Natural Selection

Sometimes, 

I’d like to think that
We’re all just inside
One small fishbowl
Where the ever-seeing
fishbowl owner
Looks at us neglect
Our very own fishbowls
Shaking his head,
Muttering that he
Shouldn’t have made
Fishbowls
For us instead,
Or fish,
But then he
Would want our
Tastebuds to
Explode with the
Taste,
Or caviar,
Those gold tongues,
Slurping fish eggs,
High class as f–
Funny
How some people
Believe we come
From fish more than
We did from
Monkeys,
And Darwin’s
Evolution would want
Us to swallow
That we eat bananas
Anfd lice all day,
But except we
Agreed that we’d
Like to monkey around,
Monkey business,
Secrets.

But he did let us have
Fishbowls.
We filled it with water
Like how the fishbowl
Owner filled his
Fishbowl with water.
We called it rain,
We called it sea,
We called it grace,
We called it thought.

The only thing he didn’t
Tell us about was
We have to swim
So we won’t drown. 

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Smoke Hits Ceilings

Tonight is too much of you. 

I get up in trickles;

 My back against the headboard, wishing that my spine would straighten the way it was before you.

I thought that in forgetting, beings turn into faded warnings that we brush off during repeated histories,
But they are not. 

They transform into green lights at four a.m night drives, fleeting flashes on pupils , dilating claustrophobia in places we’ve been.  

 and then all of a sudden, visiting the park at night  would only remind me about our stars and not the darkness behind them 

How, each word you say is a mantra of goodwill and yet indifference prays till home.

You’re in the back of my head, pronouncing philosophies of the dead, fearing of unhappiness, thus the declaration of thriving in wilderness upon wilderness of loneliness 

Tonight is too much of you.

It fills my bed with pieces of conversations I’d rather regret, where I’d rather stop romanticizing the side where I always want you, not the side where I put up with you-with me , hating myself for not getting through 

And all of the shadows, calm in between choking breaths, I lay down and watch the ceiling cracks travel in all directions; Certainly finding a place where it can run towards where there’s no trace of you. 

I’d Like The Night To Be Dark

With no disturbed stars sprinkled over

the vast void of silence.

 

I’d like the night to be a dark canvas

for the lonely hearts to sail to.

 

 

The city is already a burning furnace of regret,

the souls lurking among the pavements,

dusted with remnant’s of their lovers’ shadows.

 

 

I’d like the night to be a virgin,

lightless, untouched grace for poets to thrive to,

where it can be the ceiling beds that are not as

defiled by midnight cries and lengthy prayers.

 

 

I’d like the night to be a large blanket of solitude,

covering the world despite this marble’s wishes

to see the universe in all its wholeness.

 

It will not do everybody good.

 

For the universe is this one huge mystery for dreamers

to discover. A mystery that nobody can understand

even after it unfolds.

 

 

I’d like the night to be an embrace,

to the worrisome and to the daughters of the insane,

for the tired eyes drowned from weeping,

and for the pens that bleed white ink.

 

 

I’d like the night to be dark.

 

 

Where my loneliness can come home,

where the doors are wide open for my words

to stumble upon,

 

 

I’d like the night to be my night

 

for once,

 

without the stars and without the sound.