I wrote this poem in August of 2025.
my oldest son moved out in same week my youngest started high school
people keep asking me how I am
and honestly I don’t know yet
all I know is there a major hole that keeps getting bigger and bigger
and I call it partial empty nest syndrome
I wrote this poem in August of 2025.
The moon follows me on my drive home after open mic
I try to take this as a good omen
because lately I hold on to the darkness within
let it fill me up until I ease into insanity
gotta grasp at anything that looks like light
otherwise my descent into madness never stops
I wrote this poem in August of 2022.
My love data tells me I shouldn’t try again because every time
I crash and burn and cause trauma and drama
because every time it ends, I get hateful and want revenge
and While I do appreciate the poetry that comes
after every broken relationship
I don’t think I can withstand the heartbreak and devastation
the next time it ends
I wrote this poem in August of 2025.
When I think of the moon, I always think of your silhouette against it
maybe it has to do with the many nights spent fighting in your back patio
maybe it has to do with nostalgia catching up to me in the heat of august
in the midst of many transitions
I wrote this poem in August of 2022.
love makes me feel trapped
trapped in a cage of desire and emotions
I want to escape from
but still delude myself into thinking
it will be different this time, except it never is
so I’m giving up for a while-
Giving myself time to prepare for my next victim
I wrote this poem in August of 2020.
I met you on a cold January night at the IHOP
across your apartment complex
As I was eating up my loneliness
with scrambled eggs and coffee
I hoped you couldn’t see remnants
of tears that had fallen before you came
and you sat across from me
and as we awkwardly made conversation
I wondered if you would be the one
to breathe new life into my almost dead existence
I wondered if your kiss would help me
reignite a fire of desire, would remind me
I’m more than a wife and mother
But most of all I wondered if maybe, just maybe
someone would finally love me
I wrote this poem in July of 2025.
home is where poetry is
where I’m inspired
Where I live life on my own terms
without concern or worry
about whether or not
I’m not enough or too much
I wrote this poem in July of 2025.
People watching days are over, this Song era is now my reality
no more longing or yearning over what could have been
or what I once upon a time wanted it to be
instead I focus on the genuine and loving connection in front of me
the one who’s not afraid of the creative beast who resides in me
and makes me feel heard and seen
even if sometimes that seems cringe or weird
Especially after I admitted I had watched him while he slept
this time he allows me to him without flinching
when I tell him he’s the new muse of my poetry
and he’s brave enough to share his feelings without shame
and reminds me of all the things he likes about me
the one who feels like my sanctuary to lay my love and poetry in
I wrote this poem in July of 2022.
don’t judge others for the life you haven’t lived-
not everyone has had the same privileges or self awareness as you
some of us hardly had time to process one trauma
before facing the next one
and unhealthy coping mechanisms were placed
it’s how a lot of us learned to live our lives
with our emotional gloves and armor always ready
I wrote this poem in July of 2025.
the rocking chair tells a story about the white working class for the past 60 years
from grandfather to father to sons
from the greatest generation to the boomer generation to the boomer generation
and skipped all the way to the zoomer and alpha generation
(side note: the boomer knocked up a pretty little millennial thing in his late 40’s)
the rocking chair has seen the first man on the moon
to the alpha losing his shit when tik tok went dark for several hours
the rocking chair tells a story of the white working class from
breaking the generation curse of illiteracy to educational achievements
from factory days to caseworker days to bolton hall days
the rocking chair holds the dreams, the hopes, the struggles of 4 generations
of the white working class
I wrote this poem in July of 2022.
Iho Place was my teenage dream that ended up in a nightmare
that’s where my Papi bought our first computer
and how I wound up in an AOL chatroom for singles
it would seal a fate I had not intended
flirting with and meeting strange men would lead me
to some dire consequences
I got into my first toxic relationship who ghosted me
after he went to rehab for his drug problem
and I dissociated after the pain of abandonment
I was desperate for love and validation and I met a man
the man who I would make a baby with
Iho Place saw the first 9 months of my son
and the start of my relationship with depression
looking back-maybe it was also the start of my BPD
I remember walking with headphones and losing time
it was hard to be at home with my parent’s silence and disap
I wrote this poem in July of 2022.
Kam Highway would see many changes in our family
three teenagers in one house, our parents were saints
at first we lived in abject poverty
trying to find change in the secondhand couch
for ramen or popcorn chicken or anything
to put food in our tummies
this apartment saw the awkwardness of my adolescence
saw my brother almost fall into the wrong crowd
saw my sister fall in and out of love
until she finally landed her first husband next door
and we had a pizzeria next door and also the interesting neighbors
like the marine next door who beat his unfaithful wife
or Tipper the stripper who was in a toxic relationship with the landlord’s son
their song was Kiss and Say Goodbye by the Manhattans
and the fun thanksgivings with all of the neighbors
I wrote this poem in July of 2025.
my childhood was not easy and at times full of chaos
good to inspire my creativity, one where I never needed
much imagination
since real life served up a lot of telenovela energy
from toxic family dynamics to immigrant trauma
to the ghetto melrose place in hawaii
my childhood felt like a constant barrage of episodes
where the adults couldn’t keep it together
I wrote this poem in July of 2022.
beautiful women possess a certain kind of power
it’s the power to bring men to their knees
with just one kiss
or make them fall in love
with the prowess of their sexuality
they’re lionesses and make men their prey
I wrote this poem in July of 2025.
Eventually I had to come up for air from my bubble
and live in the real world where bills are piling up,
people continue to crash out on my social media feed,
and I face a constant existential dread constantly
wondering if I am doing enough
