealous, critical, uncaring non-sympathizing bastard.

Ahh… this must be the deeper side of hell. Somebody should help me.