A tree named Jorge

Ever since 43 Maybrook drive became my home away from home, I’ve watched Jorge live, die and resurrect. As it bloomed like a teenage girl that just hit puberty every spring, its leaves, ripened by the summer sunshine, desiccate and drop to the ground every fall; the way age makes a once young army veteran fall into the hands of an aide. As every winter comes, it loses its leaves one by one until it’s left naked and alone; the way one loses his mind, body and soul as he lays in the nude under the ground, stiff and still. Jorge is truly resilient in the face of adversity, so much so that I’ve witnessed it come back from the dead, grow back its leaves and blossom as spring approached once again. Jorge never succumbed to debilitation. If Jorge could speak, it would quote Martin Luther king and say, “we must accept finite disappointment but we must never lose infinite hope.”

What I inferred from living in this world for quite a while now is that, regardless if you’re a human, a cat or a tree, existence is going to always spice things up a notch by throwing a little hurdle your way. You’re subjected to all kinds of emotional disequilibrium for no other reason than merely existing. And when that happens, I don’t believe that we’re expected to keep our composure and stay intact. I think we are allowed to break down, fall apart and shatter to the ground. As long as we persevere, pick the pieces up, reassemble and get ready for whatever comes next. The world is always going to come at us armed with challenges, none we couldn’t overcome. Everything will get better, until it gets worse and then better and then worse and then better … Nevertheless, we will be alright.

(yes, I have an idiopathic compulsion of naming almost everything in my surrounding. I named my computer Leilani and my phone Ebanee.)
(For the sake of normalcy, Jorge will not have a pronoun, even though it’s pretty suggestive that it’s a male name.)

The girl who died to live

“Code blue”
“No, she’s a DNR”
“we’re just going to turn off the sound, and you can say your goodbyes.”
And suddenly, the hallway was overcome by a deafening silence. Everybody was looking around with utter confusion and dismay. I thought death was peaceful. Why am I hurting? As my body begun letting go of life, my soul took one last look at the world that doesn’t have a place for me anymore. Coming out of my mom’s womb, Playing hide and seek with my dad, Wrestling with my brothers’, Plumes of black smoke coming out of our old house, My best friends, My first kiss, The taste of Coke, My 3rd grade teacher, My childhood dog Leo, That one time I fell in the subway in front of people, My graduation… My life flashed before my eyes while I was literally gasping for my last breath. “No, I’m not ready yet!” I screamed. But my vocal cords are stripped of their blood supply. I can’t speak. No one can hear me. Where did the rest of my memories go? What about that time I was fired from my dream job? My Heart break, the fatal car accident I survived from? My Grandpa’s funeral? What about those times? Where did those memories go? Why aren’t they flashing before my eyes? The memories I refused to talk about, the ones I packed in a box and buried somewhere deep in my head. Hippocampus, do you have them? Neocortex, do you have them? Amygdala, do you have them? Hello, can you hear me? I can feel my blood thickening, clotting. My head is spinning. What now? Who is coming to get me? Where is the light? Oh crap! I haven’t finished the book that I started. I wonder who Liz is going to end up with.

From cradle to grave, from breath to asphyxiation. My time has come. I am leaving now. My story is over. I am a walking cliché; I waited all my life to die and now, now that I’m dead, I lived. I lived my life through my memories. I lived and re-lived my whole life in these agonizing 3 minutes. What a blessing in disguise it is to die and then to live again.

Work in progress

Getting rid of the toxic people in your life is all fun and games until you realize that the toxicity happens to come from within. Yes, you can be toxic to yourself; Even, Oxygen, the gas vital to sustain life, lo and behold, can also destroy it.

I believe that self-criticizing is one of the most common and subtle ways of self-harm. Slicing every bit of your youness, to the point where you end up being emotionally crippled. Speaking from my experience, I am my worst bully. I have never been enough for me. I have always expected so much from myself. Be it looks, intelligence or success. I criticize myself so much that it became a habit. There was a point in my life where a simple complement like,” you’re cute!” would make me so combative. Which paved a way for my inner critic to bully me in to creating a toxic environment that essentially harbored my low self-esteem.

Only now do I realize that my berating behavior has stunted my emotional development. I still have a lot of growing up to do. Part of that growing up is unlearning some things that I was taught by my inner critic. In retrospect, I probably should’ve been a little nicer to myself. At the end of the day, being hostile to oneself does nothing but harden up delicate arteries. Therefore, I am resilient to have survived the debacle that I created without a stroke. Literally.

On the basis thereof, I am a work in progress. Every day, I learn and unlearn something. I have existed for almost a quarter of a century yet; I still haven’t figured a way to get rid of my “lovely as a dream, hideous as a devil” inner critic. In the midst of it all, I learned to be appreciative of myself, to toot my own horn and to love myself despite. But learning and doing are two different things.

Lifespan of a pimple

Like a zit on the skin
You never came to stay
Prowled your way in to mine
Looking for easy prey
Rock the boat, cause a scene
Create a matinee
You needed a riot
Before you walked away.

Blemishes, I’m left with;
Memories that won’t fade.
More dark spots to conceal
More emotions to hide.
27 whole days,
I’ll wait in agony.
For my whole skin to shed
And get your marks off me.

Take the scab that you made
As your sweet souvenir
Strike a pose, fake a smile
A picture with your kill
Wave it around the world
Hang it up on your wall
Easy come, easy go
Like the good old pimple.


Whatever death maybe,
is it the end of me?
Once I’m 6 feet under
Will I go obsolete?
Will I be forgotten?
Will I be history?
In the realm of the gone,
Will I recognize me?

Oblivion, the sublime
Will I still feel your leer?
From the eyes of the world
Will my face disappear?
Little by little
Will my life fade away?
Will my color vanish?
Will my silhouette stay?

A life lived in a haste
A journey so futile
Will it all be a waste
Am I here just to die?
Will life keep going on
After the big good bye?
Will my ashes be spread?
Will I fly up so high?

“Que sera sera”
What will be, will be.
Whatever death maybe
I just hope to see,
Tiny bursts of myself
In a world with no me.

Never been kissed

My first kiss was a boy
called him “Brian the frog”
maybe it was his nerves
but he choked on his tongue.
Lesson learned, moving on
maybe I should rehearse
and so, I kissed Braydon
who was just even worse.
He held on to my hands
as though I wouldn’t run,
He bit my lips so hard
Like he’d never seen one.

Then I thought to myself
that a kiss is an art.
So, I got me a Sean
An outstanding poet.
He had his ways with words,
His poems were superb
But when It came to my lips
He truly needed help.

Then I met Dominic
The human Hercules
Guess, old habits die hard
He wrestled with my lips.
Although I’ve got to say
He’s better than Marques
The king of saliva
What a waste of a kiss.

Sloppiest of them all
Was David with braces
Let’s just say that I know
What he had for breakfast.

So, I hereby, declare
The Virtue of my lips
I do not kiss and tell,
I have never been kissed

Not based on a true story (maybe there’s a little truth somewhere in there. All the names were taken from one of my favourite songs by Jhene Aiko – comfort inn ending. Biggest apologies to all the Dominic, David, Braiden, Marques, Sean and Brains out there. I’m sure ya’ll are amazing kissers. I just wanted to try something new and have fun with my poetry, since all my poems are super depressy. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.



If the five years ago you
Met the five years later me,
he wouldn’t have let go,
he would have kept me.
The me after heart break,
The me that has been loved,
Is greater than the me
That had veins full of pride.

This me says, “I’m sorry!”
This me is justified,
This me picked out the weed
That me held on so tight.

for what it’s worth;
you’d have loved this me,
you’d have had no choice.
Too bad you never stayed
To witness my rebirth.