Asian

Sometimes I wish I was more asian.
I wish I could be good at figuring out numbers,
I wish I could understand chemicals,
I wish I could be what my parents always wanted me to be.
Or at least be able to grit my teeth and ploy through a goddamn law degree.
But I can't, I can't be who they want,
I can't even be a good christian for them,
I had to be gay.
But they won't tell me what they want but critics my choices when I do make them.
I live in perpetual fear of being rejected,
I can't study geography because they raised me to enjoy comforting indoors.
I can't be a teacher because they raised me to want a comfortable life.
They taught me with hard work, I could be the doctor that would save lives,
Or the lawyer that could protect the innocent,
But most of all so I could make MONEY,
The source of all my problems.
It is not true.
Hard work is only for people that have found their passion.
I can't even find my bloody slippers.

Blue underwear.

The afternoon sun lazily crept through the curtains,
That swayed in the breeze of the electric fan oscillating,
That caressed my exposed foot, as I laid my head on top of his chest.
The sound of his slow heart resonated within my entire body,
That seemed to be moulded into the curves and angles of his,
That was emitting a subtle warmth from under the white duvet.

Only in a pair of blue underwear was he,
But on my bed nobody would disturb us, nobody was here to see.
It was just the two of us under the covers, indoors, just content to be.
Just him and me.
I do enjoy the quiet comfort of privacy.

The boy with the dragon onesie.

I am the boy in the felt and polyester-coth onesie,
The one in bright purples and neon orange.
The one people stare and gawk at,
Pointing out that I am not wearing dull clothing like the duller crowd.
Shouting out of empty mouths, helium comments, inflated and squeaky and meek.
Whispering into ear of other, lead insults, about how weird, how newly millennial.
They cannot understand nor do they choose to comprehend me.
Why wear that? Why not a nice white button-down, or some jeans?
Why keep this hidden? Why not cloth myself with this, not hide it away inside a trunk?
In this dragon-skin, I am alive.
I embrace the harrowing colours of my one-peice, I let it become me.
I do not need to explain my lilac scales, nor my sunset nails.
All there is to explain requires no words.
Because I am no longer the boy is the dragon onesie, no, no.
I am a dragon, in the body of a boy.

Airports

A family of yellow skin swine,

Using their fleshy bodies as a selfish shield, squeezing and pushing in hot pursuit of cutting my god damn line. 

They are loud and have no sense of humanity, no sense of society.

Loud and cheap they shriek and scream, as pale men, and paler women simply stare, as I hurry to slip my laptop back into my bag,

Before greedy, grimy fingers do. 

A throng of hooded women and goatee men sweep and saturate the boarding hall with the intoxicating and indescribable smell...

And the monotonous sound of the meek mouthed lady, announces the  opening of the gate,

The worst attribute of humanity is unleashed, the one I most hate,

The surge of human bodies crushing and shoving against each other, as if their only purpose of life is to be in that plane.

Some linger back as if they knew I was judging. In reality they were only waiting,

For a moment to intercept that queue, oh those selfish few...

I do despise flying.

Triumvirs

-How certain art thou that fair and nobel Antony shall lose his third to the slippery Caesar?

-As certain as the Sun shall set in the west, and arise tomorrow, on the horizon of the east.

-I shall forgive thou for witchcraft, soothsayer for thou has caused treason. 

-I have not Othello, I am merely reading for the book Nature has prized in secrecy.

  

-How does thou say with such vigor and confidence, Caesar shall be victorious?

-I declare it, as I see it. Fortune's knave shall forever, reign in triumph. As one mortal, though a great one be it, has no credit in the halls and the wheels of Fortune's bias gaze.

-Then why does thou sound bitter? For there is great authority in the scarce-bearded Caesar. Shall he not rule with a passionate, and strong fist?

-Aye, but what Caesar lacks is not the authority; his scarcity comes not only upon his face, but his mind. Whatever strides he shall bring, will bring prosperity, but great ruling succumbs easy minds. Caesar bears no trait of negotiation, nor the gift of democracy. As dutifully to Fortune, he shall dutifully doom this great nation for one cannot encompass all, especially the likes of Caesar.

-Treason! How dare you speak-ill of our great leader?

-I speak not sickness, merely the truth. I take no pleasure in seeing this empire fall. But, Fortune shall overbear all. Antony, though driven by mortal passion, could drive similarly towards the benefit of this nation. He is also fruitful in the ways he treasures scales of equality, and the nobility of his words can be strengthen by all he keeps loyal. But yet, Fortune is powerful and unjust. 

-Lepidus? Does he have no ounce of a better fortune than ill-fated Antony?

-I dare say he does, although would be a poorer substitute, for he lacks both the will of authority, and the label of justice.

-What if queer Esther overturns this tide of tragic fortune?

-No, for she does not find mirth nor finds comfort in seeing only an independent state succeed, she much prefer to benefit from a global celebration. 

-Then there can be nothing, to change?

-I foresee it as being so, though I feel wrongful for doing so.     

Oubliettes of you and I

My prince,
How far below the wretched ground,
Does your oubliettes lie?
Are they hidden away to hide some scandal,
Far too demeaning and far too crude for the ears of mine?
Or nay, they are too beautiful and glimmering for my mortal view?
Are they placed beyond the borders of your heart,
Or deep within folds of the many layers of your soul?
Must I seek these hidden chambers that shadow the secrets you hold so dear?
Or shall it remain a mystery that shall last forever?

Beloved,
Do you seek to find mine own oubliettes?
The ones, even I fear to unlock?
The ones I have buried in hopes of forgetting them?
The ones that hide more dark that I imagine the world has light,
Ones placed in plain urban sight, avoided to save simple grace,
Left to rot, in hopes their contents do thus similar.
I worry you shall find them, my king,
And although you have rule over all my heart,
When you fall into the caves I have considered dungeons,
Will you emerge without a taint of my sins?
Or will the blackest blood flow, both over and under your fairer skins?

Erotic

Lord Eros, Sweet Eros, Most anything Eros,

I beseech thee. 

Grant me a lover,

That takes not interest in figs,

But one of noses.

Let not him heat my blood,

Nor heat his own liver,

Will him to have been raised not by savages,

But by the daintily hands.

Dear Lord, allow me this absolute contentment.

Good Aphrodite, Most absolute Aphrodite, 

Dear Goddess, 

Though many would make themselves whores,

To lay upon I a fortune fit for the wrenches,

Keep decorum and hear,

This prayer.

Give me a man, 

And let us in privy sheets die,

But keep him loyal,

And even he may hence fleet,

Here shall remain him.

Holy Goddess, I request prithee.

Grant me the grace with Lovely Fortune,

And turn her wheel,

In favour of thy loyal homager.

And thee shall allow thy,

Mere mortal, a drink of mandragora,

That I might sleep out this,

Great gap of time,

In awaiting my Antony.

This I beseech,

Amen.      

   

WE HAVE SURVIVED

I AM SO DONE WITH PEOPLE VICTIMISING THEMSELVES.
Gays embrace yourself, but realise that not everybody will understand,
But that does not make them homophobes.
Maybe if you try to show them we are normal people,
They'll understand, because what I see is portrayed by many is this,
excessive need to prove our individuality,
And insatiable want to flaut and express our differences.
But to prove is to show that we are not what stereotypes defined us as,
We are defined by ourselves, and it is fine if you identify with the 'conventional'
But we need to be part of society for people to see that we are not aliens,
Although we can embrace it, we don't have too.
A community founded our of oppression and turmoil can blossom,
Without needing to be reminded of our past constantly,
Without having to prove that we are special,
Not to the world, because we all are,
Every single one. But, we are also very similar, which is why we are all humans.
And we need to show them a different side to us and to our culture,
Because we are not promoting something crude but something vaguely and barely different.
We are promoting equality, and we should not deviate form that.

Dear Meninist,

It vexes me a great deal,
That you do not agree with feminism,
"Meninist' is not a thing,
It even autocorrects to Leninist,
Which is ironically,
More justifiable.
Please take off your big manly boots,
And wriggle, and squeeze,
Into what the french call "talons",
And try to walk, wobbly, stumble and fall,
As you try to comprehend the life of a women,
A life you have been fortunate enough to have escaped.
Imagine growing up,
And the world telling you,
"Dress like a lady,"
"That's not what a girl would do,"
"Don't be a slut,"
But you can't can you?
No because your childhood was filled with,
"BE THE MAN"
"You are so strong"
"You are the best"
Nobody tells you that,
"You shouldn't sexualise women."
"You should treat them with respect"
"Don't be horny bastards"
Women want to be able to express themselves,
Through whatever they choose.
"A bag" left open,
Should not be touched,
Because that is stealing on two fronts,
Taking away whatever morals have been taught to you,
Removing the fact that you are entitled,
And exposing that you are self-centred,
And ignorant
Choosing to lie to yourself,
To say that what women are fighting for is fake,
But what is fake is the fact that you cannot admit,
That you are simply too horny to keep it in your jeans.
It is frustrating that men are allowed,
To say and call and insult women,
Even though they are the ones that want,
To see a little more leg,
A little more breast,
A little less everything.
But what is actually lacking,
Is the morals you men have,
For being unable to keep your own sexual frustration,
And keep it to yourself,
And blaming it on women.
Shame on you.
Be the man,
And tell yourself, to have more self control.
There is no reason why you should be better,
And there is no reason we cannot be equal,
Stop being selfish and stop monopolising,
The rights all people should have,
Women are not taking away your rights,
They simply want what is rightfully theirs.
You can take those heels off now,
And drop that act,
And stop pretending that problems like this,
Don't exist,
It is that mentality that should be non-existant.

( )

(I think I remembered you that day,
It was a stunning day, I dare say,
The clouds were soft and the trees were lush,
The air filled and saturated by this content and overwhelming hush.
It was as if the world knew,
And the earth, who saw and agreed, said, "I should fall in love with you.")

Wait, actually it was...

(I think I remembered it as a cool Autumn afternoon,
It was a nice early evening, I remembered that the moon would have been out soon,
The leaves a kaleidoscope of earthy tones, the grass a soft yellow,
The breeze carried with it this sense of ease and the air was mellow.
It was as if the dying day,
And the dying seasons, who saw and agreed, said, "Go on and kiss him before he gets away.")

Wait no, no I think it was...

(Now I think it was a cloudy, winter day,
It was wet and cold and I think I wouldn't have had it any other way.
The sky a monotone of grey, the trees black and bare,
The atmosphere filled with dread and despair,
But it was alright, cozy by the fire,
And the stoned hearted ice, even said, "If you say you don't like him, you'll be a liar.")

Wait no I think it didn't actually happen.
Never mind.

Sorry I haven't been posting, busy with sucking at life.

God fucking dammit it CIE,
Screw you.
Not, only putting a History and English Lit paper on the same day,
An outline paper and a prose and poetry paper,
Not you have to screw me over with a fucking passage based from hell.
A long poem!
A fucking long ass poem.
WTFFFFFFFFFF,
dear people of Cambridge, I hope your happy, screwing me over,
Yeah sure I could have done the essay question,
IF only I had the opportunity to neglected my History,
I do not have the luxury of playing your game Cambridge,
UGHHHHHHHHHH
You, I hate you.

Normality and the progress of guilt.

Throughout my life, people have created and deposited guilt onto me. 

Like some sort of terrible pearl, and from and uglier clam, the flaws I cannot control,

String together in a guilty necklace or a flawed pearl noose around my neck.  

But I have come to realised that they do not have the power to succumb my mortality,

and that individually, the spheres of reflective flaws cannot inflict damage,

I just carry on, with the string slack and drooped.

But to realise that I can control the length and the distance of this noose of pearls, 

There is also a suden realisation that I cannot control the pearls that are formed across,

The necks of others, even if these guilty, glossy circles where mine to begin with,

And that they by default have obtained, and by default they have to bear,

Because of my flaws, and because they embrace them.

it is unfair that the burden is split, and that I have chosen to give,

And their willingness to take, and the share.

Because,

It is one thing to give grief to someone.

It is something else to be the grief for someone. 

Mornings

Indigo, violet sky, with streaks of scarlet and pink shattered in-between.

We have waited for so long.

Since the moon was still up, since the stars shone bright,

On top of the dewy lush grass, 

Your sweater was grey and soft, and smelt of a mornings with your scent lingering in the folds.

An arm to hold me, a chest to lean on, a heartbeat to feel. 

You said my eyes caught on fire, by the light of dawn.

I said your hair was a blaze with young sunlight.

You held me closer, and I was encased in your warmth.

Ceremony.

Cute, clear skies and baby pink ties.
Beautiful white, pure carnations, and slivery, sparkling sensations.
The aisle paved with gold, on a dock, rustic and old.
Big smiles and larger grins, oh my head, how it spins!
Hand in hand, beneath the cool air, look at everyone, look how they stare!
A pair of twin rings, and the sounds of a dove, listen, hear it sing!
Under the watchful eye of the sun we say our vows, sunlight seeping through willow boughs,
Look at us, together in holy matrimony, indeed, my love, what a ceremony!

Last night

I thought of you last night.

The way you smelt,

Intoxicatingly strong,

Unbearably melancholic,

Fatally sweet. 

Unconsciously I breathed deeper.

I recalled your smile,

Boyishly charming,

Ruggedly handsome,

Utterly radiant. 

I didn't realize my lips were curled.

I heard your laugh.

Sheepishly adorable,

Youthfully loud,

Fondly innocent. 

I sighed in contentment.

I felt your touch.

Comfortingly warm,

Unsettlingly safe,

Temporary escape.

I felt a wetness on my cheek. 

With me.

Hop, jump, skip, dance, twirl, pose, embrace, fall. 

With me.

Love, lust, desire, passion, destroy, hurt, bleed and die. 

With me.

Breathe, inhale, hold, release, submerge, drown, float and sleep. 

With me.

Touch, tease, pinch, punch, slash, cut, shoot and kill. 

With me.

With me. 

With me.

With me. 

 

Stupid and silly

Oh how stupid and silly it is to fall into the raptures of romance,
How ridiculous it is to view love and it's entity as something fulfilling.
How absurd it is to find joy in the passion between mortal men.
How dangerously foolish it is to allow its to sweep and devour you?

Oh how careless, I've seemed to be of late.
How unobservant and blind was I, to listen to the snake?
How shackled I am to the tree that bears the innocently fatal name.
How trapped I am in the raptures of it's unrelenting gaze!

Oh I feel myself being attached to this attachment.
How delicately subtle the waves of tenderness latch.
How this intimacy is so pleasantly intimate.
How fond I have become to the emotions of desire.

Oh how stupid and silly!
 

Phase

I do not know when it started,
or how or why.
All I know is that it did,
And that it is now a phase,
A terrible reoccurrence,
doomed to repeat itself,
like some false history.

He comes and goes,
or merely ducks underneath,
behind and hides,
in clouds or grey, and clouds of white.
During the day nothing more that a blur,
But on a clear night he emerges.
A fresh and renewed.

Smiles at the simple discomfort he brings,
Laughs at the awkward conversations we share,
Avoids the closeness of hands,
Moves away from kisses on cheeks.
As sudden as he arrives,
Like the constant irregularity of the cycle,
He is gone, tucked under the comforting,
masses of cotton clouds.
And just like that, he departed.  

“He understands me and my art, and loves both.”

"It would be unfair to expect other people to be as remarkable as oneself."

"What a sassy bitch," I mentally said as I read the line, reading Oscar Wilde on the way to a Shakespearean play, man I was cultured as fuck. In reality, it took an exponential amount of metal acrobatics to grasp the depth of his analysis, the nuances of every adjective, noun and verb. I usually retire in defeat after no more than 10 pages, and continued the slow progress with a new zest each time, an appreciation I have formed not out of curiosity, but the wanting to educate myself to understand the ideologies of aestheticism. But, the thing that did intrigue me, obviously, as if I were a nosy, journalist, or simply just a mere gossip queen, was his personal life, and how it seemed to be more vibrant and exciting than his literature itself.

He seemed completely infatuated with Lord Alfred Douglas, or "Bosie". (I do not intend to bore you with many of the details, you can find our, independently, merely by typing in either one of their names into any search engine of your preference.) I simply have chosen to look at their relationship, the truths and the ugliness as a whole.

All throughout their  relationship, which was filled with terrible fights and the constant judgement, persecution of and from the people around them, Oscar was forever infatuated with this man. Their relationship is worthy of the books that were written, for them, about them, because indeed their lives were exciting and I would argue stand among the the likes of tragic plays, such as Antony and Cleopatra, only played out on a scale much smaller, but in no way lesser, in the abundance of emotional turmoil. The letters written in his powerfully, romantic style, could be seen as a hyperbolic, but the title I have choose, was not written directly to his lover, but to a publisher, and he did not skimp nor lie about his emotions, and he need not justify his love, but he independently chose to do so. Although I may never know how genuine these words of endearment were, I will naively choose to believe that the words complement the actuality of their lives intertwined.

(Yes this is very random I know.)

Take it or leave it,
Ez        

Justify

Liberals with their liberal views love,

To say, 'as long as it feels right, it is.'

We seem to lack the conviction,

The conviction to question our opinions.

We justify homosexuality, because it is nature,

Not nurture, but there lacks an argument strong enough.

I question myself sometimes, (do you?) and,

I ask myself, is what I am preaching,

Merely an alternate form of religion?

Merely advocating from a place of ill-placed belief? 

But because we have no book, no way of justifying,

Proving that the past does not condone it,

We are wrong? 

We choose to not agree and that is alright.

We choose to believe and that is fine.

But we both base our faith in the way most people do,

"If it is said more than once, it must be true."  

-Ez

"That's so gay"

"That's so gay."
The phrase, dropped on the daily,
By many, if not all of the heterosexual male community,
But I myself used the phrase, just as many.

Connotations bring with it negativity,
much alike with being African Americans not long ago, almost uncanny.
Bur why does the phrase, "so gay" have impunity?
Come on now, there is no similar place of such scrutiny.
We are all born the same way.

Why can we not live in a loving unity?
To live our lives; everyone having the same opportunity?
Stop. Do not say the words, "Gay"
If the intentions is to inflict pain a plenty,
We deserve the same immunity.
We deserve to feel similarly.

Wildest Dreams part 2

In the heat of the moment, me and my parents, in a series of parkour-like movements jumped and landed on the balcony of a luxury condo. What ever let us to do so is not important, nor can I remember it well enough to fully explain. Some how we knew the door leading inside would be open, obviously. 

Inside there was a set of stairs that led to a lower floor and two doors. We took the second one on the opposite wall of the door leading to the balcony. Inside it was sparsely decorated, an old brown/beige painting and a matching convertible couch/bed. there was a door on the left leading to what I presumed was a bathroom, and there were not other exits other than the door we came out from. There was a window with bars bolted across. "Lock the door," My father said, to nobody in particular. I was just about to grasp the handle when all of a sudden, the door swings opened and in steps a middle-age security guard.

We tried reasoning with him but it was no use, a cordless phone magically appeared and he spoke directly to the charging station. We made a run for it. However living in a small town, it was inevitable that we would be found. And as they questioned my parents in the dinning room of our own house, I laid quietly upon the couch with my grandmother now hushing me, to remain quite and flat. For what seemed like seconds or maybe hours I laid there. The security cops, now have taken my parents away and my remaining family members unanimously decided that the next course of action was to send me back to school, to live as a fugitive. 

In school I was constantly trying to avoid, a girl, my friend, Izzy, because she obviously knew all the shit that when down, and I though, as paranoiacally as it sounds that she was going to send me back to my state, to be prosecuted. Eventually after an elaborate scheme of escaping her, that involved climbing up to the top of my dorm's roof, using plastic rope, a match-box and several strands of blond hair, I ironically bumped into Izzy. She had a sorta longer bob cut, and had wavy beach curls that cascaded, progressively blonder and almost white at the tips. "I promised not to tell anyone," she whispered, "Someone else is however..." and with that she walked away. 

And then, I woke up.

LOL,

Ez

Devil's advocate

I am afraid I am now even less than a ghost.

For I seem to bear no soul,

Not a wisp of sprit.

Eyes, are both still and frozen.

Lips, locked in a sinister smile. 

In the mirror stares a creature, not animal, 

A demented, twisted caricature of my worst features. 

I fear and lust for pain to inflict.

To torment Forture's fairer few,

The rare that are able to sleep with ease.

The few who do not know of problems beyond themselves,

That live perpetually in a room voided of chaos and debris.

I despise their ill-placed happiness,

Because jealousy is a tempest that has engulfed my being.

The pain I suffer, these babies know not of.

Their blissful existence, saved from earthly sins.

I wish to drift down, to their range of short-sighted sight,

To share in their temporary bliss,

Before my tainted dagger, encased in my tainted hands,

Pierce the film of these fragile bubbles,

So we can all shed tears of remorse.