My Beating Heart: a Poem

Originally written in 2018 (revised in 2021)

Within this shelter, your beating heart will be a bomb
(waiting to explode); instead of him, her, or me,
your rhetoric will be because of your enemy’s fractured heart
thudding in their cracked rib cage.

You have written yourself off as a casualty of this war
(a hostage of the situation), and you swear
there is no way to leave this zone unharmed.

(Yet somehow, you declare it a happily ever after.)

Your beating heart demands fireworks
(flashbangs with brilliant colors).
My heart begs for pyrotechnics
(as though it was crafted to create a show).

Cling to your memories, baby,
because as the hours tick onward,
you will be as distant as that far-off town you live in.

Release the demons you have been swallowing
because my memories are mere accessories
and my heart is a hostage to the situation.

Your beautiful energy is hemorrhaging,
losing consciousness with each passing minute.
My cherished self-pity is a refrain to the song we all knew the lyrics to
(yet no one picks that melody for karaoke nights down at the local bar).

How insignificant is this movie scene to the overall effect of the montage,
yet somehow,
it’s all we can think about for days (perhaps months).

This scene is a car crash on a rainy night home,
and we’re counting bits of broken glass as though they are stars.

We have made our bed, as they say,
now, we must lie in it.
(Even as the shattered glass scratches down our back
like a set of untrimmed fingernails, leaving scars and hopeless reminders
of car crashes.)

Your memories constellate at this exact moment in time
(where time ceases to have any meaning whatsoever).

I have to ask you, darling, how could you bear witness to
all the things you saw & still crack a smile?

Your cigarette cologne is a scent you wear
after all these years
like a weapon, like an aphrodisiac.

Your beautiful energy is hemorrahging,
losing consciousness with each passing minute.

My cherished self-pity is a memoir that fell in the rain
and warped all the pages, the ink smudged.

Cling to your memories.
This scene is a car crash on a rainy night home,
You’re as distant as a city far-off.

We will sing melodies of a song we all know the refrain to,
yet no one picks at karaoke nights.
I will remind you of graveyards and ancient tombstones,
fire escapes, and long-abandoned lecture halls

like a ghost.

Your beautiful energy is evaporating now.
We have made our bed, as they say, now we must lie in it.

Unwavering: A Poem

From the prompt “unwavering”.

Like a bullet in its chamber,
her quiet nature could be misconstrued
(perhaps thought empty or aloof).

She’s a lightning bolt yet to streak.

When she clears her throat,
all eyes fall on her
(an audience when she is used to none).

She does not hesitate this time,
though fear clogs her chest
and makes it feel
as though her heart escaped its cage.

Her words come out clear.
Her voice – unwavering.

Pretty Woman Singing with Eyes Closed

This time,
she will speak out
for all the victims,
for all the survivors,
for all the beautiful
that died too soon
with coins on their eyes
to pay Charon.

Her fingers dance and skip
across her numb, denim legs.
She feels as though she wants to scream
(for all the times she kept silent
are piling up like a traffic accident
everyone can’t help but
stop and stare at)

Her truth – and the truth
of all the women before her –
need not be suffocated any longer
(because for so many centuries,
we fought,
dirt underneath our fingernails
from digging our own graves)

Finally, a voice emerges
from somewhere deep
(the voice of her ancestors,
the voice of the dead and the victims,
the ones whose shame crept through
their bloodlines like an insidious poison drip
through sewer veins)

Her chest is an iceberg –
as cold as a glacier.
Her eyes are embers
reigniting with every word.
Her voice – unwavering,
and not silencing or sleeping
until all the sinners are taught
to atone for their sins.


I read somewhere, when I first started writing, that if you can produce one good sentence a day, you can consider yourself a success as a writer. Lately, I have been struggling with writing either poetry or fiction, and though I haven’t been depressed, I haven’t felt the urge to write anything in weeks. At first, I chalked it up to grief, and while I adamantly don’t want this to become a diary, I do feel it’s important to give my readers an update on my writing.

In the past few days, I have been working on my ghost-writing project; I am ahead of schedule with that, which is great, but I haven’t written much on my other projects like the letters I want to write for Jackie Bluu or other anthologies. Hopefully, soon, that will jump-start again, and I will begin writing more for my chapbook and anthologies I am interested in submitting to.

I recently did a poll in my Facebook group about what kind of content people would be interested in seeing. Turns out, it’s a close competition between more poetry and an option added by an old friend of mine: a moment of inspiration from my life. The moment of inspiration from my life actually came in first place, so I will be thinking on that the next couple of days.

In the meantime, here are my couple of good sentences for the day:

The bundle weighed a couple of ounces under eight pounds; it was light, yet fragile like fine crystal, wrapped in a pink blanket. When the woman opened it, she immediately said it was too pretty and couldn’t belong to her.

– Isabelle Palerma

This is for a new novel concept (utilizing the homonym “novel” here) I am toying with. If you’d like, feel free to let me know what you think.