Hi,

How are you my dear readers? I just want to say thank you for supporting and reading this poetry blog. I also want to wish you a greater year ahead. :)

I'm also here to say that I'm taking a poetry hiatus. I tried to keep up with the daily poetry but unfortunately couldn't make it. I thought it would be easier because of the winter break. I was wrong.

This is because I've taken on to writing stories for a bigger personal project. I realize, too, that no matter how much I love writing, I could only write so much in a day.  I wish writing was the only thing I would get to do every hour of every day.  But as you and I both know, there's that little thing we just cannot ignore: life.

I'll be back to writing in metre hopefully very soon. I would always love poetry.

So before I sign off, let me leave you with this quote from my most favourite author, Neil Gaiman.

"May your coming year be filled with magic and dreams and good madness. I hope you read some fine books and kiss someone who thinks you're wonderful, and don't forget to make some art -- write or draw or build or sing or live as only you can. And I hope, somewhere in the next year, you surprise yourself." 

The word "create" is inherent in "creature."  It is in all of us to create whatever we want.  We'll be doing ourselves a favour when we create something, anything.  It's a manifestation of our existence.  So do it.

Have a wonderful year all of you beautiful creatures,
jln.

I wish there was someone
to tell things to
without any hint of
judgment or questions
just plain talking
conversing
words flowing
like a bathtub faucet
left running
and running
for hours on end
until water jumps over the tub
and down to the cold bathroom floor.

And it seeps out under the door
silently streaming out picking dusts
on its way but still going on anyway.

©jln.

How is it that
the same substance can
both carry two polar messages
of a heart breaking
and a heart rejoicing?

And her puffy red eyes could mean
she has lost all hope
or she has gained it all back.

Tricky, confusing things
those tears are.

©jln.

Hours upon hours
of paid work, of
picking up clothes made
from distant lands to
the hands, shoulders,
collarbones of people
with the paper - so powerful
people die for it.

Or at least people sweat
break their backs
leave their families
for it.

Hours upon hours of
dealing with powerful money
and clothes from distant lands

I come home afterwards,
and first thing I pick up
is the stringed instrument
and wash my hands with
broken melodies and off-key notes

cleanse my soul with words
written by someone who does not have
to work hours upon hours
with clothes made from distant lands.

©jln.

I've made so many mistakes
that I'm afraid --
every step, I shall trip
and fall rolling down
the stairs -- because
that's what always happened.
Never failed to happen.

Until now.

And my dirty and filthy
being, my voice so small
and my lips that were
always shut

opened

and words that I thought were broken
finally came out right.

©jln.

Smile --
that's all I really had
for someone who
used to love to see and hear
me laugh.

I could not laugh like
I used to before
not when we're like this now.

But what's wrong with a smile?

A quiet one.
Because between the two of us,
no words need to be said
out loud.

It would just ruin
what has transpired.

We both can be happy alone.
We both can be happy for each other.

We both can be happy
even without a

happy ever after.

©jln.

I'm running. Very fast.
I'm running.
And I won't stop. I just
keep on running. Necessity
is much stronger than
everything else
right now.

I cannot wait.

I don't stop right away.
Not to a halt. It would
shot pains right up and down
up and down
my strained body.

I slow down.

Slowly, I catch my breath.
Slowly, everything comes clearer.
They were a blur when I was
running. Very fast.

Slow down and see
what's necessity and
what's important.

Sometimes, they are like
twins - twins who are
insanely identical

yet one tiny thing
one detail sets them apart.

And that's what matters the most.

©jln.

How is it that I'm
peaceful and immobile
for the very purpose
of resting my body

and then my mind runs
around blurring the lines
between dreams
and reality making me
believe that this is real
when it's only
a dream?

In the dream where I thought
it was reality
I almost died -- the basic
bodily processes don't work
as normally as they
would. I almost died in
a world that wasn't real
but I thought it was.

At that moment of death,
the moment I felt my
breath's cessation,

I woke up, found myself
alive in the real world.

©jln.

With your words, I feel
like I'm walking on a
thin wire like I'm
working in a circus.
But, I look around and
I have no audience - just
a shadow of myself... the
look on her (my) face
full of hope that I
won't make a mistake
- the same mistake -

I'm walking, walking
very carefully,
I won't let you down,
I thought.

I'm shaking, trembling,
weakening.
Like before.

I won't let you down,
I promise.

©jln.

And in the cold,
I feel dead and undead
at the same time.

It's like the cold
is burying my body
six feet under --
what it's like
to be surrounded by
lifeless cold
not an ounce
of warmth around.

Yet, the cold
is stirring every pore
and every nerve bringing
it back to a different
kind of life --
a life of quiet and
just nature's elements
all around.

©jln.

I have a photograph
of that day -- and
possibly that moment --
that I first
fell in love.

It's strange holding
the photograph in my
bare hands, seven years later.
The edges are browning.
It was not taken digital
but preserved in some film.
I had to wait weeks to see
and look back to that day
when I first
fell in love.

It's weird that
I have a photograph of
that day, found in between
the very pages where I create.

Three people looked back at me smiling.
One person purposefully turned his back
(that's just the way he is).
One tourist randomly included looking lost and bewildered.

Three people looked back at me smiling.

One was a good good friend who loved
to dance to music and to life.

The two left - smiling.
Me & him. Him & me.
Not touching, just standing beside each other.

Little did I know that I was falling.
Little will he ever know that I'm still writing.

(about him.)

©jln.

To create, we use words
to materialize ideas
see them in front of our eyes.
For plans to become actions,
they become words first.
We describe, we make sense
of every single thing
through words. We create or
recreate (how ever you
want to look or your belief
allows you) the world.

I have one question however:

Why is it that I've exhausted
hundreds upon hundreds of
combinations of words

to recreate you

and yet: you still remain
nowhere, non-existent --
I can't even hold you
in my hands.

I just want to hold you,
that's all.

And I can't even see you
with my eyes.

I just want to see you,
that's all.

©jln.

People,
including myself,
always find themselves
wondering why
the people they like
looking at -- never
look back; wishing they will;
like they do, oftentimes.

What I, we,
don't or may never know
is that those people
from afar can be like
toys --

there is that possibility
within our childlike and
hopeful hearts

that when we're not looking
they, like toys, do look back at us
that when we think dormant

one look
and our hearts come back to life.

©jln.

I won't ever,
never ever forget you.

You changed, I did too.

But what I won't forget
are two things:
who you were
and who I was.

You, who set to me
the definitions and conventions
of what this small tricky
thing was. You, who also taught
me how to break down these
walls of conventions
and reveal something not just
beautiful, but lasting.

Me, who didn't know
one bit about this
tricky beautiful lasting thing --
an eager listener
learner of your ways
gave you my small hand
trusting for your guidance
and comfort. Your hand on my shoulder,
imprinted all the way to
my heart.

In real life, we never happened.

In dreams in hearts exclusively, we were.

Always, it's you.
It will always be you.

©jln.

This is for you, you with the sleeping talent in need of awakening.

Stains, stains
on his graying apron
walking around,
his thoughts on
of his next paycheque
his eyes looking
for the next table to bus
his heart searching
for that beautiful
secretive face
he saw yesterday.

The face that held
a promise of a different
world away from spilled
soup and coffee
and black garbage bags
with small holes and leaking.

The face that told
of fifty one stories
about broken vases
and loose endings and
dusty keyholes to the
heart he

he never thought
would be his fall.

©jln.

And I feel a new image
forming out of broken pieces
new words within words
it's exciting.

And it's good to experience
all of it
the good and the bad
laughter, tears
harmony, incongruities
fullness, emptiness.

And it's only when,
when, I guess meaning now,
that moving on
can happen.

©jln.

Watching people lives
written in lines
connected by invisible wires
distance blur
and all of a sudden
I am inside their heads
and their hearts
and knowing, bit by bit,
what's inside
their pretty painted heads
and rotten hearts.

And I'm sitting comfortably
wanting to run away.

©jln.

I order hot tea
and I get cold
frozen icy tea
not iced
but just hot tea
becoming cold,
really cold.

I thought I was
perfectly clear
I said the right words
and I paid the exact amount
up to the very
last cent.

And for my longings to be warm
and cozy and safe,
in return, I've got a glass
or piercing cold touching me
from head to toe.

©jln.

Small talks over
milk chocolates on sale
and red scans over
a half blue, half white sticker.

A polite smile and
rehearsed words
greetings are exchanged --

one line of sincerity

turns it over
and becomes a rare
a very rare
moment of genuine
conversation
that lasts a minute
between two strangers
who have never met
and probably will
never meet again.

Yet both will remember
the face and smile.

Without names and
with sincerity, they will
remember.

©jln.

Life is like a coffeehouse.
People come & go.

Some will place their order
wait patiently until
they get their drink
or maybe doughnuts
then go.

Some will place their order
and in the unfortunate sense
that satisfaction is not met
they will explode and
maybe shout hurtful obscenities
leaving you seething
and helpless
behind the counter, and you
wonder if what you did was
THAT wrong for them to hurt you
THAT way.
And then they will go.

Some will place their order
and talk you up, start a
conversation, smiling and
pleasant the whole time
asking how are you and if
you're busy, make small talk
eye contact and wish you
a very good day, the world
in it's right place.
And they, too, shall go.

Life is like a coffeehouse.
If they feel at home
inside a place full of strangers
unknown faces,
differing ways to their coffees,
burnt out, hung over,
studying for an exam...

almost definitely
they will come back.

©jln.

You should've been here.
Still be here.
And laugh your laugh.
And smile your smile.

Successes
and failures.
Unexpected marriages
and breakups we knew were coming.
I moved away and
so did some. You wanted
to move away but
you cannot. You're
tied to the ground
and to that same person
you felt, you decided
not worth going on
and living.

To that same person
you thought was not worth
another shot,

and you gave yourself a shot
that bought yourself
a peaceful darkness

and to us,
a dark hole, still smoking
from that trigger
you pulled, aimed at
that mirror that showed
you a person you hated,
that they hated.

You failed to see,
that person we all,
we all, thought
was worth every
happiness in the world.

©jln.

People don't worry about me.
I could always handle
myself. Apparently.
I don't cry. I'm straightforward.
I give out realistic advice.
I'm focused. I know where to go.
And how to go there.
I have planned each step. And I
always give it my best
possible shot. Almost always,
I hit the target. I miss
and I recover. I have
a system that works. Feelings
in check. I have strings
and a box of moving pictures
and pages upon pages of sentences and phrases
that create a whole new world
where monsters and happy endings
come in different shapes and sizes
and people who hate eventually
love each other and verses written
about illicit affairs, falling out of windows
butt-naked, clueless spouses.
Apparently.

Everything you see
is just
...apparently.

©jln.

I have a lot of thoughts
which translates
into words, words,
words, tonnes
of words.

And they all fall
into the deaf ears
of my computer keys
of my phone screen
into an open open
open space full
of other words

not heard
but only thrown.

©jln.

It seems that when
bad things, sad things,
frustrating things
happen

my body knows how to react.
It knows, automatically
how to feel and see.

Being broken comes easy.

Yet, it appears that when
good things, remarkable things,
happy things
happen

my body is left frozen.
It is stationary - like it's in a
state of awe.

Just in a state of awe.

©jln.

Why is it that sometimes,
sometimes,
a look says more
than a lengthy conversation?

"More" meaning

a look will leave you
more things to think
about, it can carry
feelings so vague
so ambiguous
it tells more, so much more
than words so straightforward.

Sometimes,
sometimes I'll take a look
over words.

©jln.

This place where
vital conversation
-communication-
gets drowned by
booming soundwaves coming from
towering speakers -- they
envelop every moving body
gyrating towards one
another, attracting each
other's skin and energy.

And people, people
expect to find some meaningful
comfort
and connection
in this place.

It's ridiculous.

Because all they can find
is a superficial
comfort, a superficial
connection

that will be vaporized
when the sun hits the blinds.

©jln.

This is for you rogue529.

It's not that words are useless,
it's the manner that they are used
that is problematic.

Words are supposed
to make sense of
things and feelings
and thoughts.
Understanding should be
its fruit.

It's not the mouth,
not the tongue,
not the lips,
not the teeth.

What strip the words,
the language
of its utility

are

the head that thinks
what words to say

and

the heart that decides
how to say them.

jln.

It's not really unusual
when you feel alone and
no one is there
with you, not one body
around you. Isolated physically.

What really unusual
is when you feel alone and
you're surrounded by people
who love you, just a message
away. Yet you can't
talk. You're not even sure
if they would want
to listen. Isolated emotionally.

©jln.

I want to talk but
no words are coming out
of my mouth
my lips are open
but only tired breaths
and echoes of a
broken heart's monologue
come and take place

that no one can hear
not even I,
I who should already know

what to say
but even my words
though only echoes

even them, and they're all I have,
are broken.

©jln.

And the things I can't tell
and the stories I can't write
and the words I can't speak
and the moves I can't act

do happen and
take place in

a place, in-between
whispers and breathing

swiftly, it happens
that I myself can't even

can't even.

©jln.

What is out there?
Who is out there?
How is it out there?
Why is it out there?

The fog conceals all the answers -
so heavy I can feel it
weigh down my shoulders
and as I stand in the middle of it
the fear, ever existent.

The only question I can answer -
is

Where? Where is whatever is out there?

Everwhere. Surrounds me.
Anywhere. In between every possible space
where I think I can hide and cry.

©jln.

And he walked by
looking far far ahead
with nary a glance
to that face he used to smile at
to that face he used to talk with
to that face he used to compliment

saying words, words that inflate the heart
like a warm embrace and a tight hold
on the hand --

He just walked by
passed by, idly by.

Strange how much people forget.
Stranger how much people pretend to forget.

©jln.

Is it possible
to fall in love in two
short booming seconds?

One.
Two.

If that were the case,
then,
by the third, fourth, fifth second --

Three.
Four.
Five.

My heart's already broken.

©jln.

The most painful phrases,
I think, are

"could have been"
"should have been"
"would have been"

-- They reek of regret
and painful sighs that shoot
down your spine to your soul
back to your heart - already broken -
trying to break it more.

-- They indicate dreams and
images of things than can now
only take place in your mind
happening only in your breath
disappears as your eye blinks

back whatever is before you
reality or whatever

and attempts to open you
to another world where
things happen as you think
it should, could, would.

©jln.

The only thing that separated us
was

a messy coffee counter
with random spills of milk,
a hand-drawn woman with a crown
smiling down at me, a stack
of brown holders that keep your
hands warm, strong aroma
of coffee beans brewing, a fence
of noise roaring from machines
of voices shouting out complex
combinations of milk and caffeine --
it was impossible for you, for me
for us to --

you looked over
and you smiled
asked me how was school and
I said I didn't go to that school
you mentioned
and you apologized and smiled and
said I, I, reminded you
someone you knew.

I smiled, and said
You're wrong.
You smiled, and said
I guess I am.

I smiled, you smiled
as you handed me the wrong coffee.

Of course you did.

©jln.

Sorry,
I'm not able to answer your call.
Please,
Leave a message after the tone.

And you leave your message
while I,
I, perhaps, am

in the shower
or sitting on the john

in the kitchen
or washing the dishes

in the confines of my room
trying to avoid any contact
any contact that will reveal
I am breaking, breaking slowly
chipping away, melting
sitting in a corner, heart racing
not wanting, not reaching

hearing the voice leave a message
asking me to come and
be paid hourly

that life seems so far away
so far away, it's not really mine.

©jln.

With every single
plan that didn't pan out
as you expected it to be,

there's another plan
that is panning out as we speak
and as you cry and agony seeps
and as you feel yourself breaking like glass
and as you kick and scream and no one hears
and as you shut down and tune out

there's something blossoming
at the corner
waiting for your look
and make you happier.

©jln.

Author's Note

Dear readers,

When I first started this blog, I just wanted it to be an online record of the poems that I write down on my actual paper journal. Yes, I still do write stuff down on paper. I didn't realize that I was going to have a regular audience. I know I'm a nobody so getting an average of twenty hits a day is already making my heart swell like crazy. So, I just want to thank you all for reading what I have to write in metre. I get most of my readers from Canada, obviously. But it's really nice to see some regular viewers from the U.S., Portugal, U.K., and Singapore. So thank you! Since I really did not expect to get viewers, this shall be the first time that I'm going to say this: I want to know my audience! I want to know what you think! So drop me a comment or leave me an email at angelajATgmailDOTcom. I would like to hear from you. I don't bite. :)

I am writing this now because I believe I would miss posting a poem again later tonight as I have another busy Friday schedule: classes, choir practice, then work. Yes, I do write these poems everyday, usually at the end of my day.

Hoping to hear from you (yes even the friends I know in real life hahaha),
jln.

The idea that
there is a world of
moving creatures and contraptions
noises and whispers
below our feet
seeps the energy out of our legs
our cripple soap-washed legs
makes us feel weak
and vulnerable and dizzy.

Why?

If there's a world above us
we see it, we see it.
Birds flying, the atmosphere stretching
into a universe with no end.

It pushes us to explore
and to conquer
and to become better
and bigger.

But a world beneath elicits fear.

That with every step, we are glued to ground
That with every step, we might be snatched down

and get lost in the cracks.


©jln.

Smile. Smile.
Smile. Smile. Smile.
Smile. Smile.
Smile. Smile. Smile.
Smile. Smile.
Smile. Tears. Smile.
Smile. Smile.
Smile. Smile. Smile.
Smile. Smile.
Smile. Smile. Smile.

Smile.

©jln.

The man beyond the window
the man smoking
and puffing
with a felt hat slightly
tilted hiding his eyebrow
and casting a shadow
making his face
half dark, half light
half dead, half alive

and he stares at me
cutting through the glass
looking right at me
as he exhales gaseous nicotine
into the fall season's night air

and he's just looking
and looking
and waiting

for my move

but I can't --
his stare, froze me to the core.

©jln.

The one thing that
separates
me, my skin, my body
from
the harsh world of
fierce winds and biting cold
is a thin piece of clothing.

The one thing that
separates
me, my heart, my soul
from
the violence of
broken promises and uncried tears
is one face masked smiling.

©jln.

How powerful, memories are.

Memory dissolves the walls
around you, so strongly built
sturdy and firm but when
memory hits, it's like
the walls were never there
in the first place

and you are back where
and when

at a time where your present
has shielded you, has
protected you, has
forgotten, regressed you
from

and that's when you feel
every ripple on your
skin like tiny waves
of pricking happening
all at the same time

and it shakes you
shakes you from the present
away from here

back there
there where you felt flying
and the present where you crashed.

©jln.

And he was standing there
still for a moment
with two hands
in front of him
placed on top of
a brown counter
marked by the incessant
drops of coffee
spilling every minute
for eight rigorous
hours.

And he was standing there
Thinking and knowing
what to do next
the moment the bell rings
his body will stir
and move and walk
and come back.
Walk and come back.

And then the bell rang.

I was right on all counts
except for one small thing:

He turned to me and smiled
the kind of smile that
I didn't know would last
my heart for years.

And years and years.

©jln.

Waiting
like the lamp post
for the morning
and the sun
so he can rest
turn his lights off
and love the day
silently
quietly
passionately.

Mornings give him
darkness but
illuminates
the rest of his life
with unbelievable
light so powerful
it makes everything
beautiful

so beautiful
he forgets his purpose
to be a light
in the dark.

He doesn't want
the moon to come
and the stars to shine.

Just the sun, all day
all night.

©jln.

You may not be fully sure
when you say
"I love you."

You may not be fully sure
when you say
"I hate you."

But you know
the one thing
you can say
that you can be fully
absolutely sure of
the moment you say it?

"I miss you."

©jln.

Saying and telling
words out loud
out loud, out loud
disrupts not only
the soundwaves around
my face

but it also
breaks down the
walls around my heart
lined cracks by
lined cracks by
lined cracks

until they all fall down

and I have nothing left
but a bunch
of gibberish jumble
of letters
no one can ever put
together
nor
understand.

©jln.

And if nothing else works,
you can always
close your eyes
block slowly
each and every
sense. Try and freeze
every nerve from feeling
anything
outside your skin.

Detach from your body
to make you feel more alive.

©jln.

Walking.
One foot, then the
other.
Right.
Left.
Right.
Left.

And with each
foot you step
on a memory.

It splashes
flattens
squashes.

It's just a
mess on the
pavement.

Figures and
moments distorted.

A different story
is now being told.

Not when

you squint,
you squint real hard

and that's when
truth can be briefly glanced.

©jln.

You know how
they say that you
can feel it
when someone looks at
you?

There is that
energy stirring
between you and
him.

It's a line
nobody can see
and
everybody just
walks by

but they will not
break it - the line
they won't
the couldn't.

It's only
you and me
me and you
that can
break that line
kill that energy.

I don't see the line.
But I can feel it --
on my skin.

I look back
and the energy
bounces off our
spectacles

creating blue red
yellow orange
loud explosive
vibrating stirring
fireworks

so beautiful

nobody can hear
nobody can see
nobody can feel.

I can though.
Can you?
Let me know if you do.

©jln.

And if anything,
I'll let you know.
I'll leave a message.

Don't you worry.
I know that
"I'm fine"
is
the world's biggest
understatement.

The question,
if I may ask,
is

would you respond
if I call?

knowing the words
that would spill out
of my mouth
would be the very
words you
dread
to hear?

I'll just be here
waiting for your answer.

And we'll take it
from there.

From there,
we'll take it.

©jln.

Drive.
Let's drive away
from here
here where everyone
needs... wants
directions to
get to somewhere.

Let's drive away.
We don't need
directions baby --

we just need this
steering wheel

and the world
before us.

We can stop, sure,
smell some flowers
pick some fruits.

Let's drive away
and not go back.

At least, not until
somebody calls
and tell us we will
get fired
if we don't get
back to work.

©jln.

Being voiceless
is the same
as being
loveless.

No one can hear
your words
you try to talk
and but the words
just float
bounce on the
walls and
back to you.

You want to
sing a song
a melody to
express and
ease the intense
bursting
feelings inside.

Even a whisper
you desire.

Nothing.

All you have
are words unspoken
written in
jumbled letters
that don't really
make sense

except to you

and to you only.


©jln.

The moment I
write these words
and the blinking line
produces a letter
and moves down in a row

on a white space
enclosed by a box --

know that these
words and letter
dashes and commas
periods

they are all
a product of my
chaotic and bursting
mind

trying to breathe in
inspiration
and breathe out
expression.

©jln.

In that place, you
become a person with
no name

just a person with
a body

with a smile, so
inviting, magnetic,
hypnotizing
stripping
you of thoughts
about spilled milk
and spilled tears

of nights so long
of dark sodden corners

of mornings so cold
and trash cans
toppled over
and of anything
that can hold you
back.

of shaking, of quivering
under the rain

of sweating, of fear

of wondering about the difference
between living alone
and dying alone

of that yearn to matter.

Tonight, it's just
you and your
body and your
smile.

And everybody else's
bodies and smiles.

Force,
tension, and
charge.

All of it,
but nothing of thinking

in that place.

©jln.

I wonder if it
will ever go away?

It's still so
alive, it stirs
every once in a while.

But I know it's still there.

I'm scared of it. Please
take it away.

Please go away.

Even if that means, it
takes my heart

away with it.

©jln.

Rushing
running
racing

every second
every step
matters --

all for what?

To catch a bus
to get somewhere
you think you're
supposed to be.

To catch a bus
like it was the
last

when, really, there's
another bus coming
another bus that can
take you somewhere
you think you're
supposed to be.

You just wait.
Just wait, be
patient. No need
to rush.

It will come.

Again.

©jln.

I am sitting beside
Truth. He's okay.
He's not completely
scary as what people
say.

He's just staring
with an open
hand. Waiting for
someone to
reach out and
hold his hand.

I feel Truth
sitting, breathing
beside me. He's alive.
He's real.
I tell you, he's real.
And he's trembling

from loneliness.

I guess, when people
try to run away
from you, it gets
lonely sometimes.

And all he wants,
is for someone
to hold his hand.

©jln.

"Mommy, please let me
press the numbers for you!

I want to press
the numbers for you!"

"No honey, we're not using
the card today. I'm paying
by paper money today.

Why don't you
hand the lady the paper money?"

"Okay Mommy."

"Ugh, I can't reach over Mommy help!
Can you please carry me?"

"I can't honey. Mommy's leg is
hurting."

"Where's Daddy? Can you ask
him to carry me Mommy?"

"Honey, let me just give
the paper money to
the young lady."

"Where's Daddy?"

"Here you go honey,
here's your new Barbie!"

"Yeeeeeeeeee! Barbie!"

I wish Daddy was here
so I can show him my new Barbie!

Mommy, where is he?


©jln.

Waves of forest green
over white floating
seemingly
carried by pointed
heels
with a smile
as a crown
that makes them
sparkle and glow
like princesses.

And she comes in
walks wearing
a beautiful kind of happiness


the promise of forever
waiting for her
at the end.

©jln.

There is something freeing in solitude. You don't
have to worry about that sauce on your upper
lip. Or that piece of meat stuck in your teeth.

Put your feet up - as long as they don't smell and
hit another person's head. Eat slow
and savour every salt and every pepper.

To not wipe your greasy hands right away so
you can hold or touch another's. You don't
have to smell good and most importantly,

you can take your own sweet
precious glorious time
to pee.

©jln.

I
cannot be
what I
used to be.

Because
what I
used to be

was
a me
with you

and
you
left.

So
now I
am (and
would just
have to be)

me
with
me.

©jln.

Pages
of blank
white paper
folded halfway
horizontally
stapled on
the spine

to make
it look like

a makeshift book

about

stories and dreams
squiggly lines
comic bubbles
smiley faces
sun and moon
sticks and stones
hula-hoops
irregular hearts
of people
holding hands
stick figures
pointy ears
circular eyes
birds shaped
as shifted
number threes

every thing
held together

by staple wires
and
a child's dreams.

©jln.

I missed
a day
of writing in metre.

of figuring
out how
to write these thoughts.

That time
I was supposed
to be writing in metre

I was
clutching
my heart

being stabbed
by an invisible
sharp pen

its ink
pouring pain
all over my veins

freezing
numbing
my hands from moving

arresting my
mind from
thinking

of nothing
nothing but
dying.

©jln.

Tonight,
music with
no words
say more
than the
longest
song
ever
written.

The beauty
of music
with no words

is that

from listening

just
listening

and
no words
interfering

comes
understanding.

©jln.

That moment
when
someone
catches
your eye.

The previously
non-existent
space between
you two
solidifies.

One.
Two.
Three.
Four.

And in
four seconds
you're alive

and what's
more important
is that
somebody else
acknowledged
your
existence.

Five.

Time's up.

Back to the
faceless crowd.

©jln.

I wonder sometimes
why they start
stories with
"Once upon a time..."

Do magical stories
only happen
once?

Upon a time?

If magic
If love
If tragedy
If lessons
If friendship
If love
only happen

once upon a time...

Then,
don't bother
telling me
a story.

©jln.

And if only
people could
hear
what I'm really
saying,
could see
what I'm really
experiencing,
could feel
that I'm really
trembling...

then they --
you
wouldn't have to
know
the end
of this poem.

©jln.

Sometimes
there are
no words to
describe
how you feel.

Simply,
you are just
aware.

Aware.

That hollow
space
that ghost
figure
sitting beside
you.

You nestle
your head
to your side

feeling
a shoulder
to catch you.

Just keep feeling.

Until your head
your body
falls.

A bump in your head.
A bigger bump in your heart.

Aware of
that hollowness.

©jln.

They say
the hands can
tell the future.

Look, look!
Look at those
lines criss-cross
zig-zagging
one another.

Does that say
I'm gonna have
a kick-ass
career
in real estate?

Does that say
I'm gonna be
the next
most powerful
WOman in the
free world

or maybe
American Idol?

Or does that
simply say
I have a
very lined
palm.

You know
what I see?
What I really
see?

A hand.
Just one hand.

Used to be
held.
Wanting to be
hold.

©jln.

In the middle
of words and
faces, food
and phrases

I see an
apple -- a
bitten apple
just one bite
floating by.

It caught my
eye.

And my heart.

How can an
apple float by?

It disappeared
into a corner.
It came back
a few minutes later.

There it was
again
floating by
catching my eye.

This time,
it dropped
my heart back

bitten.

I picked it
up and looked
back, asked
why.

The apple turned
into a corner
and disappeared.

Give it back.
Give me back
that bite that
little piece
of my heart.

©jln.

It's hard
to say

Hi
hello
how are you?

Not bad,
thanks.

How about you?

When all
you really
want to say is

Hi
hello
I've missed you.

I've been a mess
without you.

How about you?

It's hard,
I tell you
wanting to
cross that line.

It's like
your lips are
moving

but
your eyes
your hands
your heart

the rest of
your body

betray you.

©jln.

I remember
being sick
some fever
sweating profusely
strangely freezing
and shaking.

I was five.

And she - hers was
the hand
that constantly checked
my temperature
101℃
the thin poisonous
contained mercury
whispered.

Hers was the
worried eyes that
looked down
at the sick shell
of a child I was.

Hers was the
reassuring smile that
calmed my young
heart and silently
told me I was gonna be
all right.

Tonight,

hers was the foot
I was softly massaging
to relieve her
pains of walking

to ease
the swelling of
her roughly lined
ankles brought about
by years of
walking
working

more walking

to get us
where we are now.

She smiled
as she kissed
and hugged me
goodnight.

I know that smile.

That's the one
that says
everything
is gonna be
all right.

Calming
embracing
my already adult heart.

©jln.

Walk with me,
I hope
you don't mind
the tok-tok-tok
of my short-heeled
black shoes.

The seemingly empty
bland corridors
theatrically whisper
the tok-tok-tok
back to me,
back to you.

Walk with me,
And I will hum
some verses to
your searching ear --
hmm hmm hmm.

Hmmmm...
Hmmm...
Hmm...
Hm...

Listen.
Just listen.

My short-heeled
black shoes and
my heart quite bashful

are singing

to you.

©jln.

What happens when
two famous neighbouring
questionably hostile
uninhabited godly
celestial bodies
stand together
just a little bit closer
in one night?

It makes some people
curl up and sleep
and dream of a
dreamless sleep.

Some, however

get goosebumps from
standing outside
very late
six stories high
strained neck, opened mouth
squinting eyes wider still

gaping

up at the bottomless
pool of dark ink
in the sky, feeling
rather special and
important - since two
celestial bodies don't often
come together - just
once every sixty years
they say.

Yet

eventually there comes
that sinking feeling
mouth eventually closing
eyes slowly looking
downwards
by the mental gravity
as the realization hits
that one is drowning
drowning and gasping
and drowning
in his own insignificance.


©jln.

There are two kinds of people in
New.
York.
City.

One that looks straight ahead --
not looking at anything but
where he needs to be.

and

One that looks up and around
the tall scrapers that pierce the canvass sky
with his mouth hanging open.

©jln.

In shadows, we touch longingly.
In that small space of darkness,
we run around and play
careful though not to touch
a panel of light
get burned by fire.

In shadows, we hide discreetly
feelings of desire, feelings of
truth and honesty
whispered words of love
written questions in air
left to be blown, unanswered.

In shadows, we write words
in bottomless black ink, we write
and we write until the
shadow is filled with truth.
Come daybreak and sunshine
words are stepped on and squashed

eventually absorbed by land
eternally concealed by the ground.

©jln.

I fell in love with
a stranger.

It was love
at first seat.
He got in
and sat
beside me
inside an orange bus.

The bus turned left.
The bus turned right.
And every single
time, every turn,
our shoulders
kissed --
our arms
made love.

More turns
here and there.
We saw the world
as it laid before
us, us two
together.

that young Green Gables girl
would've been proud

One sound was all it took.
He stood up, still and shaky
for a few.

And the seat turned cold.
And my arms froze.
And my heart died.

You have to get off
the orange bus
sooner or later.

You have to fall
out of love
sooner than later.

The goodbye,
I guess,
is implied.

©jln

John Mayer sings:
"When you're dreaming with a broken heart,
the waking up is the hardest part."
And the crowd sways
and tears.

Last night, I
dreamt with a broken heart.
And all I wanted to do was
wake up.

You roll outta bed and down on your knees
And for a moment, you can hardly breathe.


From the nightmare pain
of you being there
a kind of sadness, a kind of truth
that all I can and will ever be able
to do
is to dream of you.

Wondering was she really here?
Is she standing in my room?

So John Mayer,
just keep on dreaming
and writing songs that
make people sway
and tear.

No she's not.

I'd do everything -
anything
but
dream.

Cause she's gone, gone, gone, gone
... gone.


©jln.
Used first verse of Dreaming with a Broken Heart by John Mayer

That long rectangular space
below the door, any door
between that and the floor.


The reason why I like
standing before the door is
that I can feel the rush
of the air from the other side
the cold touching my toes
my knees, my thighs,
my heart, my lips,
my brain, my mind.


And I move in a little closer
still - until my nose is touching
the rough wooden door and I’m
face-to-face with once nature’s
little green child, so dear so alive.


I move in until my toes fit in
that little space between
up until it hurts my skin
because the other side is


where I want to
Be
Where I’ve
Been.


©jln.