About My Life · Poetry Attempts

Am I a Paradox?

I never thought there’d come a day when I’d be afraid of my own writing.

Who is the one who writes on paper?

Sometimes, I do not know what kind of person I am. Am I a shy and quiet person? Or am I a fun and expressive person? Because whenever I write, I would express all these things I couldn’t say with my mouth.

But then, why is that?

Whenever I speak, it’s like I’m stumbling down a steep and rocky slope, but whenever I write, it’s like the words are like a river. For some reason, my thoughts just couldn’t roll off the tongue like they would on paper.

But then, who is the one who writes on paper?

Well, I know I’m not trying to be anyone else, because to be anyone else, it’s really hard. Cause back when I was moving into the city, I would daydream all about starting over, because I wanted to be more talkative, more outgoing, more popular. But then it would always be easier to just be whoever I am, just the same.

But who even is this person? What kind of person am I?

Sometimes, the voice of mon stylo saignant slips out whenever I’m speaking out loud. Why am I referring to her like she’s a separate person? People would always tell me that I should speak up more, but then here I am, conflicted about my voice. I could hardly even bring myself to write anymore, because I’m conflicted about my voice. 

Why do even my own thoughts sound alien to me?

But then,

If you think about it,

This whole world doesn’t seem to make any sense to me either.

Like why do we see water fall from the sky? Why does 2 + 3 always equal 5? Why is the sun always agreeing to shine 7 days a week, 365 days a year, until it dies? Why couldn’t animals learn to speak in English, why couldn’t plants live without any waterwhy do we even need to have oxygen, out of all these things?

You could try to point it out in a textbook, but how do you think it’ll explain to me why–not how, but WHY everything works the way it does?

There’s absolutely nothing that’s stopping this world from changing its mind, except for GodAnd tomorrow, the laws of physics could just spontaneously rearrange itself without any warning. I might not even get to wake up tomorrow morning.

You know, I’m the strangest person I’ve ever met, but I think this entire universe is even stranger. We’ve just become too far used to the ways of this world that we never really stop to think about it.

It’s so strange indeed, very strange… but yet, how can it still be so beautiful? Just like all those fiery, twinkling stars in the night skyThose giant balls of fire suspended in utter nothingness. They are so strange, yet they don’t ever question the oddity of their existence, they don’t ever question why they are the way they are, they just keep on shining until they can shine no longer. Just how can they possibly do that?

And to think, that I’m kind of like the universe too: Strange, paradoxical, and mysterious. Full of never-ending oddities. Full of blatantly glaring imperfections, yet so fearfully and wonderfully made.

…I just need to be at peace with that.

Poetry Attempts

Cryptic | A Poem

I think I stopped trying to write poems because they can be so cryptic.

Like what does this metaphor mean?

What are you trying to say?

Feels like I’m hiding behind a rhyme sometimes.

Why don’t I just say it loud and clear, 

Frankly and straight to the point?

But couldn’t a poem express things that are difficult to say otherwise?

Well, why don’t you take a look at how it feels like no one’s actually reading this in this little corner of the internet.

Why don’t you take a look at how much I feel like a dramatic sort of actress giving some sort of monologue.

Like I’m the only person onstage in a dark empty theater, my voice echoing off the walls.

Hold on, what am I saying?

Am I saying something cryptic?

Well I know that if I were saying all this to you in the way that I’m writing this, you’d probably be looking at me weird.

Poetry Attempts

Something Pleasant | A Poem

I sat down slouched on my chair,

thinking about the next poem I wanted to write.

I thought about letting out my emotions, my worries, my doubts

But then…

I should be brighter.

After all, who knows who’s reading my poems?

I should be spreading happiness,

not reminding myself of that overflowing bottle.

It’s about time I should write something pleasant,

so here it goes:

The sun is great.

It shines all day.

The sunset is cool, but it doesn’t last long.

Some flowers are nice too.

They bloom in the spring.

And the spring is colorful. The summer is hot.

The autumn is red, winter is white.

The ocean’s good, too.

It’s filled with many things.

It’s deep and vast and wide.

And the same thing with outer space.

Basically, everything is great.

So yeah.

That’s it.

Poetry Attempts

To the One Who I Don’t Know Yet

Just to think:

That I’m going to keep pushing you away

with all these storms that trouble my mind—

But you’re going to keep running back to me,

fighting against my wind…

Just how could you ever exist?

You’re going to cry out to me

and yell above the thunder of my dark thoughts, saying

Just let me please

And I would be confused about why you would dare

to come any near

Just how could you ever exist?

And I might secretly want to believe in you,

I might not even admit it, but I could hardly believe

that anyone would want to go through all the trouble

of trying to calm my own storms,

when I couldn’t even do it myself

Just how could you ever exist?

My demons have clouded my sight,

trying to blind me with my own lightning,

but you’re going to keep holding on tight,

hoping you’d eventually see the sun’s light,

that would dry up all of these tears

that I’ve always failed to hide 

And then you’re still going to stay,

even when I might just break into another storm

that could always come back another day

Just how could you ever exist?

And the longer you’d stay by my side,

there’s nothing else I could do

And I’d wish I could more than apologize

for all that you’d have to go through 

because of me

But then you’ll still love me anyways—

not just because you see something in me,

but you also have a storm of your own

that you’d wish to battle with me

~ + ~

Poetry Attempts

mon stylo saignant

I’m gonna be honest here:

I’m not a good poet cause my pen is possessed, my mind is a mess

I don’t have a rhythm and I don’t like to rhyme if it hinders my thoughts.

I have a storm that makes me go in circles and trip

and sometimes the wind picks me up so I know how it’s like to drift,

even when I’m strapped with a seat belt in a car going straight.

I don’t like it when words taste like metal,

or when they sound like plastic

and for some reason I’m noticing this more and more often—

It’s hard to see invisible words in the air.

I don’t mean to seem like I don’t see you either,

cause everything’s a fast blur ’til I’m in my place

I apologize for each and every time you’re pushed away

by a gust of wind

The turbulence of bottling in,

trying to keep my lines even.

But the thunder doesn’t roll, it implodes

and my pen seems to move on her own

But maybe that’s because I’m in denial.


I know my pen’s true self when it’s just the two of us

She’s the most insane and frightening I know.

She rides with the clouds, no matter how dark

and doesn’t use proper grammar sometimes...

So I don’t always get what she says and why.

Cause she carries a glass filled over the top,

can’t help but repeat herself to herself

and would write in all caps like a slop...

Well she can say a ton of words that are otherwise numb,

And she can loudly scream without any sound.

But whenever she stops and falters,

I’d either hear the buzzing of words getting tangled up

or the crushing deep vacuum of outer space

And I’d remember that me and my pen are just like the same,

My reflection’s right here on the page.


And then I always have to clean up her mess so you can read it.

And it does seem to take a while longer

But it’s disappointing how it’ll never turn out just the way I want it to be.

There’s still a million other words that you just cannot see,

I cannot put two different sentences on top of each other if they don’t make sense anywhere else

And then there are things that just don’t fit anywhere at all.

And so I spend too much time trying to think of how to fill in the holes

so you don’t fall through

But I cannot fill in every one of them...


So I’d really love if I could just write out of the lines and

be able to see those invisible words in the air and

to never again find myself saying words that taste like metal.

Especially during times like this when when I’m terrified that you’d miss something important.

~ + ~