SMS: a short poem

Was that sassy?
My sassy SMS translator
was not turned on.

Streets in Cambridge

Untitled

Is not it profound how music and smell
provoke memory?
Talk unto a memory
and be ridiculous,
the past is no place to live.

It captures me and tortures me 
because those faces I cannot see,
those ears I will never have
and their company never keep. 

Regret. The paths back exist
all too vividly without form
but without function too,
it never gives in.

Broken buddha: creative writing after a late night discussion with a teenager

You could judge, we all do,
but you'll probably be wrong.
I judged. I got it wrong.
Flaws make the shape.
Learning is imperfect, classrooms aren't.
Dreams make the life, make the path.
Wisdom is earned. Find trouble,
look for the wisdom. Not surely,
but bruises are brown, purple, red, and yellow.
Winning is just golden.

Creative writing #2: Six Years

Laughter, giggling or chuckling. 
Belly laughs and throwing back my head 
to hear my scarred lungs wheeze. 
I forgot you used to do that. 
I've never met a woman who makes me laugh 
as much as you, 
and you would probably laugh that off. 
Your body language is a walk 
along a beach, 
in the sunset, 
with a crowd of people 
smiling and laughing. 
Wearing turmeric coloured clothing 
and tripping 
on the sand 
with a drink in hand. 
I do not see a beautiful woman, 
I see a beautiful existence and a gravity, 
a current that you pick others up in.
I'm sorry things have been so bad.