Haiku: Smile

It's cliche, but you

didn't have me at hello.

You just had to smile.

Here'sALetterToSociety,ISeeYouPassingMe

A few bad decisions and here I am.

Dropping out of school.
That fall out with my family.
Losing my job.
Those few extra drinks a week.
Or that one time curiosity got the best of me and soon it wasn’t a one-time thing anymore. I was addicted. Disposing of dollars like I had a surplus.
Trying to pull my way out of my own regrets, but just digging myself deeper. And deeper.

All because I wanted to forget.
Drowning my troubles at the bottom of alcohol bottles and medical syringes, but my problems are licensed scuba divers swimming in the wreckage of my Titanic dreams. So I did.
And I forgot. Everything.
And I lost…everything.

But the nights on the cold pavement can’t compare to your cold shoulders, but that’s the only form of contact I’m familiar with these days so I’ll take it. And the voices of my friends, my family…or even strangers; I miss you. Because the only sound I can rely on hearing now is my stomach growling like there were monsters in my ribcage.

Society…you’ve done more to keep me here than I ever could on my own. Because I can’t learn from my mistakes if you won’t let me learn to begin with.
Now my hope for change lies in the change at the bottom of empty coffee cups as my hands shake. Numb from wind that attacks my skin and veins like the contempt you exude when you walk by. I can feel it.
I’m used to the silence so you don’t have to say anything. But when you do…

You tell me “Get a job!”
But it doesn’t work like that.
Now ask yourself this…would you hire me?
Would you look past the filthy clothes a kind stranger gave to me. Or the dirt I can’t help but collect like pity from your eyes when you pass by me. Or the grandeur of the home I make in cardboard boxes, because you’ve already boxed me in…so it only seems fitting that I stay there. Or the sign in my hands…when you know I’d rather have food there instead because you can finance wars but you can’t spare a dollar for me.
So I ask you again…would you hire me?
Would you do anything? Or would you just ignore me?
Like you always do.

DateMeBecauseYouKnowYouShould

For as long as I can remember, there’s been one thing I’ve been trying to accomplish.
And that…is to date…you.
It doesn’t seem that complicated. But trust me it is.
Just for the simple fact that I’m me.

Then there’s part of me which thinks that you’re just afraid of the commitment that dating is usually related to. Because dating, leads to making out, which leads to sex.
And we all know the big problem that sex leads to…Chlamydia.
But I assure you that I don’t have Chlamydia.
How could I? I’ve never even had a girlfriend. And even if I did, Chlamydia isn’t even that bad compared to what it was before. Or other STDs.
But then it doesn’t matter because I don’t have any, nor do I even want to have sex with you. Why?

Because I like talking to you. And I really don’t think people have conversations during sex. Or would even talk anymore after he gives her Chlamydia.
But again…I don’t have Chlamydia. I like saying Chlamydia.

I also like saying your name. And when you say mine.
Or when you say anything for that matter.
Because any sentence you’ve ever said…is my favorite sentence. Ever.
But sometimes, it feels like all I’m doing is annoying you.
Even though you’ve told me over and over again that I don’t.

So here I am thinking that you would finally fall for me if I did something. Something different. Like writing you short poems on post-it notes and sticking them everywhere around you in an elaborate, yet painfully cliché manner, so that you find one every day so you remember that I never forget about you.
But that wouldn’t really do anything. Because all I can see from here is you analyzing me. Watching every move I make, checking for sincerity and intentions…like I was some sort of dating draft pick.
And you with your clipboard and a team of scientists in lab coats going ”Is he worth it?” with your advisors whispering in your ear.

But let me tell you something.
You. Should totally date…me.
If not just because I put so much effort into writing this, or even reading it right now (which is already a good enough reason if you think about it) but because I think that every guy out there that is not me, is a big doodoo head.
And you not liking me just makes me think I’m unloveable. Which might be true, but how would I know if you haven’t given me a chance to prove you wrong. Which I’m sure I would be able to. Because I’m not a big doodoo head nor do I have Chlamydia. So basically, I’m perfect for you.

And here’s something to think about. Oxytocin, also known as the love hormone, is released after sexual excitement is not only important for pair bonding, increasing trust and reducing fear, increasing empathy, and acting as a natural depressant, it also helps heal and lets you live longer.
So basically, oxytocin turns you into a superhero. Falling in love is like turning into Deadpool. So if you get hurt, maybe you get cut and start bleeding, you should go fall in love with someone, go back to what you were doing before then BOOM! Still bleeding. But you feel amazing after.

What I’m trying to say is…that I don’t want to have sex with you, I don’t want to have Chlamydia, I don’t want to perpetually think I’m annoying you and just look for reassurances, I don’t want you and your friends to just size me up thinking I’m not good enough for you because I think I could be. I just want to date you…and turn into a superhero. And maybe fall in love with you.
So if I ever confess anything to you…please. Just give me a chance.

ArguingWithMandyMooreAndMirriam-Webster

I think I might have a crush on you.
But the whole idea of it got me thinking…

First of all, why do they call it a crush?
By definition, the word crush means “1. To compress with violence, out of natural shape or condition. 2. To break into small pieces. 3. To humiliate or depress completely. Or 4. A song by Mandy Moore from 2001.”
Now 1 seems to be way off track since I don’t want to compress you with violence. I like you. I care about you, so why would I want to compress you in any way? Maybe I’d compress you with a hug, but then that wouldn’t be in any way related to the definition…so never mind.
2 seems to be more fitting of a crush gone wrong when they say you get your heart crushed…but that doesn’t sound right. At least not yet.
3 is something I hope this doesn’t lead to.
So that means 4 is the most appropriate.

Now I’m not a Mandy Moore fan, but it looks like an adolescent pop star is way ahead of the curve as far as defining this entire problem goes. Because I don’t think Mirriam or Webster still get crushes, so how would they be able to properly define it in a dictionary?

To me, a crush is something you’re meant to grow out of.
Either it turns into something more, or you get the 2nd and 3rd definitions.
Or it turns into something more, it doesn’t work out and you still get the 2nd and 3rd definitions…hmmm.

Now if this is what it feels like to be “in love”
I think dying would probably be like a rollercoaster ride.
I mean…wondering if you even know I exist, wondering if you like me back, or sleeping on a bed of nails every night wondering if there’s another guy. If you like me as just a friend, or if I annoy you every time I send you a message or a text…it’s not my thing.

But since I’m already here, I might as well get an answer.
So…will you be my Mandy Moore?
Or will you leave me with 2 and 3?

WhyDoYouNotBelieveYouAreBeautiful?

by henrick sales and marcus lomboy

This is for my friends who thinks scars on the face are ugly.
And for every girl who thinks they are ugly. And for every girl in general.
This is for you.

Putting on make up to make up for your insecurities. So you put on that mask made of mascara and foundation on your face. But we can see it in your eyes, hiding in those shadows. You are beautiful. Even if the foundation of your confidence is built on water and oil.
But we all know oil and water don’t mix so it’s BP’s job to start cleaning off the fish.
Because there’s something fishy going on here.


The only reason people tell you you’re ugly…is for profit.
See, the entire cosmetics industry is built on telling girls they’re ugly.
They tell you you’re not pretty enough…
Not skinny enough…
Not curvy enough….
Or that your eyelashes need to be 120% longer or else you’re not as pretty as you could be. So they advertise their products.
Invading your space with in your face ads like…
“Use this new face cream. Apply to your face every day, twice a day until effects show…or until you’re out of money to buy some more.”
OR
That you eat…so you eat too much. And that your body don’t look right without a flat stomach and Kim Kardashian’s badonkadonk. So you better lose fat, lose weight, and gain a date…before turning eight.

But some conditions may apply.

Even though you’re not really fixing anything.
When you already have everything.

Like how your colored contacts only hide your dark brown eyes when I already swear that the night sky hides inside them every time the sun is out. And your foreign scars look like Japanese calligraphy on skin spelling out imitations of beauty. Or that your highest heels can barely get you past my chin…because the best things can come in the smallest packages. That your fat is just your fitness showing off so that you can be noticed.
Because we love handles!

Because your imperfections make you…you.
And you are beautiful!

Beautiful like how the blind can hear, and how the deaf can see and how the mute can tell you you are beautiful. So listen closely. *sign language*
And I don’t care if you aren’t “perfect”!
Because contrary to popular belief, and something that does give us relief…is that there is more than one type of beauty.
See, we don’t care if you don’t look like a star…because they are not real people. They are fictitious creations molded by directors with their own ideas of what somebody should look like. So girl everywhere believe the lies, because they see it on their TV screens.

That they’re not pretty enough…
Not skinny enough…
Not curvy enough…
Not plastic enough.

Because when being made up is the new trend, even the mannequins are more real than you. But we think it’s time for a change.

So wipe those lies off of your face!
And start eating real food! Forget Barbie ever existed!
And stop that snap, snap, snapping of angles for profile pics. That is NOT you!

Stop letting your worth be dictated by the tags on your clothes. And hiding your soul so we can read you like genetic codes, then we can understand you the way you’re meant to be. Instead of studying your reflection, looking for every imperfection like..

Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all?
You are.
No, you are.
No. YOU ARE! And don’t let anybody tell you otherwise!

Learn that all of that can only take you so far
Because calling yourself ugly is worse than any scar. It’s skin deep.

And I’d rather have a nine than a ten, because that one flaw is what makes you beautiful when everybody starts looking the same. Be honest…
When every girl on the planet has the same curves…
And the perfect chest-to-ass ratio.
I’d want that one fat chick! That one flat chick! That one small chick! That one tall chick! Who’s beautiful in her own way.

So don’t laugh at me if I tell you that she’s beautiful…
Or she’s beautiful…
Or you’re definitely beautiful.

Because beauty isn’t something that everybody sees. That’s why the most beautiful of girls have the lowest self-esteem.
But to be honest, I think there’s only one word to describe every girl.
One word they all want to be, but they already are they just cannot see that every girl is *beautiful*.

AHandfulOfSincereApologiesBecauseIt'sTheBestICanDo

The words I had carefully laced in my apology had barely left my lips
When I looked into her eyes.
She said nothing.

Her lips quivered like she was facing her darkest fears
In a nightmare she couldn’t escape…
The pain, too much to place into words
And in that moment, time stopped.
And I swear…I swear I could hear her heart
Fighting against the confines of her ribcage
Yearning for emancipation
From every blow it had ever taken

Each bruise from every leap of faith into unknown arms
Every ‘I love you’ and ‘forever and always’ sugar coating ulterior motives
Every mistake.
Mistakes she blames herself for
Thinking they were her fault.
But they never were.

Her eyes doing backstrokes in an ocean
She held it in
Saving her tears in the piggy bank under her eyes
Already filled to capacity with every regret she ever had
She saves them, trying to refill the trust fund
That experience had slowly diminished.

And it hurt more than anything she could ever say.

Her muted emotions
Interspersed through the silence of her gaze
The sound reverberated off eardrums and hollow walls
Because sometimes, silence is the loudest sound you can make.

For every word she refused to say
I died inside a thousand times
And all I could say was…”I’m sorry”
And I meant it with every fibre of my existence
Not just for everything I’ve done wrong
But a universal apology

An “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you that night”
Or “I’m sorry that somebody showed you the darkest side of men
And not the best that we have to give you.”
An “I’m sorry that my touch might remind you of his
And that he chained himself to your memories, and even the best of them can hurt”
“I’m sorry that even the most honest choose to hide behind the guise of a lie”
And “I’m sorry that my promises are fragile figurines
That I break like eye contact in staring contests because I’m afraid of getting lost in your eyes without breadcrumbs…”

But I always had the best intentions
Yet it breaks my heart that an apology is the best I can do.
I want to scream at the top of my lungs
Rage because I can do no better than to utter a few words
Words that anybody can say and not mean
I want to yell until you believe me that everything will be alright
That you are still perfect no matter what you hold against yourself
And what you’ve been through

And as I looked into her eyes
Tears ready to dive from her lashes
I realized that sometimes silence
Is the loudest sound you can make.

Salvation'sInTheCollectionBasket

I was born and raised a Catholic.
Brought up by an open-minded mom and a dad who displayed pious devotion to his faith, I thought I had the path to heaven paved for me.
But I’ve since learned that things hardly turn out the way they’re supposed to.
Because long gone are the days where I treated life as a game and the bible as the manual, trying to use its passages as passages to reach the kingdom. Trying to escape but I’m tired of it…I’m sick and tired of fools using Jesus as excuses for their ignorance.

So I wrote this poem, ballpoint to the point of breaking making indents on the cursed snake’s skin. With a pen I carved from the rib of Adam filled with the mistakes and regrets of the first lady…so I buried the forbidden fruit in the compost heap.

The religion’s latest dropout, but I’m finding my own way to get back in his good graces. But constantly I’m fighting the urge to fight with angels holding fiery swords and kick down the gates into paradise. But I can’t believe in it anymore..

Because if earth is hell, and hell is worse…
then everybody escaped to heaven and heaven was gentrified first.
So what if heaven had a ghetto?
Pearly gated communities with saints as security
So they trade their halos for wedding rings and offspring too naïve to listen to their parents when they tell them not to look down on the less fortunate that they donate their faith to every Sunday
While the rest live in thunderclouds
Drifting in public transit as they ride rays of light from state to state with tokens
And using condensation as train stations, commuting from rain drops to snowflakes
Taking express routes in the lightning.
Noses deep in hymn books, wearing frames that hold their vision like stained glass scenes in chapels praying that their prayers make the long journey across the street.
But as soon as they leave, they’re lining up down the block at the corner store holding food stamps for salvation but sincerity is long sold out.
Living off welfare, but they still don’t fare well, so they bid their farewells because love don’t live here.
Walking to perpetual Sunday school to witness devils doing drivebys and guardian angels duck and their wings shrivel in fear like they saw a deep fryer and they’re in lineups, trying to point out the kingpin but Satan’s in the shadows, smirk on his face laughing at how naïve we are..

Because we expect freedom and happiness, and clouds made of marshmallows and roads paved with gold, but what if nothing changes? What if the change we refuse to put in the donation basket that we keep telling ourselves we need is worth just as much as a prayer and a good deed, just tax deductible.
What if heaven had a ghetto and their system’s just as messed up as it is here and there’s nothing we can do about it? No programs, no donations, no change.
But even if that was the case…I’m leaving change and my own version of salvation in the collection basket..hoping you do the same.

IWantedToWriteALovePoem

I want to write the most amazing love poem. A love poem I could never dare dream of one-upping no matter how many times I replayed Super Mario Bros. or wrote to Santa asking for redo’s and cheat codes for creativity.

I want to make Christmas lists for secret Santa’s and cards for Cupid just so that I would get an opportunity to tell you the following things.
I want to understand you deeper than anyone else ever has.
I want to get lost in the maze inside of your fingerprints, or in the forest of filaments that is your hair shining like tungsten in light bulbs. I want my fingertips to tap dance a love poem in Morse code on the most sensitive part of your torso, to make your knees quiver like archer’s ammo and caress your skin to read your goosebumps like Braille and send electrical charges down the wires in your spinal cord.

I want seconds with you to feel like minutes, and minutes to feel like days, and days to feel like years because monthsaries are stupid….and I don’t understand why you’d even want to celebrate one.
Maybe because you can’t keep a relationship for even a year.
But believe me when I say I would work to keep you by my side until hell freezes over, or dinosaurs come back to life, or the zombie apocalypse happens, or robots take over, or aliens invade or…

You just don’t love me anymore.

But even then, I’d still toil like construction workers building a new foundation.
Because I don’t want to hold you in my arms…

I want to hide you on an island with me. Or a cryogenic chamber so that I could have you forever. The most delicate yet beautiful creature frozen in time like roses dipped in liquid nitrogen, playing hide and seek with the passing of time and the wilting of whispers of forever’s and murmurs of always.

I want to write a love poem about slipping that fluffy slipper on your foot at the stroke of midnight, because glass heels look uncomfortable. I want to Marty McFly to the exact second you were born and yell “DIBS!” to your parents for your hand in marriage for my infatuated and totally in love 25 year-old self. I want to play connect-the-dots with the stars and find an image of you.

I want you to be my inspiration, my muse. When I slave over my words to build a masterpiece like Egyptian slaves building pyramids, you can force me to keep going with simple flicks of your lashes…that frame your eyes like edges on a Scrabble piece worth one point but placed on a triple word square its worth gets multiplied from simple beginnings with so much potential.

I want to be so comfortable with you that I could tell you anything and everything.
Like how my arms are jealous of the way your blanket gets to stay wrapped around you every night. Or how my shoulders envy how your pillow gently holds your head while you dream about something other than me. Or how my compliments are jealous of the oxygen in your lungs, the way you accept it so gratefully and then it settles so close to your heart.

And I could tell there’s something wrong as soon as you say, “It’s nothing.” Because your problems are like tongues the way they remain hidden behind your smile, only being revealed if someone pays enough attention to look closely. Or when they’re forced out of your mouth by necessity like a gag reflex. Then I would type my apologies and words of comfort on tablets of vitamins and Tylenol hoping they would make you feel better.

I want to write a list of everything I want and see how you react to it, then maybe I would read it on stage, or read it to you in private, or just send it to you with a "Sincerely yours," but really I just want you to get the message.
I want to tell you all of this…but I can’t. So I wrote it in a love poem.

ComplimentsAndACompleteLackThereof

I've since stopped giving girls compliments.

Because no matter what I tell you, you never believe me. Like you’ve been conditioned to think that I would make this shit up when I don’t really believe it. But I do.
And I don’t say these things to get in your pants. That’s far from my plans, like the Millennium Falcon landing in that asteroid with that giant worm that almost swallowed them whole. It’s not something I want to happen. But I digress.
See, you think you’re just okay or anything less than. But I think you’re the cutest thing I’ve ever seen and I just wish that you could see yourself through my eyes. Because to me, you’re cuter than Siberian husky puppies playing a game of tag with baby giant panda bears.
Think of an 80 year old married couple holding hands in the park like they were right out of the last scene of The Notebook. Or actions from A Walk To Remember, but with me doing all of them to you, to the specifications of your own bucket list. And yes that includes naming a star after you, because I will totally do that for you.
From a baby’s first words amid incoherent noises and babble to words crafted by poets that can make entire audiences go “Awwwww.”
You’re cuter than that.
Imagine chubby children running in playgrounds with dimpled, clenched fists and a toothless smile so full of joy that it could make you wish you were a parent already.
You’re cuter than all of that.
Now think of the most adorable thing that’s ever existed.
Yep. You’re still cuter.
See, you’re the reason that I wish I wasn’t a poet, but an artist. Because words can’t come close to describing how you look to me. But I can’t paint, sculpt or draw…
So I’m stuck here wishing that I could speak every language in the world. Just so that I could tell you how beautiful you are everyday in a different dialect. Hoping that it would convince you that you are much more than just okay because the entire world has their own way of calling you beautiful. And the bonus is that I would never sound cliche.
But then again, I’ve already stopped giving girls compliments.

MakeLove

"Let's make love."
One sentence that will never roll off my tongue and come out of my mouth.
I will never “make love”, because I don’t know what love is made out of.
So what if I don’t have the building tools? No, T-square to take the right angles at a-cute actions while I plan out the blueprints from the get-go. Or a metre stick just to see if it measures up to what we expected. You flash a smile, eyes contact and I beam…but it’s a shallow replacement for a concrete foundation and I-beams. But I’m no architect.
And what if I don’t have metres worth of PVC? But all that does is turn the whole relationship into nothing more than a pipe dream of what we wish it would turn into. Wishing that the wooden panels keep the frame of the relation-ship steady in the tide instead of creating walls between us. Because the insulation in these hollow walls don’t do well to keep the warmth inside when the frigid air seeps in between us, and the love starts escaping…little by little. So I’m wishing that I wouldn’t need to rely on a hammer, nails and glue to keep it together when the shit starts falling apart. Because I’m no carpenter.
Or what if it’s not the question of how to make love, but about what we can make out of it? Like “love” is just a bunch of pieces that interlock like Lego’s or jigsaw pieces to make up the bigger picture? That would totally make sense because love never had instructions or a recipe laminated in the box it came in. It was something that people just took in their hands to try to create something beautiful out of.
Not beautiful for everyone else…but something that they saw as beautiful, like Pygmalion crafting a statue. And all of a sudden, they’re in love with love.