I look far ahead,
I look far behind me,
and my eyes are anywhere
but here.
I’ve spun around
360 degrees,
only to find myself
at zero once again —
though it’s been said
throughout the ages
that the yearning soul
will die and be reborn,
I have not known
what it is like
to rise again
with a smile of triumph
over the grave.

Death follows close behind me,
and all I can do
is sit by still waters
and see its reflection.

It is a ponderer like I, but worry is only the extent of my pondering, whereas…

I’ve always sensed
that there was something
different about me,
but it was a cause of loneliness,
misunderstanding,
and heavy doubts
that almost killed me.

I express my yearnings
for a quieter, simpler life
full of somber verses
that can only be understood
by a soul that sees through
the illusions made
by those who shout the loudest
and attract the most attention.

I want to write lyrically
because noise isn’t beautiful
and I will not be proud
of myself if all I produce is noise.

And though I am restless with inner strife and in conflict with the noise…

I read a lot about writing. I obsess over it and speculate how other writers who could be judging my ability and predicting whether “I will make it or not.” I worry too much about not having the magical “it” factor that would help me be memorable enough.

Do I have “it” or do I not? Do I have an innately compelling voice or not? Do I have a type of talent that makes me memorable or not? …

I am stopping to think about how small I am and how small I will continue to feel amidst the grandness of the world around me and the grandeur of the universe that I will never fully understand.

And in this smallness, I feel like an underwhelming soul with nothing to offer, even though I know that I will always feel small and remain as an insignificant being with a fate already predetermined — I will be long forgotten centuries after I pass on and there will be nothing significant about me to be memorialized. Of that I am certain.

…

Most days I think
that paradise is an impossibility,
something not freely given
but a rare, hard-won glory
that was never meant for me —
and thus, I could not envision
my own paradise without
letting my tears
flood its terrain
and eventually
wipe it from existence.

I have shielded my eyes
from miracles in plain sight,
and viewed the storms of life
as arduous and ceaseless —
something I deserved
for having immutable
deficiencies that I could never
overcome.

But I cannot wander aimlessly,
further away from my true calling,
in this perpetual state
of desolation and self-denial.

I…

I have been a supporter of Andrew Yang since March 2019. I’ve donated to his campaign several times, was vocal about blatant slander against him on social media (by everyone on the political spectrum — corporate neoliberals, socialists, libertarians, classical conservatives, MAGA, among others), and even shook his hand and got a selfie with him. I was incredibly disappointed that he dropped out of the 2020 Presidential race.

But that was because I was an entitled millennial back then. I thought that the $1,000-a-month Freedom Dividend (which apparently has now been doubled due to the pandemic) would be better spent…

My pages are torn
and now I am just a series of words
scribbled hastily in ink
scattered all over the floor —
with no coherent rhymes
or eloquent reasons,
just broken words searching
for their proper place
in line.

They may be lost,
but they are still beautiful,
though they may be
scattered everywhere,
they are still pieces
of me — the pieces that I am
still trying to form
into a more beautiful whole.

I am not an effortless
storyline about a hero
who gets her way
from being the strongest
of them all.

Instead, I see the…