“The Power of Saying Goodbye”

One morning, I was in a foreign land,
Standing on a platform,
Waiving to a disappearing train,
With a crying mother in its hand.

One night, we couldn’t sleep from too much crying
And hugging, our relationship declared dying.

One afternoon, I got a phonecall,
That now there would be silence on the other end.
And the snow cried too, a sympathetic friend.

The tears are always there,
That is true.
But few know,
Of the quiet liberation too.

Sometimes things fall apart,
For wilder things to be built.
After tears and anger,
Sometimes we need peace.
Nature gave us humans hands,
To grasp and then release.

Sometimes saying goodbye
means you don’t need a crutch.
Newness is pain,
But the adventure is much.

That is not to say that I don’t love.
The problem is I love too much.
But my love for freedom,
For rightness, and for making my gut content,
That spans the greatest extent.

A goodbye not said can eat you out for years,
Can be the source of many many more tears.
Saying some words you shouldn’t have said.
Sometimes, goodbye is less regret.

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“Painting Over Memories”

If I had a canvas to illustrate,
It would be one of those expensive paintings,
With random splotches of dye thrown on it.
In real life, things don’t make sense either.

All those memories,
About summers and views and hiding from your parents,
Breathing the sweet awkward fire of first love
And Boom! Another coat of paint.

Prague, quiet nights, the Dutch country side,
And era of intoxicating stability that could not last.
More paint.

Gray skies, shocking phone calls,
Snow everywhere, death in the air.
I throw another bucket at it.

Today I’m still painting.
I don’t know if the colors are even bright or dark.
I can see bits and pieces of the old ones,
And the layering makes an ugly shade of brown,
The kind that wants to make me want to run away.

Why can’t I keep all the colors?
Why this constant creative destruction?
In one second everything I hold so dear,
The next, I’m busy painting it away.

It’s haunting how the paint will always be there,
Even when you can’t see it.
Maybe that awfully simple Rothko painting
Is also a painful disguise of all the things that have once been.

“In Seeking Color”

I’m sick of writing poetry
About my existential dread, 
For people who no longer matter,
Or to appease the messiness in my head.
I want something colorful
The bright crimson of the fruity tea I’m drinking,
The reflection of the sun from the building across right into my window.
The fire in conversation I have with my best friends.
 
They might say, the word you’re looking for is ‘love’ Kristina,
But I say, there is something better still.
Shakespeare’s sappy sonnets do not explain
Why the perfectly misarranged fairy lights on the tree outside make me so happy.
Why when I walk through the crowds at the shopping street on Saturday
I feel as a part of a movement,
Or the satisfaction I get pouring homemade sauce over my rice.
I think if you have to call it one word, I would call it ‘life.’
 
We’re all so afraid of what it all means and what’s going to happen,
Through writings, and movies, and sobs we dramatize it all.
But life is hardly a drama,
When the main thing it consists of is small things, ordinary things,
That is the real story to be told.
 
And yes, sometimes my heart leaps,
And I get lost inside a story,
A future fairytale where everything tastes sweet in decidedly my way.
But while I dream, a visitor is standing at my front door,
Saying, let me take you to the real world ,
You won’t want for nothing more .

“Am I a storm to be quieted?”

Am I a storm to be quieted?
No, some of us need to scream.

I, I let you tape my mouth,
To prevent offense,
That came so easy with your prejudices.
Even after, I peeled it off,
For time I could not understand,
The new power I had gained.

Inch by inch,
I crawled back up to high ground
And found my voice again.
Here it echoes in the distance.
Though I wish you’d hear it,
It makes me content
That I’m doing something
You’d never understand.

(unpublished archive June 2015)

caring

I’ve tried to get rid of you,
A few times now.
You’re not who I expected to be with.
You’re not the whirlwind romance or the ken doll I had in mind.
I keep pushing you away because you don’t fit their description.
You’re nice, and make me feel calm,
And you make me someone else,
I haven’t met her before.

No, I don’t protest,
But I still hold on to my expectations,
And they make me sick,
Even though perhaps I’ve gotten,
Much better than what I thought I wished.

And still I’m so scared.
If you’re different, how do I know who you are?
If you leave, I’ll blame myself for my decision,
And what will I tell my scars?

I really don’t understand how you ended up in my life.
So I keep thinking you should leave.
But every time I think it,
I pull you close,
One more kiss,
Cherishing you,
While you’re oblivious to my motive.
Oh please please don’t leave.
Maybe I’m just scared that I care.
And that it’s better to be the one to step away
Than to be left standing there.
And even worse, by a person who didn’t fit your scheme.

Love is way too fucking complicated,
And sometimes feels so overrated,
But you waking up next to me
Is what keeps me from over-thinking
Everything else to its extremes.
I guess you just end up being
The collateral damage to my mind machine.

I pray for clarity,
But it’s never there,
Except in loneliness,
And that I refuse to bear.
Clarity is in quitting,
In cutting people off,
In cleaning away dishes,
In choosing a very practical career,
In cutting off your dreams.
The great struggles of life,
They have no room for such a thing,
But they cause everything else,
The stuff worth waking up for.

Because walking away is easier than caring.
And caring is a violent storm,
But there you see all love and art,
And feeling of a beating heart.

(from the unpublished archive 2015)

“Art…”

Art,
My sweet devil,
Save me.
I’ve
Gotten so comfortable with falling apart.

Emptiness,
Like the dried up stream,
I run from.
At times I’m fooled.
The stream is still dry.

Love,
A quest to find some spark,
Somewhere,
Some life.
My loving tears
Can’t turn a wasteland to a park.

Passion,
What is it?
Books, songs, dances,
I see nothing.
Sometimes so foreign,
Just like laughing.

Purpose?
I’ve erased them.
Nothing really worth it.
No difference can be made.
Living to live,
To what?

Continue reading “Art…”

“Someone once told me, to make sure I feel my pain…”

Someone once told me
To make sure I feel my pain,
Emotions are a spectrum,
Not a fire to be tamed.
And now here I was again,
Playing it safe.
Mediocre love for mediocre pain.
But the truth cannot hide
Behind the practicality of my brain.
The hopeless romantic, the girl on fire,
The poet smiling at the rain,
They cannot be contained.
Even if in light of pain,
And seemingly hopeless wandering and days so same,
A bolder life, a wilder love,
None can deny,
The vision’s a gift from above.