where does a train run

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A train runs in the backyard but the
wooden fences are still leaning from
the previous generation so the train
kept going on its own tracks

five executive reps stuck their ears to the
ground to locate the incoming sound but
the train sometimes runs above so excuse
New York City if it seems to have lost its way

maybe a train runs through walls so
since the great discovery, the bells have
been a mystery and the rolling rocks have
discovered the purpose within their spirit

but the people collecting tickets are well
accustomed so they will never check the
carpet in their living room even though
in a rush they’ve broken the plastic tracks

built on the dead heat of playtime because
that’s where all of reality makes total sense
the conductor on bruised knees. Who’s also
the engineer, the passenger, the fuel, and the
only one who knows the way.

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Lamp’s Glass

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To: Tati Vèlanp 💕

the sharp edges hurt like a flower’s petal
the texture receives grief like a cloud’s golden smile

if I fall in grace forever, eventually I’ll reach hell
so I remain
in confort. Soundless movements of my body
obedience to my wishes, without complaint

so I ask how?
but acceptance is not a choice
it’s a decision made after a day of heavy burdens
even when surrendering all the weight is done relentlessly
unaware of the permanent pain, poison, pressure caused
even when it has to bend unusually for your confort

love is only an idea for the amateur, and the cowards who overthink
the purest form is “what else is there to do?” but embrace—
let me lay my heavy head of a day’s frustrations
somehow, turn density into dispersion, dissipation.

the nights are frustrating.
they leave you in the morning, with creases to flatten
for you to accept a bird’s song that is already rejected
so you might as well choose to live in hell.
so long as the fire shine for my confort
what else is there to do?

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She’s the light of my life! ❤

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Looking at You

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your eyes in mine
we’re pondering each other’s thoughts
we’ve shaken each other’s understanding of life
and we know the dust will never settle

there’s a game made to bring us closer
but i’ve already fallen into the river in your iris
so i hope to always be a part of you, regardless.

let Earth remember us as artists
overwhelmed by passion, so we consume each other
in the tight chamber with royal elephants on the wall;
a forest of sunshine or absolute darkness;
a temple with mirrors on the wall

webs of betrayal bundled inside, connecting our eyes;
galaxy, flavored chocolate.
cobwebs attach—closing the distance between

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City Sports

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To Joshua, for all our memories,

I don’t know about your stories with other-balls
but in my city, our sport is handball:

where the outsiders and class-drivers reconciled
their pride, forces and hides
each Friday night, after school: concrete playground
blue round rubber band ball bouncing boldly.
Man, that was our party!

Our palms would bump ’till peel
but this pain, we never feel.
Slaps and echo’s drumming our ear drums
before it resonates into what seems to be an abyss;
a neighborhood made of blocks, corner stores, out-of-schedule buses,
squirrels; pigeons
and apartments ever too tight to fit our dreams,
so the city never sleeps.
Some say it’s because we are convinced that
we will fix these dreams right
each time we’re breaking night.

But days are for society’s demands
and kids walking in bands;
teenagers mimicking gangs.

Maybe we only mimicked cause we knew.
Deep down, there were bigger purposes
than parading around corners, down blocks
where piggies oink with bother:
questions that could never answer
why we’re always shooed off our own territory
with dictation about school, our potentials
which, for now, is in the form of trouble seen in the skin color
of our brother.

We always knew.
This education: stories of doctorates, laws and a backpedal
to instruction,
was only the limits we were told to be bounded to.
There had to be a way to let wind
slide under our capes. Although
we, at times, refused to believe it.

But if a brother could actually use these real life wings
that he won’t shut his trap about,
then, brother, I’ll be the first to slide
up and down rainbows.

Sometimes, even we tell ourselves to not believe in our dreams.
Though this stubbornness in us always sang else:
there’s more beyond being trapped in this trap
with a tight cap.

II
My city life is: handball sessions at the local park’s handball court.
Where you know these Asian kids won’t be beaten.
Rounds on the basketball courts
where you know the black kids are kings of the court.
Skate spots that I doubt are legalized
where the white kids are discovering culture.

Culturally divided, we always were
culturally integrated, we always are
for every now and then,
we mingle our differences in the center of the court—
qualities of: Professional Athlete, Einstein and CEO
losing their differences.

Step behind that white line; cracked line
and serve.

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I posted an older version of this poem a few years ago. This one is edited and much better, so I am sharing it again. I also got the opportunity to meet up with an old friend of mine from freshmen year of high school the other day. We haven’t seen each other in 10 years. It was so enriching to talk to him and catch up with our lives. I shared this poem with him. That was very special for me because he is THE ONLY person in the entire world who could fully understand this poem. And he did. After reading the poem and reminiscing over the good ol’ times, we went out to a deli to buy a handball. We then found ourselves a handball court. There we had our first handball match in 10 years! It was incredible, and he beat my ass like he used to do back in freshmen year of high school! It was a fantastic time. Freshmen year of high school, I would go through the day looking forward to go play handball after school. After the bell rung, we would put our stuff in our lockers, run outside to the nearby park, get on the handball court—we each carried a handball in our book bag—and form teams. Then one of us would walk to the middle of the handball court with the ball, step behind that white line; cracked line—suspense fills the air—and the rest is history. Serve.

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A Cry From Imprisonment

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I’ve been reaching out to her in every way that I can from my cell

You see, patience is not my best feature

So I tap on the metal bars in search of a rhythm
Only her and I understand
I launch a sound in the air, hoping I know where her ears are listening

I summon her in the middle of the night in my lucid dreaming
if that’s what it takes to see her
I tell her I’m here. I’ll always be waiting and looking for her

You see, patience is not my best feature

So my spirit rises in the atmosphere to transmit my prayer
The wind causes turbulence. Sometimes I’m cold, and I envelop myself
I leave all I have behind because my interests are not pleasing her

There are some possibilities I must accept. But my heart doesn’t understand patience nor defeat
My soul doesn’t accept an outcome until it’s bold enough to face me
So I strum a guitar chord in her direction
“I’m sorry. I’m back. I’m waiting.”
So I speed through my daily commitments to leave an eternity of time for her. Forever.
Until she decides to come back.

You see, patience is not my best feature

So I apologize to my past.
I go back to the event that changed everything
Then create a reality where all of our dreams are accomplished
Where neither of us suffer and serve punishments

I recreate a bond so inviting
We’d have reasons to leave our unimpressive realities
We’d abandon the happiness we started forcing ourselves to rejoice in,
And go to that part of the multiverse
Where we nurtured freedom, peace and safety
All of our comforts.

So what are we living for? If not to amount into a higher self that exists throughout the universe
how long will it take until my higher self exists with her?
In the same room, where we go through our grocery list, separate the laundry and rip our hair over tax forms
Did you forget that alternate future?

How bad does the present have to be destroyed to rewrite a future set in stone?
How many times must I kill myself? How many times should I volunteer to die before my spirit arises to deity?
How holy must a human be to enter the presence of a Goddess who is cursed to these streets and mortal moral? Humanity morality

You see, patience is not my best feature

So I lay in bed unimpressed by lateness
I calculate these possibilities. Bringing the guardians of time to anxiety
I ask them to pay their debt for my frequent trips to the future, in the past,
Because the present had matters to be tended to and resolved
But I was convinced these matters already destroyed our future.

You see, patience is not my best feature

So I shoot the dream down out of anxiety.
I abandon the boat before it sails
I remove the moon from the sky claiming it’s to protect it
“Fear” is too similar to “care” so one is often confused for the other
So instead of waiting for doomsday or our ticket to paradise
I figured it’s best if I never find out.

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I wrote this about 7 hours ago. So it is still pretty new and unedited. If you have any suggestions on how I can improve it, please do let me know. Thank you!

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Writing on the Train 📝✍🏾

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it’s the sense of having nothing to do—
though surrounded by inspiration
conversations bombarding the ear
start an analyzation.

My thoughts becoming lamps hanging
in the obscure tunnel that i travel
with a hissing passion bringing me
to astonishment.

before my destination, I arrive at an idea sometimes
it waits for me—standing on the platform alone,
in the open air, where cold wind brings the echoes
the bench sitting in suspense, waiting for its purpose

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All the Time

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If i had all the time in the world, i still wouldn’t complete my responsibilities

i’d become a monk; i’d be a preacher of an earthly life
to value caring for one’s self
to distance from the need of currency
to reject the necessity for labor

i’d drench myself in the pleasures of the world.
If i had all the time in the world,
i’d spend time thinking of the best chores to complete
i’d spend time thinking—as an action

i’d let the world go by because isn’t it all meaningless?
What’s the purpose of the things we cultivate on earth
if all the crops will remain? So i sink deeper into my sermon
of rigidness—detach myself from what is not needed

If i had all the time in the world, i’d float on excuses
i wouldn’t worry about the voices in my subconscious
i’d glide to the end of time. Regret, as patient as could be,
waiting. i’d shame myself, seeing i’m out of time

wishing If only I had more time

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I’m Only 25, and (YouTube video)

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Hello all,

This is my video for the poem, “I’m Only 25, and”. You can also click on the link below to read the poem. In making this video, I included snippets of my time in Singapore during September of 2021. I dare myself to do things I love, and I’ve been getting happier and happier. I hope you can find a way to be happier as well. Click here, or click above to watch the video. Cheers.

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I Think Of You

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I think of you often
I think of how happiness rolls off your lips
like it belongs there
like a tumbleweed freely in the desert

Did you know happiness looks great on you?

I think of you often
I think of the way my name rolls off your tongue
like a bow smoothing a harp
like a peacock’s tail blooming to greet the sun

I think of you often
I think of the way your short build still finds a way
like a stonecrop shattering hard circumstances
like a vine reaching no limits; the rose and the concrete

Did you know the oppressed always rise?

I think of you often
I think of the way your neck elongates
like fingers giving life to a limped dummy
like hands rising in the sanctuary

I think of you often
I think of the way rhythm roll ’round your hips
like chocolate snaking down the fountain
like music that attention always finds

Did you know you’re an addiction good for men?

I think of you often
I think of the way warmth waits in your embrace.
like ocean waves growing, rolling, sinking
like a crying baby calming in a mother’s arm.


Here’s a song:

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I’m Only 25, and

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I still think I can conquer the world

the world has told me I will lose it all;
my flare will meet cold water
my spark will short-circuit
my energy will emit smoke

they say I’m only 25

so I am a child and I don’t know
the desire to live while your closest companion pleads,
“yes that is a very wise decision, but…”
I will not be saying the same in my 30s

I’m only 25 and I think I’m behind

but those marks stretch to tell me this is the perfect time to do what I’m doing
a few decades ahead have told me they recently stepped into my shoes
the looks in their eyes envy my idea; the risks I took
how did you know to do that; at this perfect time; at this age?

I’m only 25, and the world is surprised that I will conquer it.


Enjoy this picture of me at Jewel during my trip to SINGPORE last week!

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