*Something about the weather echoing my thoughts that makes me believe I belong to winter alone.
The meek raindrops dripping through the notched ceiling is the slow release of all the bottled-up agony and sufferings.
Darling, it is raining in my head as well tonight.
The startling gusts of wind against the windows are my bleeding fingernails pressed against a wooden door with no one to save me on the other side.
The deep, dark murmurs heard on an empty road are the humming voices inside my head that neglect and put down my efforts.
The voices have become amplified.
Those angry, screeching cat cries is my true voice finally finding itself after long seasons of quietness and despair.
Frustration now has a voice.
Umbrellas hold people hostage under their protection just like my pulsatile depression seems to like restraining me to my lousy bed.
What a fierce lover I've got.
This gentle nature-stirred madness has made its way fearlessly right onto my once-blue skies to shamelessly prove to me that I'm never alone.*
Dec 13, 2016
Dec 13, 2016 at 4:30 PM UTC
*I have come to realize
on this very first of a stormy winter night,
shivering alone at my stacked desk,
that our relationship is a childish defense mechanism.
We fool around, curse each other out.
We share secrets like no two best friends ever do.
We sing our soulless hearts out to rock bands
with suicidal guitarists, comfortably evading our feelings.
"What a childish defense mechanism!" I hear myself say.
I never once wrote poetry for you
for fear it might elope into something out of control.
I was not ready for that. I am not still.
And I'm yet unsure I ever will be.
But ****** I just had to get it down on paper for once.
And I detest being stuck in this hazy, grayish aura
of it never being truly white, but not really black either.
And my thoughts are mimicking the weather tonight,
cloudy and thunderous, yet utterly breathtaking.
I think I might love you one day just as much as I love winter.*
Dec 11, 2016
Dec 11, 2016 at 4:31 AM UTC
They've got me boxed up in a situation
right after you've told me to pour my heart out to the world.
Even though you were a full-time robot,
nonetheless, a part-time daydream lover for me.
Three years gone and I still miss you.
I might still love you, darling, I do.
And when he asked me if I was over you,
I'm not sure whether I was trying to convince him or my own self by saying yes.
He is toying with me now, in ways you never would.
Somehow I let him, in an attempt to fill your void.
But my heart is heavy. God, I'm drained.
Three years gone, would you still have the energy to save me again?
Because they've got me boxed up in this situation,
and I cannot fathom how to get out.
I'm weaker than I thought, weaker than you thought.
I guess I'll be spending my entire life finding my way back to you.
How do you get over the past that has shaped you,
the past that has taught you how to feel, how to be?
I'm coming to grips now with the bitter fact that
you've become this dead part inside my living body
that I'd take desperate measures to merely revive.
Sep 12, 2016
Sep 12, 2016 at 3:54 PM UTC
"What do you wish for?"
Stunned, I remain silenced.
Tapping the pencil, tilting my head;
think. Fast. Now.
Nothing came to my mind but extinguishing
the very thought of you.
I decided to grant my own solitary wish.
And so, I wrote. I wrote you.
I wrote all verbal poetry exchanged.
I wrote all smirks and grins you've let escape.
I wrote the mere change in your voice tone
when you called my name.
I wrote, because writing was my only savior.
I wrote you, my darling,
into ***** crumbled sheets of yellow paper.
Rolling them up like those cigs enveloped by your lips,
I embedded each one to my heart's core,
one after the other, stroke after stroke,
and I started bleeding all over.
My final endurance, hallelujah, this was it!
I detached my heart from all that's connected to it,
I almost died.
I gathered up what has remained from my frail soul
and fed it into my coronaries,
just to keep it pumping yet.
Removing it gently, I dug up a hole in the dirt
and slowly placed it. Here it was,
you, lying in utter chaos.
I was devoid of it.
Devoid of what made me who I am.
I was motionless, dull-eyed, insipid.
I continued my life this way
the moment I decided to bury you alive.
Jan 8, 2016
Jan 8, 2016 at 2:17 PM UTC
Defined cheekbones,
your shy smile creeping its way onto your lips.
The desolation and the lone;
it will consume us and tie us up like flowers in your ribs.
You sigh and I imitate,
you cry and I soothe you into tranquility,
that place where you often be,
like that brisk truck ride to that shooting competition you had.
Two seperate worlds;
me and my expensive hobbies,
you and your country activities.
"You keep making me so happy,"
that line you kept repeating,
taking its time to linger in the back of my mind.
Falling for you was unprecedented,
I felt so powerless, bringing out
a character I never knew existed deep within me.
But then again you cannot be predicted,
a solitary Sagittarius,
how am I to say no?
For you were the guidance to my piece of my mind,
the hollow space between my ghostly fingers.
On spur of moment, it took you away then:
Distance.
Hereafter, flowers I once explicitly planted in your ribs
shall wilt leaving nothing but scattered debris,
as new flowers of your future beloved will replace mine,
and you'll forget the truck rides just like how you forgot about me.
If they do replace mine, and when they do,
I hope their soft stems curl up ever so sweetly around your ribs,
tugging at your bones to outline their intricacies,
blossoming wildly to tangle themselves next to your heart,
where I once used to belong.
They would coil and twist and wrap themselves around you,
engulfing you in an aura of saddening gloom,
leaving you with a malfunctioning mind
so you could feel my pain this time,
as you forget how to breathe.
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 1:47 PM UTC
What an almighty accusation!
A string of words muttered into the spur of the moment.
"You do not talk much, but..."
Do not attempt to free your way out of it, now.
A relentless accusation, that's what it really is.
Do you, Mr Know-It-All, have any idea how
I spent years upon years upon years
trying not to be so encompassed in myself, my own thoughts,
and feelings and constellations, my introversion, and open up?
Do you have any single clue how my plan was perfectly
detailed that I made sure not to go a step backwards?
You should've met me back then. You'd think I was mute.
Have you thought about what it really means to point out
the flaws in a person that they clearly acknowledge
all the intricacies of?
Did you really need to tell me what I already know?
Well, listen to this,
I will not apologize for me being uninterested
in small talk, the weather, and your mentality.
I don't particularly care how well you, neither I for that matter,
did on that hideous, arduous test we had.
I don't exactly fancy group talks where no one truly listens,
nor come up with a certain purpose.
You insanely shallow, shallow person,
I am not into your actions.
I am really not into your body, or eyes either.
Give me sensual meaning, not accusations.
I do not talk much, but when I do,
people listen, even you.
So hear me out now,
next time you tell someone they don't talk much,
make sure there are no stars in the sky
on which they'd be gazing dreamily upon.
Make sure they aren't engulfed in a book
so daunting it hurts.
Make sure they aren't trying with every fiber in their being
to speak up, because they know people like you are scrutinizing,
anticipating their every word to strike.
Make sure they aren't grieving.
Make sure they aren't broken to pieces.
Make sure they are free of all problems in the universe.
Make sure they found enough missing parts of themselves
to go on an adventure of exploring yet another soul.
But most importantly,
make sure they haven't gone downright mad
that they don't give a single **** what you have to say anymore,
*******
May 20, 2015
May 20, 2015 at 11:12 AM UTC
*Make peace with yourself,
inspite of the everlasting riot in your head.
I have been placing one foot in front of the other,
creeping my way mindlessly through melancholy.
This isn't how it's supposed to be.
Have faith in what you do,
so that one day faith will repay you.
I have been contemplating doing all,
but the things I should be doing primarily.
This isn't how it's supposed to be.
Save time for your unique hobbies;
write all the poetry you need to be happy.
I have given up on the words, and the dialect,
and the books piled up on the shelves countlessly.
This isn't how it's supposed to be.
Draw yourself a tigh-fitting box,
then burst right out of it.
I have been confined to my comfort zone,
unkowingly losing a handful of opportunities.
This isn't how it's supposed to be.
Fall in love with yourself,
instead of spending time finding it with somebody else.
I have loved him too hard, yet ended it abruptly
just so I could set myself free.
And that's how it's supposed to be.*
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 12:26 PM UTC
*I should stop being so ridiculously naive like that one time when I met a boy who bluntly admitted that he was too conceited and full of himself I didn't pay much attention to how true it was, thinking that he just wanted to impress me until it was too late. I got to him first. He became one of the cool kids. I was deserted.
I should stop being so ridiculously naive, believing that boys actually do fall for anything other than a fully made-up face, a heavy, talkative tongue with irrational words and meaningless sentences flooding out of lips, a butt-head with no thoughts of the universe, a statue with the appropriate body parts and long, shiny hair, and deceiving, shallow eyes.
I should stop being so ridiculously naive because for once, I thought, that this other boy who had trouble talking to me might like me back. He second-thought handshakes, hellos, but never eye contact. And when our eyes met, I could've swore he felt it as well. I fumbled with actually speaking to him. I could never get him alone.
I should stop being so ridiculously naive that one time, my best friend was that same guy's best friend and laughed about how we should get married one day since we're the exact opposite. She said I was sweet and calm like an impending storm. She said you were reckless like a hurricane. But oh, if only she knew you were the reason behind my silenced grieving.
(Yet my heart shall do as I command, soon.)
I should stop being so ridiculously naive because I realized that the boys I'm most comfortable with and so close to are the ones I don't write poems about and give much thought to. I should stop writing poems about you. I should be neutral towards you.
I should stop being so ridiculously naive and develop a solid personality and a loud opinion to stick with. I refuse to be a third wheel.
I should stop being so ridiculously naive and find my own voice because no one is going to speak up for me.
I should stop being so ridiculously naive and be thankful for the fact that there is no other me but me.*
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 4:56 AM UTC
*All this while
I was having a tough time
wrapping my mind
around your disappearance.
Life hit me in the face,
jolting me from my fast pace
that I usually strut in, careless
about everything else.
I have an aching feeling in my head,
and a sinking feeling in my heart.
My mouth has gone dry because of it.
Darling, you left me dead.
I am thinking there's something about you
that causes death to all your lovers after you're through,
but I know you never really outgrew
my love. Quite tersely, I put an end to it.
***** the rhymes now, you changed your apartment and number,
and my path has gone askew, and outnumbered.
Oh my love, I wonder helplessly what you're doing
as I sit here and bleed my thumbs out for you.
Laying on my bed, I can't help but reminisce
all our lovely fights, our intimate nights,
and the way you looked me in the eye
and patiently explained why you loved me still.
I cannot, will not regret you.
I cannot, will not forget you.
I cannot, will not forgive you.
And I cannot,* cannot unlove you.
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 12:14 PM UTC
*You keep giving me
pieces of you each day
that seem too fragile
as I keep them hidden in my heart
from people's hungry eyes.
You keep lending me
your heart instead of mine.
It's stronger; it's been through a lot,
and ever since, your heart
has been our ground work.
You keep telling me
your secrets that I preserved
day by day into my soul,
scrutinizing them zealously,
careful enough never to hurt you.
You keep sharing with me
your scientist's mind, your constellations,
your belief in the big bang, your disbelief
in what caused it, yet I promised
to never judge. I never did.
You keep demolishing me
in ways you never knew possible,
and I am left flustered.
After every clandestine unleashed,
I happen to yet not be good enough.
Because you keep hurting me,
and I keep feigning being well,
and you keep wanting me
to change who I am.
But oh darling, have you ever once thought of
how I admired you for all that you are,
not for all I wanted you to become?
You keep making my head ache.
You keep making my heart beak.
You keep making me believe that
I fall too easily,
yet I am not so easy to fall in love with.*
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 4:34 PM UTC