on cirrus and citrus

4/1/25

cirrus
note: this poem should be read from the bottom to the top. so start with "do you remember..."

Spoiler

ahh thank you so much, @WeepingWisteria and @winterwolf0100!! (wow lots of ws XD)

4/2/25

elevator

the brushed steel doors slide open with a tired judder,
as if it's seen too many years, this elevator.
i step on, brush my knuckle over floor 8, step back
against the wall, look at my playlist and select a new track.
people get off, the pack remaining shuffles around
until we're evenly spaced, all listening to the sound
of the monotone female voice saying "going up"
and that one person on the phone saying 'sup.
and sometimes i wonder if it would really be a blunder to
break that sacred elevator silence, to
strike up a conversation with someone, to
reach out, seek out, eke out a greeting--
but would they respond, embrace the meeting?
and again, though it's been done before,
(did i enjoy it? that brief spark of human connection?
i'm inclined to say i did, from my recollection)
for better or worse (i think worse), it seems in poor
taste to shake others out of their digital thoughts
and so we scroll on our phones, mindless robots
until the elevator dings and it's our floor and we drift
out to go our separate ways, still with this stinging rift
between us.

veo a la gente caminando sola,
y en mi mente pienso que debo decir hola.
pero soy cobarde y estoy cansada y... estas son excusas.
tal vez sí lo haré. diré hola, pero solo si no te asustas.

Spoiler

translation of the spanish (disclaimer: my spanish is probably not completely correct lol):
i see the people walking alone,
and in my mind i think i should say hello.
but i'm a coward and i'm tired and... these are excuses.
maybe i will do it. i'll say hi, but only if you don't get frightened.

4/3/25

late-night ramblings 0x00
TW: mention of s**c*d*

i find it funny how so often, poetry is both beautiful and depressing. like how a mosaic is made of a thousand sparkling broken pieces. there is something about pain that is so eloquent, it seems. (and really, i do not find it funny, but interesting is too dispassionate and it is not really so strange. or is it?) the other day, i was pondering what i considered good poetry to be, and one criterion i thought of was that it made readers feel. and i wonder if it is easier to make readers cry than to make them laugh.
there was a statistic i remember seeing about suicide rates being significantly higher among poets. i do not know where i am going with this.
on the one hand, i believe everyone can be a poet. on the other, it's taken years for me to consider myself a poet, and even now, i do not fit the image in my head. i am the sunshine soldier and the summer patriot. i tip my head back to embrace the rain and i pretend the drops running down my face are tears.
another criterion was originality. i am fond of wordplay and twisting phrases and experimenting with punctuation.
and combining poetry with what you love. for me, that is science and technology, and computer science in particular. and languages: natural languages and constructed languages and programming languages and esoteric programming languages.
i've lost track of my train of thoughts once again, if there ever was a track to begin with (or even a train). i am stationary at this station, holding a tattered piece of stationery and stupefied at the state of things.
if i do not know where i am going, perhaps that means i cannot get lost?


late-night ramblings 0x01

i don't know whether to compliment or cry for you who turn your pain into poetry. i know how it feels when you say you feel like you're not enough. i don't know grief, i don't know how it feels when it seems like the world hates you, i don't know how it feels to not want to exist. but through your words, maybe i can begin to imagine different lives. to develop empathy, the ability to look at a stranger and wonder softly what their life is like.
thank you for being honest. thank you for giving me a glimpse into your inner worlds. thank you for weaving words into creations that dance through my mind and nestle in a corner to be read again and again.
i suppose sadness is a good muse. frustration begs to be released in a torrent of words. but please, don't let them drown you.
and it hurts to know i am miles away and even further emotionally and just another stranger on the internet when it feels like i know you and your pain through your words. that's presumptuous of me, isn't it? still. i wish i could help you bear your burdens. i wish you would believe me when i say you deserve all the good in this world.
there are no shooting stars tonight. but really, i think i would rather wish on words.

Spoiler

thank you so much, @EllieMae and @Meshugenah!! <3

4/4/25

to the lost ones of yws
(Shakespearean sonnet)

my heart’s a lemon being softly squeezed
by thoughts of you when you were here with me.
we talked, we wrote, we laughed until we wheezed
and i revolved around your energy.

each day was fresh, ideas sweet, and we
plucked words from trees, made poetry from plants
and listened to the meadow’s melody.
i think i still have grass stains on my pants.

but life went on, and maybe things went wrong,
and maybe it was right for you to leave–
i know you’re out there, doing good with song.
but i still miss you; i regret the eve

when you said bye to orchard, forest, glade.
i swear these tears will make good lemonade.

4/5/25

l*v*

i'm not one to curse in the common way. i find that using fantasy curses or vegetables is much more creative and satisfying. for example, vek! storms! celery! see how fun that is?
but i also redirect myself from saying other words. irl. normal. love.

• *rl: isn't the online world just as real? words have power, and words on screens can hurt and heal just as they do in-person.
• n*rm*l: what even is n*rm*l? we are each our unique shades of weird, and so i hereby banish "normal" to stats textbooks.
• l*v*: i toss this word around casually when talking about things or groups. i love mint choc chip ice cream. i love yws. but. i l*v* you-

…it seems like i can't say it unprompted. i may know it for a fact. for example, i love my parents. but when they say it to me, i say it back because i feel obligated to. i say it first when i know they need to hear it.
uoy dias uoy evol em. i t'ndid wonk woh ot dnopser. dna m'i deifirret esuaceb i kniht uoy yllaer tnaem ti.
funny how it seems like i know nothing about l*v*, considering how it blasts from every car radio and is woven into nearly every story. many days, i find it trite and stomach-turning.
i don't know how you wear your heart on your sleeve | light up all in your gaze like sun through the trees | breathe your words into a necklace for me.
i half want to tell you to shove your heart back into your chest. i'm afraid i'll fumble and drop it | forget to water it | hold it too tightly and break it. m'i diarfa d'taht kaerb em oot.
esuaceb tahw i hsiw d'i dias si, i t'nac yas taht ot uoy tey. tub nehw i yas ti, ll'uoy wonk i naem ti. evig ti emit.
storms. i've become another cliche poet writing about l*v*, haven't i?