All my life, I've looked at words as though there is winter in the only dry and wet seasons of the Philippines.
I've looked at words as though the violin and its bow met after a long time. As though words are a parasol of red, affirms me of protection and passion, yet rainfalls still get me, the sun nevertheless harms me at 14:22.
Words are the places printed on a map I never knew existed when in a zoomed out display.
They are like a total stranger I, only knew the outside.
At around fifth age, newspapers of my parents' death were sand in my eyes at midnight of the Monster's party. I had weeks of anxiety about the near-death until I got the cipher of the newspapers. It won't happen yet, I understood.
Childhood was merely the time I lived in the illusory plays and fights with friends and foes. I began to pace around all-day as per the wish of the Monster. Teenage wasn't so sweet either. As for another command of it, my eyes became stuck to the pages of various mental illnesses which fed the Monster. It's so alive this time!
So alive to have me laugh for the next months, chained in the bed of perpetuity under the name of particular scenes and phrases which I couldn't stop.
A simple line from a song, a mere slideshow from my story, "Why are you asking?" makes my mind snatched from rationality. During exams, voices say I'm another person over and over, "You're a rich, spoiled brat," it says. Or I am the character in a series. You tell me how to stop these; how can I not laugh when the Monster controls me?
Guilt becomes the reason for my hunchback and the appearance of fake attorneys who smelled like the pungent overly-sprayed chemicals in my house.
I'm so ashamed, I scream like the drama queen with a tarnished reputation, only I am silent. I even thought I was a literal insane person who pretends to be sane; doubts chewed me the way sharks' teeth feed on their prey.
"You're gross," the Monster repeats, and I argue and shout at it when I'm alone, "It's not true!"
I dreamt of a woman who had crawled the Earth. I woke up with cries, for she walked in the Dream as she crossed the Earth. It's just another day.
I ventured the old from the Roundhay Garden Scene in 1888 to the foreign exchange students of 1955. The Kiss of 1896 and the recorded working rotary snowplows in 1902... just days of another.
My favorite was the trip down the market circa 1906. Never knew of my life, never knew I saw old through the chariots they ran. Touches of laughter met with the pavement of the kids. Commodities soar toward the residents of gratefulness. The hospitality of the merchants echoed along. It's the street of busyness and nonchalance. Anemoia, who were they? Why, with the glee, I feel melancholy? It's just another day.
My sadness for the dead Earth's passers-by, either we met or not, ties you give me! You make present a fitness arena for the wind ahead. And now I questioned the superiors and the Highest. Oh, it's just another day.
Papers I stuffed with queued missions. Papers? You use that word for documents. Papers that I speak of then, I weigh as creased certificates. Papers I give myself, for, in my fantasy, I can do many. Oh, the dream it sells, but along with it, the expectations, So often failed. Papers I have discussed, put inside a suitcase, I carry all-day. Yet the end of that all-day, I looked, and still full of papers. I have not finished any. Ah, it's a 24-hour quandary.
Powerless is what it seemed to him Rummaging through broken remains Invisible to the world, he yearned Deeply, to make himself important and known Even if it meant asserting his greatness over others
Extremely hopeless about his capabilities and Not sure if he’ll ever become perfect like others Void of faith, he started despising himself, so Yeah! He couldn’t decipher what he actually lacked
Whenever he felt truly lost Reeking of terror and loneliness A sudden surge of destruction Took control of his insides, and Helplessly, he let his fears destroy his world
Greasy food, mouth watering desserts Living with a hungry, needy heart Uselessly trying to fill it with the delicacies The world offered him, unaware That eating doesn’t satiate a heart’s appetite One that’s a result of suffering alone, and Not realising that love isn’t found in calories Yet it was all he could afford
Lurking amidst all that dejection Under the covers, was a little desire Searching for affection, a better half That’ll accept even his rotting parts
Scared of the fall, he wouldn’t jump as Losing was his only destiny he believed Of course, he’d rather do nothing Than fail and ruin everything, being Held captive and crippled by his own fears
Gruesome as he grew, he kept piling Ragged pieces to cure his emptiness, but Even heaps of those were inept to fill his Erring but innocent heart, that was just Desperate for something to feel like a blessing!
° Darkness of my heart ° ________________________________
In my heart is a volcano The tears , molten magma rolling out trying to unburden the throbbing piece of muscle All aghast,for I have more lava More to burn your city,your life Am I a abomination,am I a weak man Daring to stand and talk of making Olympus fall Was I dark rose,they won't love and use to create dark power Is my prowess not striving? Why in this war I am not even fighting? its so mine,yet I am crawling They breached the door to my skin, where s my kin The faith has failed to touch me hard Am i being a meek coward? How shall I look inward? Where's the courage to sail has sink? Why my mind is bearing nothing but poison to kill none but self Will you even read this and see within the fears lurking Inside your head A slave to pleasure and appetite we all men fight What is the real purpose of this organic chaos called life? Why is I storm I feel inside me Are you calm,not touched by melancholy as me Can you teach me your mystery Can you tell me,how to live in the time of me.
I cannot write something that I intend to, I can let my emotions make my words flow For there you might find no rhyme in my lines For what I compose I can't think twice Just as a river freed from a dam I can only let my emotions flow
this poem is very brave like your mother's smile. in which every apology has a forgiver, and every defeat has a survivor. this poem is very brave like that unnamed grief you hid in unshed tears. in which you could unlove everything you've lost and rewrite everything that's not yours.
this poem is a tragedy; a tomorrow you could've lived yesterday.
The dim purple and green lights on the buildings spread the scent of history through the fog. I met you through them on the city streets and squares, forever looking for your steps. Thank you; I am forever trapped in this city. How sad it is to live with memories.
In the warm room of the rented apartment, noise came, the window looked out on the square; There, where the gallows used to dance in the wind, now coats of various colors dance, with cold faces under masks. Like actors on boards. The harsh resemblance of theater and life in that square. And so I will begin the book, the diary of one great love; "My home is theatre, it's a small dirty town ..." I'll write to you tomorrow, Gloria. If I don't die.
As much as I tried to escape from the theater, it was getting bigger. In the beginning, it was the words of passers-by, some inscriptions on advertisements, or music. Now the theater has swallowed an entire city, and surrounded me on all sides, as I solved the riddles of our encounters, and put together the puzzles that make this city what it is; A scene of super-reality. Why is every movement in this city a modern ballet? Why are you all? -Another annoying handwriting with a mere list of facts. Close your eyes, wherever you are now, Gloria. Let's at least squint together. I will love you tomorrow. If I don't die.
The phone rang just long enough to break the silence. I called into the handset in vain for a few seconds, the call was accidental. Are there any random calls at all? As I listened incessantly repeating the sound "tu - tu" in the handset, I looked in the mirror. (Creating a scene) I light a cigarette. She approaches the window lithely and sophisticatedly like a ballerina in a theater. Night and neon signs have long since covered the city and cars have made rows of glowing, winding lanes. She stared at the moon, and her bare back merged with the moonlight. She parted her brown hair and pulled on the panties that had cut into her flesh. The music started.
I took a cigarette smoke, she inhaled and began to dance. She bent her arms gracefully, imitating long-lost wings, and made movements by drawing concentric circles in cigarette smoke. She wanted to reach immortality and then die. I only wanted her. What a perfect scene, in a city of dying art.
I'll change your name tomorrow, Gloria. If I don't die.
Curtain. Dark. The end.
Just still counting down the rhythm from the handset: "tu - tu, tu - tu, tu - tu ..."
I stare at norms and grab a pretence. The tale of the orange sky is an epitaph on my flaws. It smears a vast blanket that I spread throughout my flesh to let stains on me glide through folds in vain. I swear on every irregular poetry I have turned into paragraphs, punctuations are still my last breath. I take one before dying, out of breath, out of words.
I feel pity for the girl in me. I ain't a merciful sphere that shelters billions but I hate to see her feel incomplete whenever a story ends without a happy ending. She still hopes there will be a second part of it that will end well. I hate to see her hope so.
How much will she let her hope win with tantrums when one day the castle she builds near the shore will be washed of by the ocean ? Will she command the ocean waves to not reach heights above her merrytory ? How will one not let tragedies to hit their merry bones and stir them until they are chilled with a bleak winter sneeze ?
I feel pity for the girl in me. She embraces the petals of a marigold. She doesn't choose rose while admiring petals 'cause in high school she has never been considered one, as judged by mates. She doesn't pick flowers that smirk at her whenever she gazes at it.
How much will she let her inferiority win when one day her sweat will be the last to stay after self-worth escapes her way ? How long will she let her flesh melt in cardigans thinking of people who will judge her skin if exposed during a hot summer afternoon ? How will she snatch envious eyes and judgmental throats from a nest of reptiles who craves her bones ?
Life's a ride of ups and downs. Often says the crowd that frowns. For hoping the giant ocean waves to not wash off a merry castle, aren't mere hopes but rigid caves where you cage your major battles. Later you feed yourself petty reasons for losing wars and building prisons.
"No", you say except you don't your eyes travel up and down never quite knowing when to settle and I am left to rely on silence as I try to learn the story that your mouth won't speak.
The steps you take are heavy, your feet dragging themselves across the concrete you wish you could glide, but there is a futility in freedom for those who have sewn prisons in every corner of their skin.
"Yes", you whisper except you don't I see how your fingers shake as you reach out to hold me; this cold air filling up our lungs yet your breaths are unsteady beneath that smile you wear.
You name your terrors like they label constellations in the blood red skies and you count them one at a time because the fairy tales don't tell us that evil doesn't exist they teach us that evil can be conquered.