I Found A Drawer Of Letters The Other Day.

They’d been lulled into a false sense of security with this gentle, quiet version of him. But gentle didn’t mean safe, and quiet didn’t mean meek. The same terrifying fire burned in him still, an intense mix of unpredictability and unyielding.

— Yushan C.

Tell me,

When you look into his eyes,

do you see storms brewing

like the ones that tore your home to shreds?

When you hear his voice,

do you hear the rumble of thunder

deep and unyielding

accompanied by that flash of smirk-lightning?

Child,

he was not made

to be handled by soft hands

and dewy eyes

He was not made for gentle hearts

and forgiving minds

He was made to

level cities

decimate countries

raze the world to the ground

— Yushan C.

There is beauty 

in the silence, in the stillness, in the gone-ness.

In the dripping water casting ripples in puddle—

who is left to see it?

In the soundless streets—

who is left to hear it?

-

There is beauty

in the empty, in the quiet, in the ghosts.

In the burning lights, haloes silver and rose—

who is left to see?

In the winding roads, snow pristine and clear—

who is left?

-

There is beauty 

in the dark, in the soft, in the peace. 

Silence is a commodity rarely found and never sought, 

An extinct creature killed by advancing times. 

There is beauty in its return; 

There is beauty in its resurrection.

-

(who is left to hear?)

-

—beauty in a time of mourning (y.c.)

Quiet

She was quiet

        But not in a nice way

She was the silent storm

        The blow that came out of nowhere

        The one you never saw coming

She’s been through hell you can’t even imagine

        Her scars are a shield

        Her words are weapons

She can’t be controlled

        Tamed

She is the wild wind

        The rebel without a cause

        The broken fallen angel

She’s beautiful like an ocean in a tempest

        Like a phoenix rising from the ashes

She walks in the wake of battle and turns her head to the blood-red sky 

        And smiles.

She is quiet

        Not in a nice way

She is quiet the way 

        Lightning

Makes no sounds before it

        Strikes       

— Yushan C.

Sometimes I think that eternal love is the adult Santa Claus … we all know that it does not exist but nobody wants to hear it …

Alessandro Cattelan 

@thelovejournals

(via thelovejournals)

Who Decides?

Who decides what is right and what is wrong? Is it us— our hearts, our beliefs? Is it society— feeding us lies and truth in equal measure our whole lives? Or is it nature— the ever-present, slow-changing world we grow to love? Besides, who are we to choose? Right doesn’t come as pure white. Wrong doesn’t appear as stark black. Shades of grey dominate our world, and everyone is trying to decide which shades are worse than others. Our whole lives are founded on what we believe in our hearts. In that way, no one is a villain. Everyone is only trying to make their way in a world where good and evil are undefinable.

So don’t be so quick to judge. Battles are rarely fought in plain sight of others; rather, they occur in our hearts and souls and we wear our scars like trophies. Time and time again, we fight for the good in us. We fight to meet our own goals, to conquer our own worlds and fears and insecurities. Because demons will always lose to angels, if you put your mind to it. After all, without angels, demons would exist. And without demons, angels would have no meaning.

We make gods out of sinners and altars

Out of gutters. We bow, 

Heads down in silent reverence,

To fools who beat back the nonbelievers with

violent and wrath and the pious

Call it righteous.

The gutters birth no good saviours; these

streets 

Vanquish purity the way Heracles vanquished

the lion and Perseus vanquished the

serpent but they had gods on their side 

And we have only demons.

—modern sins equate salvation (y.c.)

When did

h o p e

stop feeling like a dream

and start feeling like a joke?

I chase

l o v e

thinking that will lead to the

h o p e

they gets me out of bed everyday

but it keeps slipping through my fingers

like water

No,

like sand

gritty and rough

It’s worn me down

This running can’t help me find

this elusive

emotional

El Dorado

that we poets pretend to know anything about

— Yushan C.

“We keep wasting away, whiling away our days, chasing what? Fame? Fortune? Those might not last, darling. Love might. Hope might. Joy might. Chase those. They’ll keep you warm when cold fate abandons you in a trench on the side of a road.”

— what are we chasing? (y.c.)

I am rediscovering how to love

The way I used to when I was five. Before Love

Was swept under the rug and 

Freedom became the only prize. 

Fear runs rampant, dominates—Panic is seeds sown by a 

         careless farmer—

But here, in this moment, without distraction, 

        without fear, 

I am rediscovering what it means to love despite 

       the flaws we hold. 

Here in this moment, 

I am redefining who I choose to be.

If one thing must come from this living, 

barring death, 

let it be the choice to love again, 

despite Love’s faults in the past. 

.

—in the space between here and then (y.c.)