12 drafts

I’ve written twelve drafts about you
and not one of them feels right.

I can’t seem to find the right words
to describe how you make me feel.

It’s Thanksgiving, and I’m overwhelmed
with love
and gratitude
that you have become entangled into my life.

I love you.

I’m swimming in light.

I’m swimming in love.

My heart is fuller than I thought was
possible. What a wonderful time to be alive.


Long Drives & Bedtime Stories

The way you make me feel makes me want to cry.
I laid there, my body tangled in yours,
your arms wrapped around me and caressing my
back. Music played softly in the background,
songs of my past that you don’t quite know
the stories to yet. And I felt like crying.

I feel heavy when I’m with you,
drunk when I’m with you,
as if I could dissolve into you.
I feel full when I’m with you.
I feel peace when I’m with you.

As soon as you leave my side, my mind runs
with worry. With scars from past relationships
that you don’t quite know the stories to yet. But
as soon as I find myself in your arms, I could
sing a million songs. I find myself searching
for the right words to say, but I say none.
In fear of scaring you away,
in fear of being too intense
in fear of being too into this
into you.

I feel like a new person when I’m with you.
I’m afraid of how much I want to be with you.
I’ve never felt so much something for someone.
I’ve never been so invested, and to have that reciprocated.

I think I love you.

And that thought makes me want to cry.

Misty Nights

It’s been a while since I’ve touched these keys
for reasons other than academics, or venting, or
speaking about things that don’t need to be said.

It’s been a while since I’ve let the blood from my
heart reach the keyboard.

I’ve been listening to songs from my past, of
nights when I wanted to die, of mornings when
I thought I would disinagrate into the floor, of
laying in my bed with these songs playing, feeling
as though my insides were falling into a black hole.

I used to be so full of poetry, so full of song. I used
to be so full of sadness, and I wonder if the two are
connected. I used to see a poem in everything – a
leaf on the street, the way the clouds moved, how a
teacup felt in the palm of my hand.

Now, it’s as though I’ve forgotten what it was like
to see beauty in everything
to feel the energy in the world around me
to feel connected even when lonely.

These songs are reminding me and my rusty
fingers of a place I used to call home. It’s not a
good place to go back to. There’s a lot of bad
memories. A lot of monsters underneath the
floorboards. But I miss the comfort of the sadness.

I miss the poetry in my bones.

Lonely Winters

It has been seven months since we’ve spoken.
We met on a cold February day in a coffee shop that
looked like a Wes Anderson film and I felt like I had
already known you.

I left you on a Spring day. My heart racing with my
thoughts and a shake in my hands that made me think
I needed to see a doctor. With the warm weather, I
welcomed a life without you. I danced in the sunlight,
picnicked in the grass, went on more dates, changed
my room. I flew myself to Paris and went on adventures.

But now it is cold again, and I am reminded of you. I am
reminded of the time we flipped a coin to decide if we would
follow through with our plans in the freezing cold, or go home
and cuddle. I am reminded of walking through snow on a sunny
day to get breakfast. I am reminded of the train rides I took to
see you and how we’d escape the cold and dive into the covers,
dive into each other.

I’m trying to welcome the cold with small hands and large coats.

What is Poetry?

What is poetry?

The dictionary says they are expressions
most commonly of feelings, ideas, beauty.
Is poetry an idea swaddled in a metaphor
so grand that it becomes indecipherable
and that’s what makes it so exciting? Is it
something personal? Like the personal
growth I’ve found myself in recently? An
epiphany that only matters to me, or a
story that is so general it connects with
any human being who comes into contact
with it? Is it a lie tied with dying flowers
and kisses and loneliness to make it seem
tragically beautiful?

I’ve recently found myself in a good state
of mind. I haven’t been journaling or
writing poetry or even thinking about my life.
Almost like riding on autopilot except I’m
sitting in First Class with a glass of cheap
champagne and my heart is as bubbly as my
tongue. It’s like I’m aware of my life, my thoughts,
my anxieties, and desires, but my mind has
found a way to compartmentalize it all. For
once, my past is not haunting me, but welcoming
and I greet it with a smile, open arms, and a glass
of champagne. Please take a seat. We’ve got much to
catch up on.

Is that poetry? Is the way the sun shines into
my room poetry? Is it the first taste of a fresh
cup of tea?

I don’t know. And I’m tired of trying to define
everything. I’ve spent 19 years trying to put a label
on everything; trying to fit everything into a neat
little box on a well-dusted shelf; trying to make sense
of everything. But maybe nothing makes sense. Maybe
that’s poetry: the search for meaning in things that are
coincidental. This is it, there’s no strings attached and
no one making sure everything happens for a reason.

Things happen. And for once, I’m allowing them to happen.
While I sit on the sidelines, flying at 38,000 feet. And let
me tell you, the view is beautiful.



Hello fellow poetry writers and readers!

I recently went on a trip to the U.K., specifically London, Manchester, and Edinburgh. Although traveling has been an integral part of my life and very important into making me who I am today, I never really put in the effort to make a travel blog… until now!!

It’s small and right now only has my life story, living in 8 different countries in the first 13 years of my life, and my trip to London and Manchester. But soon, I’ll be adding my trip around the U.K. and as I continue my travels (Victoria, BC., Boston, MA., and Fort Lauderdale, FL., just to name a few) I promise it will build. Also, there will be a story about the Naked Man we had in our hostel dorm in Manchester and I can promise that will be a funny story to read.

It would be very much appreciated if you would give it a look, maybe a like, maybe even a follow. You’re not obliged to! If you like traveling, then hopefully you’ll like this.



December Sun

My relationship with my father has always been complicated.
And endless push-and-pull of love and anxiety,
of anger and avoidance, of confusion and desire.
It has been full of name-calling and stubbornness,
of baseball pitches in the backyard and long talks
in the kitchen at 2am on a school night. They were
calls of frustration and horrendous emails and text
messages that resulted in both of us crying.

But today we looked each other in the eyes for the first time
in nine months. And like a newborn is born, so was our
relationship. I sat in that room, the skyline of Philadelphia
soaring behind me and there we were: tiny people in a big
building, a big city, a big state, filled with millions of people
just trying to get by. With their own nights of tears and
loneliness and family troubles, with all the things life tends
to throw at us in quick successions. I looked at him with his
graying hair, shaking hands and teary eyes and it all just felt
so grand. What we were doing, making a big deal out of nothing?

We hugged and we cried. We apologized and said I love you. And
I walked to the train station in a trance. My feet were moving
and avoiding cracks in the pavement without my knowledge and
everything seemed to leave my eyes to quickly, like the feeling
you get when you step off the treadmill and the world seems to
move so swiftly without even a push. My eyes were blurred by the
salted drops that ruined my brand-new eyeliner and my body
shook as the cold winter wind blew onto my face. But as my tears
faded and hope fell over my body, the sun opened up the clouds
and I could feel the warmth on my skin. The cold disappeared and
I stood, waiting for the sign to walk, basking in that warm December
sun knowing that I would have a father to call when I got home.