Wandering-writer-poet - Wanderer.writer.poet

Love and despair are drawn from the same well.

I cannot always tell which is the poison,

And which is the cure.

— y.c.

Years ago, my friend had a ganglion cyst, right on her wrist. 

Fluid build-up. Best to let it rest. 

Don’t aggravate the joint. 

It’ll go away on its own. 

.

Some days, I think memory is a bit like that. 

A build-up in oft-agitated joints, 

The nerve bundle harmed by relentless back-and-forth that has become

       habit, 

Become routine. 

It goes away on its own, quiet as a last breath stealing out of a lung. 

Fades as time wears on.

.

Other times, it’s more like a broken bone, never healed right. 

You remember the crack, the pain, the wrong-ness

       of the displaced shards of calcium. 

You remember the painstaking, irritating, frustrating process

       of healing and relearning simple tasks. 

.

On rainy days, the bone twinges. 

On rainy days, you are right back to the break. 

.

—you can always wait for the sun (y.c.)

Ver • ti • go

(noun)

1. Standing on a rooftop with you and your

daredevil smirk and unfaltering gaze; the

warmth of your hand as you took mine,

joy turning my world to a dizzying

kaleidoscope of scents and colours

2. Standing in an empty flat with pieces of you

and me scattered on the floor; feeling that

chasm opening inside me and knowing your

wouldn’t be here to catch me, not this time

(—Yushan C.)

Chivalry isn’t just dead.

We beat it out of us with a stick

(society)

and carved it from our souls with a scalpel

(normalization)

and now

We don’t know any different.

— y.c.

Did you come from Hell,

oh Goddess?

Did you rise from brimstone and flame,

wielding words like swords?

They call you a demon

but then again,

They have always mistaken

strength for sin

when it comes to

We

who wear beauty

(like armour)

and swallow cruel words

(like bitter medicine)

— Yushan C.

When did

h o p e

stop feeling like a dream

and start feeling like a joke?

I chase

l o v e

thinking that will lead to the

h o p e

they gets me out of bed everyday

but it keeps slipping through my fingers

like water

No,

like sand

gritty and rough

It’s worn me down

This running can’t help me find

this elusive

emotional

El Dorado

that we poets pretend to know anything about

— Yushan C.

Mother, I think I’m cursed

This air is turning to poison

This heart is falling apart

Mother, I think I’m blind

The path is dark and winding

No light shines on these parts

Mother, I think I’m dying

There’s nothing but numbness here

and a voice whispering, “We’re all mad here”

Mother, I don’t want you to save me

This darkness has begun to feel like home

and it truly has been so long since

I felt at home

— y.c.

Home is teddy bears

exuberant cheers

child’s laughter

parents’ pride

Home is quiet 2 A.M. conversations

thoughts too loud for music

words too raw to speak

pen ink fresh on a page

Home is tea steeping

cookies baking

alarms beeping

clocks ticking

Funny how so much of

Home

is what I made from

Everything

you never gave me

— Yushan C.