Would you please
Look into my eyes
And entropy you will see
(you, distorting the spectrum of light,
Exploding all there is to me.)
Would you please
Inch your lips to mine,
And there just leave it be.
(just a stroke of lush
To sow the spring of kiss.
Ohs of delightful rush
To a cascading lovers’ bliss)
Would you please
Whisper…whisper
A word of touch.
Whisper…whisper
A love or too much
Whisper…whisper
To catch me breathless
Whisper…whisper
To keep me soulless
Would you please
Move in sync with me,
Let out a gasp of ecstasy,
And taste the thrilling mystery
Of yours and mines rhapsody.
Just a look, just a kiss
Just a touch to give me bliss.
One more stroke, one more wheeze,
One more…would you please.
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 1:49 PM UTC
The first spring
There’s this barrier,
Either of contempt or pride.
Further exchange of words,
Watching you pantomime,
Reading your mind,
Engulfing the spaces we worked.
You were on the other side;
A simpleton with a great mind.
Barrier: Glass-like but steel.
The other side was me,
A vessel of conceit and pretense.
The distance made by the war
Of tugging and pulling drew me out.
It made sense:
I never got to you.
Instead, encased in fragility and adamancy,
I was caught in between.
Breathless and shamed,
A fool who believed.
Second spring came,
Still encased in dense air.
I remained satisfied,
You’ve crossed the other, other side.
Not to me or where I was,
But to the intensest place.
Watching you, I stopped struggling.
A leaden body replaced Houdini,
who never truly escaped.
I faced my death as the glass crossed and cut,
Tearing me whole.
Unshattered but assailed
with withering condemnation.
Regret, it may be it
To never dared knowing,
trying, and believing.
Self-abjection is all there is.
Deep anguish and boiled eyes,
Unused lungs and cased gasps,
Churned stomachs and a sliced mind;
A night of wilting and rue,
A kiss of damnation and a touch of breath,
Caresses of Judas’ darkest blue,
Impassioned foreplay to one’s lovely death,
Copulation in hell with Valentine,
It is bliss to know that such is a dream
Of life, of love, of hope, of memories in galleon’s dusts
The end to **** with the whimper of lust.
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 1:17 PM UTC
The definition of beautiful in the dictionary
Doesn’t have your name on it
For even the heaviest, most omniscient dictionary
Can never define who you really are.
The most beautiful women and men on TV
Doesn’t have the same smile and laughter as yours.
Their eyes will be completely different
Than the way your eyes light up when you dream.
It’s only society who implies “the physical beauty”
But in every curve and excess skin in your body,
It hold magic and sublimity
Seen by the ones who truly loves you.
And because society is mostly made up of monsters,
Would you ever trust them about who you are?
Won’t be the most beautiful flowers in the spring,
Are the ones with true beauty they bring?
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 11:49 PM UTC
Inside me must be the chaos of the universe. I know where such star must be placed, to scatter all over the dark abyss of dreams. But somewhere in that darkness, in the midst of chaos, and in that tiny spark of the star, there is a dream formed in the heart of a child.
But no matter how hard my planets collide, my stars shine, my universe to swirl—they will always want order. They will want to name that planet; they will want that star to belong in a constellation. They will want my universe to swirl around them, pleasing their eyes.
I can’t fight them. They have tamed me. The chaos is slowly taking order. And it’s destroying me. I want to continue fighting; to misplace my planets’ orbits, to let my stars fall wherever they want, to fill the space with more chaos—but fighting had used up all my strength and faith. In the end, no matter how big my universe is, they will always manage to put it in a box and throw it away.
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 11:44 PM UTC
Every time I look at you, there is this little circle of stars forming a spotlight above you. In a crowded place, your face is the first thing I seek for. Before, you never really mattered to me. I don’t give a **** whether you’re hurt or what. I don’t care if you’re sad or if you’re getting famous. You’re just you and I was just me. But that was then.
Every time we talk to, I don’t focus on your words. I forgot where we are, I don’t care what I’m supposed to do. I just stand there, dumb-founded, staring at your sad eyes, your perfectly carved nose, your strong jaws, your kind face. I only catch a few words of what you are saying—and I wished I focused on your words more than your features because then I could’ve remembered your voice, memorized how you pronounce every syllable. I thought that the slow motion and spotlight thing happen on movies only. I was wrong. I guess life is really a big cinema. We’re the actors and we’re also the audience.
Every time I replay the memories of us together, I feel sad and happy. I want to forget these memories and at the same time, I want them to linger a little longer with excruciating details. Even the tiniest part of the scene, I wish to remember. The little carving triangle on the side of your eyes, the smell of soap on your body, the way you strain your neck every time you sing—all of these.
Isn’t it funny how in just a few months, I changed? Six months ago, your face is just a mere face among the crowd. But now, you stand among the rest. It’s like you’re the brightest star among all the others. Or perhaps, you’re just a mere star. You only shine the brightest in my eyes. Before, I couldn’t really write these mushy things. Heck, my poetry doesn’t even **** But the day my heart started to acknowledge your magic, I’m almost messed up. My rhymes **** my words shallow and dreamy, my rhythm fluctuating…like the beating of my heart every time I see you. I stutter like my rhymes, I’m thinking through my heart and not my mind like the words I use recently, and the beating in my chest feels like a stampede of mammals.
This ***** really. Because now, I miss you so much. I can write a twenty-five-page poem about how much I miss the night we stared at the stars, the awkward but funny moments I try to create, your failed attempts at making me laugh whenever I cry (but eventually I smile at how silly you look), all the times I’ll hold my breath every time you wrap an arm around my shoulder, the fluttering in my blood and the chill down my spine every time we hug, the little moment when I look at you and you’ll smile, the feel of your hand in mine, the nights I wish the conversation wouldn’t end in Facebook or in text messages, the attempts of me starting the conversation but only you quickly ending it, and the pang at the pit of my stomach every time I’ll realize, it will all just be this. We’ll always just be friends. Best friends. I’ll always be just like a little sister to you. Or someone you lean on when you have a problem and I’ll always push my feelings aside because I am afraid, if you knew what I really feel, you’ll drift away.
I miss you, and I hope you knew. I wanted to tell you what I feel, but I am afraid everything will end. Perhaps, I will be contented to this friendship because I have come to realize, friendship has a greater possibility of lasting until we grow old. I’m afraid, if we end up together, not as friends, and break up—that will be the end of it. But if we’re just friends…just friends…then I won’t be scared about the future because I know you’ll always be there as a brother, as a friend. And I’ll always be here, consoling you every time a girl breaks your heart, and I’ll always secretly wish it was me who you love and I’ll promise to the wind that I won’t break your heart and I’ll just hope the wind will have enough courage to whisper it to you.
I’m a mess. I can’t decide what I want to happen. I want to be with you but I’m afraid we’ll grow apart. I’m afraid the time will come there’s another girl consoling you every time we fight. I want to be the only one there for you every time you’re broken and sad, every time you’re happy and feeling silly. I just want…
You know, the funny thing is that I want you to find this mushy letter. I want you to read it and know that it’s you I’m talking about. I want you to know that all the poetry I’ve been writing lately isn’t coming from my muse. **** she’s even getting angry and daring to leave me. She shut the door at my face. I just want to say, “Please, muse, it’s not really a good time for me—for both of us.” Because it’s your fault why my muse is angry. I can’t focus on her inspiring messages. I can’t focus on her string of words. I am more focused on you. I am more absorbed on how you make me feel and I want to jot down these feelings, string it into beautiful words, so that one day I will read it and I’ll feel the magic all over again. I will feel the feelings peeling off the pages and wrapping me in its warm embrace, reminding me what I was feeling while I was writing the words “love” and “you”.
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 12:34 AM UTC
There's something about love that draws a fine line between existing and truly living.
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 12:32 PM UTC
A love where you’re
Ignored,
Unseen,
Forgotten,
Competing,
Overlooked,
Hoping,
Wishing,
Praying,
Is nothing.
The worst kind of love is where
You’re waiting…
For that one message
For all these not to happen
All over again.
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 12:24 PM UTC
She’s clothed naked
Naked to the world
The cold seeped through her
Warming every vein in her body
She shed a leaf, proving her point
The sky answered back, breaking a joint
She shed another one, a petal of her frozen beauty
The trees turned a blind eye, so they won’t have to see
She has given quite enough, she couldn’t shed anymore
It’s time for her to wait
He slowly left
Leaving her empty
“Why?” she asked
He never looked back
But she knew the answer
The more he says,
The more she’ll get hurt
The longer he stays,
The more she’ll have nothing left of her.
Because he is the winter
And she’s just a delicate flower
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 12:15 PM UTC
"You make it so hard for me to fall asleep,
easy to fall in love,
and easier to fall
a
p
a
r
t."
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 12:10 PM UTC
Perhaps I fell in love with parts of you
That made me feel like the way I do.
The way you frustrate me
When you prefer not to see
How I look at you with sympathy,
Because she chose to break your heart
And now you’re torn broken and apart.
The way you make my poetry stink,
because I ran out of words to think,
your name solely runs in my mind
other rhymes I cannot find.
I should write about what I feel
and stop trying to understand you
Perhaps I couldn’t and never will
Make you feel like the way she do.
The way you make me stay stirring
Until four in the morning,
Just to listen to the stars tell me
How your current heart is mourning.
I’m always here for you
when you’re happy
angry
silent
and blue.
I care for you
At least, I hope you knew.
But why is it that the more I let you see
All these little parts of me
The more you silently cry
And leave me wishing for good bye?
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 12:03 PM UTC