A poet’s story never ends

She was wise enough to not trust a poet.
He was foolish enough to act like one.
She left words as a parting gift.
Two words. Take care.

The poet could never open the gift.
He now roams weaving lies from words.
He throws them into the hearts of women.
He then leaves as soon as a poem is written.

Neal Ym (Phalguni Y)
April 7, 2017

A kind of love

I hate my writings.
I hate myself.
It is the purest hate,
pure like the morning sun, and
fresh like a bleeding cut
drawn at the wrist —
a cheap Topaz blade for blood.
It is the purest hate,
the love of the Devil.
A love still, nonetheless.

— Caliban sees himself in a writing.

Neal Ym (Phalguni Y)
November 7, 2016