Mt. Manabu peak
I’d like to write about happy things
again. Sometimes, I look at the sky
and come up with words like ‘soggy,
brow-beaten cheeks’ instead of
‘tomorrow’. My best work is defaulted
that way – to be of uneaten
breakfast and bottled coffee left
under the bed. Sunlight, if ever
it comes, barges in between cracks
on the roof while I wish to stay
asleep, and my pen reaches for it,
merely to immortalize the pain
of waking up. My handwriting sounds
like birds, drilling the concrete, because
it tells the story of a little girl
crying. There is no air to breathe
in my poems, should I write
one. If there were better things,
happier things, maybe I could.
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