i think about what you wrote and sang back then
in a scene of a film a sight familiar
friends around the table, bottles slowly emptied
talking about injustice
talking about death

slowly i wondered too
as the warplanes shunned
the songs of winds
who will sing when everyone is sleeping

and in tired wake, i thought of dreams
of all the aches of rest

perhaps
the first to sing will be the first to wake
shouting from all the painful nightmares
and the people shall wake up
bit by bit
in peace,
or all at once
in anger

to the sound of music...

back then
the corpse of an old moth
laid stuck and unreachable on a concrete beam of our old school building
covered in dust and soot

it was always a sight for the students waiting on the third floor
in its sad old way it was the very museum piece that decorated the halls of boredom

every wait and every exit there it was,
two wings on a body still spread open
as if it was frozen mid flight

i often believed that we wondered all the same
on the questions that it asked
it probably flew up there
it was probably old
maybe it isn't real
it's more of something if it is

i think of it now sometimes
wondering if it was still there
or if it was ever thrown out
and how it would have felt to throw it out;
i wonder what kind of disgust that would have felt

and i wondered about it as if it were itself a relic or a mummy
or a tombstone, or a gorgon victim

and i wonder if it ever thought about it being talked about after death
like some sort of archeological oddity more splendidly eye catching beyond life
perhaps seen by more eyes
than it ever did alive
i wonder if it ever knew more life on a field or tree
than the souls of staring creatures
in a hollow concrete corridor

and i wonder if death was truly interesting
or rot enduring the test of time

i wonder if i ever was displayed on a slab
would they think of me a dead thing or one who was once alive
would they ever wonder how i flew
or why i chose my grave
or if somehow
underneath the dust and soot
they would know that i was once
a butterfly

they sold buy one take one holiday hams at march and that was the best thing ever

and i sleep well into the afternoon to hide from that horrid sun

you guys sat on my living room couch smelling December emerge from deep freeze and exclaimed, how did it get there

and i told you, no, breakfast for dinner

every time you're with me you'll be treated with my simple pleasures

warm rice and egg and some ham or bacon

and soup because it's cold, or coffee because it's hot outside

every time i serve my ham and eggs i look at you and your plate and wonder, well how long did you expect to eat these again

i don't think christmas is only for december, or moon cakes only for spring

i think the little pleasures don't need to be any less simpler, or one at a time

they sold buy one take one holiday hams at march and i wonder

no, sometimes it'll be as simple as that

i frankly just needed to get this out.
this is one hell of a long thing
not really poetry,
not really a diary,
maybe some sort of life
maybe a letter.
perhaps one last crazy word out
to be read by anyone
or no one
or everyone
that matters.

...

more of a wanton drunken rambling like my old works
but i guess they were a little bit more
interesting
if i had to be my own worst critic
i guess i feel i've been denying the fact
that most happiness isn't the most interesting

do i remember what was back then?
of course i do
the most interesting things were boredom
and ruin
and toil and fury
the most interesting things then were the worst
and the worst person was the most interesting

and i met the world with my eyes lensed with two bronze bottle caps
and she was a soldier who fought the silent wars
and sang the mornings after

i sang out words of disgust towards the words i was foreign to and denied the privilege of being lectured boringly about
**** your love, **** your happy family and **** your tolerance towards different people
i am nobody and none of the things you do impresses me
i was nothing and I was beginning to suspect i had to live with it

and you had to hear it
god, you did hear it
when it came the time i knew enough words to decorate the world i threw my spit and **** out in rage
i think i felt that it felt nice
or that it felt different
and that was somewhat better than what people were supposed to hear
yes, i know life is ****
it'll still be ****, wouldn't it?
your ****** smile won't do you anything

and i saw you sit quietly on the corner
waiting for me to quiet down

and i remember
vividly remember
saying to you
i'm not a good poet
i'm rude and vicious and disgusting
and i remember saying before i passed
i wanted it to stop.

...

somewhere between a good morning hangover blue and a worldwide health crisis i ate my first batch of useless pills
and it took a good one year just for me to wake up and feel on my bones
god, this feels awful
and my hair is fading
and my skin has blotches of red all over
and im incredibly bored

i don't think i'm dead yet
i must have thought
i could still curse god and some other religions and maybe the government or maybe even that guy next door who keeps singing to his kid
hell, i could probably still go out and drink and feel that high again
i'm not dead, i could get high again
i don't think I'll die anytime soon but i think i gotta live with being a corpse from now
i don't think you know how great my life is considering how awful of a body i am now
I've got more poems to shout to you
and a lot more to shout
and a lot more to shout
and a lot more...

and i realised
i was shouting
i realized i was hurting
it hurt my head first
then it hurt my entire life
and soon the only thing happening was realising
and hurting
and realising
and i realised
i wasn't just hurting
i was at some point
pain itself

and no happy memory came without that searing pain spilling hallucinations at it like glitter from a fire extinguisher
none of the days started making sense for me to remember them at all
and none of my boyhood years seemed to matter at all
hell, all the glitter made it seem like they never existed
or that they were somewhat the well made delusions of a well made lunatic

but i remember once
you came to me
and i almost wanted to scream to you to close the ******* door
but i remember once
i had a thought that day
that i liked seeing you
still there

and i think i remembered the past too, of course
i think we all enjoyed the ****** times with ****** things
but you stepped through that door wearing gladness on your smile
alongside the pity of your eyes
you came through that door and saw me
as if you saw someone worth seeing
or someone who at all
had a life

and do i remember who i was back then?
god, barely at all
or barely
since i had wanted to forget
but i knew i told you
when you held me as i was hemorrhaging from the pain of a lifetime
yes
i wanted it to stop

...

a month after that we paid for some very expensive injectable normal

and i told you how much my life was getting better as it was getting more dull

for the first time in a while i liked water
and solid food
and open windows
and barely detectable ambient noise
and life?
i didn't know so i sneaked out to find out

you didn't hear from me for three days and i didn't have to hear from anyone about me or anything about me
and i was a stranger for once and not a ghoul

and when i came back i had to wash my face because my eyes burned a little
and i had to wash off the three days of dust that clung and wafered off what must be two years of non-being

and i don't think i remember what were the first this and and's that started a mentality of rambunctious pointless yammering about stones and rivers and seas
and leaves that glow emerald after the rain
and skies over parking lots tattered like beautiful paintings
and guitars and synthesizers
and unloved things
and unloved things
and unloved..

i think for a moment then i realised i was an unloved thing
the man who was foreign and disgusted by the world
and reviled by it
was just unloved, and..
life is ****, i knew it always was
or has it always been?
i swear it was loving before
or somehow...

and another delectably painful injection
and dangerously large amounts of significantly more effective pills
and i started feeling the warmth of..
well i knew the words for them,
Neruda knew some, and even Buk.
warmth is the sun, and the morning
and your old ***** cat sleeping on your pillow
and warmth is a person
and the world, somewhat well distanced enough to be warm enough and cold enough for life
which was
warm..

and the air was nice
alongside the dying river
as the rotted trees decorated the dying world
in a moment i knew i loved it the same way i would have loved to have always seen it
or perhaps seen it when it was most alive

and do i remember who i was back then
and i do
and i did
and i...

was a ghoul.
a well fed one
a well read one
but still with an accursed mind
ruined by the death process and healing method
i was an addict.
i was a freak.
i was a broken thing
i was entirely sure i was permanently broken

and i knew the moment i started to love
for when i did love
i clung to it
every love i felt and every love i gave i cast and behold to everything in the world that felt like new and felt like poetry
and i loved you like i loved the leaves of the sunset trees
and i loved you like i loved the raindrops doomed to be forgotten
and i loved you like...

and i was addicted to love.

when it was ripped apart from me damp and cruelly i winced in pain like the first few months of a cold turkey stop

and in that moment it felt like none of the work to get better was going to matter

i started to become a loving thing.
but a sick one at that
a recovering alcoholic at that
a ****** or a bipolar or an autistic or i don't know
for a moment i was a loving ghoul
and when it did end
as all things felt in the first times would
i felt once again

an unloved thing.

and i came to you and i had still the energetic wanton drunken list of words and questions that all asked the same thing
i have loved you, life
and i had hated you
and i was starting to tell everyone
that hate didn't have as much of a life as love
and still
i am in pain
i am in shambles
i am disfigured
why is life ****?
i was planning on not letting it be anymore-
why couldn't you?

...


on a warm day after the coldest of monsoons i sat on the forest road
where i stop to sit and pray to my only faith and my first comfort-
the wind that felt like peace and calm over a world that turned so hard and complicated

i closed my asked and in defeat i said
i love you, and i had
but i want it to stop.

...

i had work that morning and i couldn't see you
and i had friends planning a gig and i was planning on throwing my energy into it
and i had family coming over that demanded the best from me
and no one knew i started trying my best for once

i was still drinking the pills,
dreading the pain,
but watching for the sunsets and perhaps the last comforting winds before the ocean currents suffer a stroke

and i was starting to decide what my favourite color was
what my favourite clothes would be
how to describe my favourite music
how to help the ones around me
understand enough of how i liked happiness
and..

well i guess life was normal
but on those few months i wasn't entirely sure
it was as if i came out of a burning building
onto the next house on the block

and i didn't have the time to find out if this really was what normal meant
if ordinary was ordinary
and if the sorrows and fear were ordinary
or if they were as abnormal as they were before
i learned the new normals of the new people
and i couldn't help thinking
well, i remember that
and i remember that
and i'm pretty sure it made me a lunatic
and sorry but as long as you're with me we're gonna try to fix that sleep schedule
and we're going to eat properly but still satisfyingly
and we can just sit in silence knowing the sadness
but you could still see on my face how i believe in you
hell, i know life is **** but i'm pretty sure you're not.

and i couldn't help being worried
i don't think they could tell who i was from what i looked
that somewhat apparently,
everyone started turning into a ghoul of what they once were
at some point

thinking about it now i thought all of you looked lovely
and i hoped you were fine with what i looked
because i don't think i have enough new stem cells to look healthy anymore anyways

and where was i...?
oh i had a job
and friends
and a boring existence
and...
wait, am i back to the start,
or did the past exist,
or am i doing this right,
or am i somehow
alive...?

it's the same thing, is it?
or some new thing
or a sheep in wolf's discount clothing
or life has taken a new form
or
or

and i realised the one thing that made me who i was
and seemed to fit as an answer to every event that i couldn't warrant a question to
was the same thing asked by everyone
as an afterthought, or a ruinous dilemma-
what is this life?
i am so torn and confused and tired and what is this life?

i know the alcoholism didn't answer it
i know suffering didn't answer it
i'm pretty sure religion and the government and the baby crying next door was close to an answer but nowhere near properly useful enough to keep us satisfied-
i died and lived again reborn with well medicated eyes to see the pretty things from the avant garde form of this impossible physical world
and yet i knew that still didn't answer it
and love
god, love
love didn't answer it
and i had a big investment on that thing
and everything was normal again
but love didn't answer it
and love couldn't answer
and even my mad insane love-
love
love
live
life-

and love.
i saw you sitting on your cold floor believing you were cursed
i saw you play the greatest note ever beamed and still believe you'll be no one
i felt the wind i worshipped sing alongside you on the song you learned in a few minutes
i held on my hand my admiration of you and my worry of you while you were telling the story of how your family did nothing
but become the very capitalism they weren't lectured boringly enough about

love,
i saw your sadness once more
love,
i see your tears have gotten you lost
love,
i saw you almost die
love,
I started loving you
and you started to live
and i started to live
and everything
everything
will die
yes,
and i am still
addicted
but i know you made me not care enough about death
if it meant that love was real..

love,
you loved me and i loved you
it hurts me now to see you suffer
as i did
in your different life the same cold floor
the same empty garage
the same burning tears
love
i saw you start doubting who you are
love,
i held your hand.

hello, poetry
i must admit
i haven't been making good poems.
you gave me so many lives to live in that i was never a single poet.
my word turned cheaply strong,
cheaply sappy,
cheaply simple-
yes, i have started thinking
that poetry could never properly describe the absolute mess we're in
not just mine-
mine never got good enough to be a constant axiom of itself anyways-
a happy man wrote about war.
a sad man wrote about the cirrus clouds.
a lonely girl wrote about the best wedding,
the one i loved wrote of her fear of pain-
no, poetry does not make us a single poet
if anything, it just showed me how much of a sucker i am for love
no, our complicated existence never meant we were liars or idealists
yes, i wonder about your lives sometimes.
life is ****, and i understand what you wrote,
god, aren't we all tired...

i miss you, always.
i looked at you and saw life itself
i held your hand and held my tears
knowing what life did to one of it's loves.
you are not an unloved thing and i know because i never was
because how could someone like me
who was like me
be allowed to be cursed with the blessing of a normal life
a redemption in disguise
a chance to live and choose what he loved and be allowed to love everything-
i know it could be because life is a funny little ****,
and god is a bundle of fiber optic cables and yes and no's and just a nanometer of a "sure, you can have both."
and fear hurt love before
and love fears once more,
and you are not an unloved thing because i love you-

because i love you..
what is life? i don't know.
i tried finding out, and ended up almost dead.
i tried living it, and almost died.
i tried loving it, and realised it couldn't love itself the way i couldn't love myself.
what is life?
what is life?
what is...

...

i realized i am alive.

i quit my job, drank once more, talked a little quieter but talked a lot more.
i read and read and god ******* **** that headache can ruin a life and where the **** is my cigarette?

i tried not loving anything for a second. it was alright.

i tried being a barker for a few days. surprisingly fun.

i tried walking a little faster. i could still see the trees.

i tried forgetting you. i failed.

i remember why. i dreaded losing memories. even the memory of pain.

i tried ***** once again. i could probably hold my liquor better than these guys.

i am trying to live. i know i will die.

i am quite certain that i'm alive and well right now.

and after months of living and trying and being, after knowing every normal and every abnormal, i was ready for that dreaded AP test-

i tried to love you again, life. i missed you dearly.

i felt your sadness, and your happiness, and then braced for the confusion-

and i love you still.

and when the last question came, when i faced myself with the same last question as i have always faced...

i failed. i couldn't stop. i don't think i will anytime soon.

right now i guess i have a good answer.

what is life?
I don't know.
I tried living it to find out and ended up still alive.
I have known it simply, and casually, and in complicated ways.
I have hated it, fought it, hid from it.
I have loved it. I still do. Maybe later I could tell you why.

but what is it?
maybe it's us
or just you
or just me
don't let that get to your head though. share the sunset.

i have decided to not bother with that question.
don't bother with that question.
i love you.
i'm glad you're alive.

...

i realised i could still frown
and sigh
and cry.
i realised that all that I've earned was never sanity or mental acuity or happiness.
i realised i'm just a person.
i realised i'm confusing to read.
i realised most of us are.

...

today i ate two pieces of ham and drank nothing but water
i started to quit smoking a few days ago and i think I'll be fine.
i think of her and it makes me wince for a second, followed by a smile that takes a while to wipe.
i think of all the stuff i will be talking about with my friends.
i think of the ache on my picking hand and the callus on my fretting hand.

it's a normal day.
it's a hard life.

i think briefly on my previous thoughts and realize
man, did my mind go through the worst.
when i wasn't a person, I'm pretty certain most people saw me as an unhinged jaw. idk

i think of what i wrote today.
one last ramble.
briefly, i think about hiding my other poems for the time being.
hello, and sorry, poetry. honestly I'm kind of confused as to what poems i want out right now.

i think of all the confusing days i had, and all the hard times, and all the times i grieved because of me and the hard times.

me from the past was an unloved thing. you're gone now, but i can still love you. i'm sorry i'm a bit late.

i think of the life i left behind. i think of the world that remained and stayed alive with me.

i do not consider myself a born again, or a miracle. life is still **** and I'm in a minimum wage job right now.

but i am alive and living right now

i am alive and living right now

i am alive and living right now

...

and to love, and to life.
aren't we all quite tired.
but i am proud of you,
glad for you,
hope you forgive me.

and i will suffer this weird little thing with you
and i will care for you as you have tried for me
and i will listen to your complicated world, your ineffable grace, the silence thereafter.
look, i'm quite tired as well
but the sun is rising...

.. .....

and as christ himself died for our life and sins
through his passion healed those who needed it
there came a day when valentine was struck with the fateful end
one so profoundly familiar and viscerally heartbreaking-
to die for the sake of love

i saw outside the church the smoking basket where they laid upon the palm fronds
and around it the people selling their freshly cut roses and softly sewn hearts
there came a day where repentance was lectured onto a crowd of said sinners
who ends their busy day upon the name of love

and i must admit i saw but later the ashes upon their heads
for never in a day do i see more flowers held and carried by us common men
the day was for the living and loving alive
and nothing as beloved as our devotion to our happy sacrifice-
we gave to it the petals of passion, and the name of a murdered saint

i wondered as the day went
did we always give so much for our love
for in a moment i could not comprehend
the lengths we've went to keep love as vibrant red as a new day's sunset
as though we've dipped the petals on a river of blood

the palm fronds, they said, meant peace and victory
and the roses, the passion and devotion
i wondered then what the ashes meant
as if to say
from the dust we came, and so shall we return
so will our peace and love
so will the victorious
and beloved

and i wondered then how many roses have been cast out into the burning basket
how many bushes and orchards and flowering plains and symbol makers
died unlovingly for the world
how many valentines will die regardless of how sacred we make of them
how many valentines we'll spend upon the ashes of our love

if love meant the sort of pain
meant for the godly and reveared
how we've let so many turn to dust
unwillingly scarred onto their faces

i sure do hope the next valentine has as much roses and flowers
and i sure hope the fires matter less
or if they're none at all
so be it that the question of love stays hard and grim
but not our days alive
none of sin
and none of ash

for a second, remember the sunset
before the night

how beautiful it would be to forget properly
or to remember
with the ease of a sigh

how it would have been such a help
for the times when the world drops on our shoulders
forcing a sisyphus to be atlas

how the sorrowful times
blind us of hope
how we forget

we struggle to remember happiness
because of the weight of our pain

but i hope you remember
you will not speak fondly of bad memories
but of the success of a happy day

and i hope you try

remember the sunset
before the night

.
.
.

still, if it toils
when you open your eyes after the cold, dark morning rain
on a confusing summer
in a confusing world
rest knowing the truth:
the sun will rise soon

i gaze upon the abyss
as the light on the end of the tunnel

i lift the sands of time by the kilo-second
to forge my looking glass
peering through the uncertain future

i have been broken down
onto my knees
and i have risen once more
with my shoes tied
ready to chase you down

you did not defeat me, blind malice
despite the world seeing me fall
i can see the world with it's care
its quiet deaths and lasting minutes

you did not change me
as i have changed my pain
you have not changed the sorrow you inflict
in a way that matters-
you did not defeat me

so help me till death,
the life of my love
the sickness and health

till death departs all
but suffering

i think of "enough" when i think of my love for you
but "too much" is what i always remind myself
of what you feel
in sorrow, i embraced

i do not want to knock on the door of your beating heart with the pulse of my own

to set you free
to hold my chisel and torch
to dig you out of your mother's basement

to hold and tell you
the sun is warm and the rain is soft
and the world is real
and your kindness is
to set you free
to set you free...

it stood
unwavering in the field
you wouldn't have called it cowardly
you would have called it brave
some would still say "arrogant"

when the last rain came and went
and the unseen fire of a sunlit sky dawned on the last dying cornfield
the people said
how dare it stay alive
when everything else dies
how dare it show strength
when everything else gave

the best and the boldest of the sameness
deemed the unwavering different simple dastardly

would they have seen the last of her
blow in the wind
they would find her kind green the ruins of their world

in your ancient sea were the same sands of time
formed the same cloudy depths that made the fog of toil

took a singular speck born through its own torturous seconds
wandered through your young open mind
turned to an itch you couldn't scratch
without splitting in half to bleed out into the defiant noise

now you are old and as ancient
but anew through the waves
they who dove deep to find treasure
will find your defiant shell
glowing iridescent like the moon in a dust storm
and within a secret suffering
to be marveled as beautiful

from a speck bore your glow
into the time and into the sea
only what remains
to shine
to grow

it is the stain of the ground that leads my way
that of what once had a river carve it's course
it it the chaos of the currents that carved me as well
but now the river is ******.

and you could find me in my mess wondering
the worst has gone to pass, but why do i prepare to walk still
where as my purpose then was to wade through the murk
now i am among the peaceful drought
worried by the floods of the plains below
knowing that my dam will not hold
still, persevere for it

i have been very cruel to those who have wronged me
and i have been cruelly branded with fear by those who have yet to see the river silt
i am the remnant of the Euphrates, but i bring no horsemen
i am in a path of gold, that once held water

so now i am
whom they see still walking
those who I've left behind
still feel the cold of the floods
those who see me from afar
see the wind i bring with them
those who walk besides me
know of the rain i value still
and the comforts of a well kept shoe
and the value of gold
below everyone's rivers.

my mind is racing
it is 2 am and my mind is racing

someone could poke me and i would wince
someone could slap me and i would crash
someone could hug me and i would fall in love

someone would have held me
supposed to hold me
and i guess it's why
oh, it's 2 am
and my mind is racing

kung pwede lang
pagbalik mo, pa-bantay ng mga halaman sa hardin

ilang taon na ang kanilang pag-dilig mula sa aking kapighatian
at ngayong pabalik na ang kanilang araw
gugustuhin kong' ikaw muna ang makasaksi
sa kanilang pagsibol.

i wonder what they would answer
if we asked the dead
on their afternoon in the park bench of heaven
"what is life?"

i suppose it would be the same
asking the bluesman blinded with lye
by some jealous hand who aimed with intent
"what is a rainbow?"

or a veteran
who's legs were melted by the loving heat and passion of his opponent's patriotism
"what was a marathon like?"

or a child
who's throat was burned
by the faith and trust of the learned men
who faithfully trusted the bleach in their drink to rid them straight to their gods
"what do you think of ice cream?"

but if you ask me
i haven't thought of what was before
that is no more
because i can no longer
what have i lost
in me
in living

well now, you bag of wind
what is death
for you are alive

in another universe
my room is warm
and there's not a single mess in my bed
but your hair.


drop yours in the comments, i wanna see

i look at you longingly
you look at me same
the right seconds till we look away with a smile
such a happiness, of a longing made life
lasting a drop of rain from the treetop

i heard the manic high lasts only a few weeks
with an uncomfortable normality afterwards you can feel fading by the hour
till you fall into a darkness again
tell me, is it also true
that it didn't matter
is it true
you saw me as bright as day
saw me shine like the new year sun
you were horrified when it all turned black

i should have known
you should have known
my happiness is a firework
it ends with a shockwave
it's followed by a cold silence
you wait for the next one, unless you're sick of the noise

i think of all the times i longingly stared at your eyes
now, i am reminded of all the times i dared not to look at a nose
it was my past, it was our shame, it still happens now
worse, i am surrounded by indignation
stares towards me knowing they smell sulfur and ash
stares away when my eyes meet theirs

or maybe still, i have been and still is
the sun you have so lovingly described
the light you have gracefully loved
the horror you have dangerously stared at
i have shown you my warmth and moved the air to soothe you
but you looked at me too much and i have blinded you
till you curse the light for bringing darkness

i've looked at you, longingly the same
i can marvel at your grace and life in a manic high or psychotic hell
but you might never see my eyes again

whether because you may never do so anymore
or never try
or because i will not let you
or till i can no longer

it's not that i miss you
or that i am tired of my white tile floor, eggshell walls

or that I'm looking for something else
other than the blandness i was left with
that i have acquainted myself with
life is often grey, when your job is to scrub the stains

but sometimes
when i come home from work
and sit on my grey couch
turn on my plastic fan
look past the black fridge
onto my kitchen window

the sky lands a little golden swan
imprinted on my unlit
lonely kitchen

and i think to myself
it's beautiful
you would have loved it
it isn't enough.

what else must be said
my dear
you wrote me a sonnet with your powdered coffee
you sounded like shakespeare when you talked about the unwatered basil ***
you made the rain sing with you just with your laugh

you had to go
and we said goodbyes
and there it was again

the most you've ever said
is in the silence of the air
around me as you went

and the unnameable poetry
you've made my mind imagine
how, you have invented a love

it was one rose
it was trimmed fresh of thorns
and the saleslady took it from a water bucket

and i knew it would die
i knew it would wilt
i knew the red would fade into the brown of rot

it could've meant a lot
or nothing at all
life, or love, or the disappointments of it

it was my most treasured gift
anyways

in the middle of it all
the pain of one in a beautiful world

with happiness, i hope for you
in desperation, i worry

in a fog
from all the steam

from all of my fellow friend's tired minds
they see me watch
as mine floats from my hair
and i point and say
"clouds"

in a solemn summer day
i let my sins wash away
into the quiet sea
and i charged a bit more
to have my toenails clipped

the river of baptism will clean us for the lord
we cleanse in praise

only to walk once more
barefoot and barely there
the road of many
the life of most

i think his disciples weren't taught enough about the reality of things
to live a life of your own still means to walk the same road of sorrow
and peace
but mostly sorrow;
it is what makes calluses

god didnt mean for us to be clothed
to have shoes
he meant for us to tire the same

well, christ was only unlucky
to have preached what was unfortunately circumstantial

into the dust we shall return
meanwhile, we must walk through it
surprisingly, not even the best leather will keep us from stain

they haven't talked enough
how important his holy pedicure meant
often we need to wash our feet
before we step into someone else's shoes

she let that anger go
in a scream that shook the ground, the trees, that scared evey dog to bark, and the neighbours asked how dare

and i told them
you let the dogs bark at strangers
your husband bark at your kids
but not this soul scream at the gods

"it woke us up, in the middle of the night"

as it should
and so should you
wake the **** up
come out and shout properly, you stupid shitholes
shout like your husband just ruined you
like a car just killed your friend
shout as if you live in a world where your tools can rip your leg
a world where your chosen leaders steal while you smile
a world where you have the gall

the ******* gall

to call peace an illusion because you do not feel it during chaos

you ungrateful ******* curse happiness for being brief, when you could not bring yourself to admit that you could not persist in fighting agony

my friend has fought, and she has fought
and her scream is of pain, and ecstasy

your measly shouts
your earfucking arguments
are a desperate and out of tune cry for control
control of your children
of your work
of your house
of your country
of your pathetic idea of love
your pathetic idea of responsibility
your pathetic idea of justice

my friend has screamed
and in doing, she has gripped the fates by the *****
she has gutted the devil
my friend is happy
my friend is strong
my friend has fought
my friend has control

of her own
her life
and the ******* universe

so what, huh?
how dare you shout so weakly when we have screamed so sincerely

come out and tell the ******* gods what it is

the world is ****
the world is ******
the world is well
the world is ruined
we are ruined
we are ******
we are confused
we are strong

so come out
scream
you *****
scream!

you told me words that make me
after i said my own, the truth of what i feel

and i will keep those words in myself
for if i open my mouth and tell no one but the air
the skies will be smitten
and the wind might take you away from me

you were a dream i kept seeing awake
and when i closed my eyes i saw you once more
unreal but not untrue
and what i felt was truly real

and i tried with my best to make it reality
but it would not
you couldn't
the circumstances couldn't
i couldn't even, honestly

but bits and pieces are coming together
i hear that dream again
i could feel the warmth of that dream
i could see that dream smile, more and more
hear it sing, more and more
and with me
and with me
more
and more

oh, the anemoi
i have closed my eyes
and saw it again.
i embraced her
and she was beautiful

oh, the fates
let me wake
to the dream i am enveloped
be the morning truth

oh, my own morpheus
my self
let me wake
this time

and see her arms around me.

when god takes me
and asks
what did i make of my life

i will tell him to his face
you have made the world
and my eyes
so ugly

and the trees
the flowers
the smokestacks
the noise

and beauty

and when he asks
do i forsake him

i will say to his face
i never stopped looking for beauty

it's that look
that you see
in her eyes
in his smile

liked to asked
if it could
if it should
i know i would

and i've been very stupid
i like the songs you've played
hope that in the colder nights
with you, that it would stay

it's not like it's a secret
oh, just come and see
it's in that look beyond me
that look that you could be

if i wasn't a poet
i would be working a job
hauling coal in a train

and i would be in a cabin with no windows
thinking about the destination's mini mart coffee machine

and yet, i just know
he would still be staring at the passing landscape
in the chances he gets to be in the first class car

he would have an ordinary life
but i know he could describe the sand, the sky, the mountains,
the taste of the keurig coffee on a styrofoam cup
better than i could
better than the ones who know all the words
guess, it's not the poet that matters

god
i hate you
you took something away from me
and I can't do anything about it
i loved you

my heart was torn
you told me it was real

it didn't go away
even when we fought it together
i knew it was going to hurt
i knew i loved you


now read it down to top

happy and sad
met in a park outside the bar
where sad had an unpaid tab

and happy let her smile reach his eyes
and sad wrapped her arms around her

she liked lavender and forget me nots
and found it stuffed in his pockets

he liked tears and memories
and found it on her gaze

i wonder, sometimes
if it was ever right
that they met

still, they looked cute
and happily they went
for so many years
i need not wonder if it was hard for them

for happy and sad
got married
and their child
was life

its not often enough
that people know the miracles
from simply thinking
"here's what it is—
what if it isn't?"

"here's what we had—
what if we don't anymore?"

"here's what i did—"

and the countless responses to the last one, so on, so on—
they're often valid

miraculously

you realize you have failed
and you realize you have been failing

but i kept in mind
other people fail too

when i didn't
i had to realize
it is still my failure

-

you realize you can change
and you realize you are changing

and i now know
people change too

when i didn't know
it seemed
i didn't change

my friend felt a little cheated for only having one beer
he knew in his life right now he needed as much as he can drink
man, i'd like to tell you how i need the same
but for therapy, and car rides, and biperiden tablets and sad poets
we all get it, its not enough,
but i bet life feels a little bit cheated, too
and death,
and heaven,
how come you didn't spend all your money on *****
and die on the bar
life wants us to give it all we got
and sick as it is,
it includes alcoholism,
and sorrow
and air pollution
and sad poems

sorry, but i feel like cheating life
if it means cheating death

thing is, i told her
when we weren't saying i love you to each other
that i'd describe her in a million other ways

and when i told her i loved her
i couldn't stop saying it

now i can't tell her that
and i know i shouldn't

and now it seems
all the countless short, stupid poems
are coming back to me
after i have forgotten

but i hope it helps any of you

to know that i told someone

"they were the moon in a starless night"

that i want to tell her

"i imagined the warmth of the phone
on our sleep calls
were yours"

that i want her to know

"you were the two extra eyes i needed
to watch the sunset with"

i wanted to breathe the same air as you
and quietly walk around
and i would smile and you would
laugh
we would have made nothing into something

"it took me five years to grow this tree," i told her

"you didn't grow it really," she said. "it would have grown by itself. it's a tree"

"but back then, it was a sapling, growing on a brick."

"and it still would have grown, you know," she insisted

and i gestured to the surrounding mess, the apartment buildings, the stone and concrete cul de sac.

"nothing grew here, maybe the buildings got taller, maybe telephone antennas, maybe weeds, but nothing."

"yeah, and?"

"when i saw the first few spindly stems, i thought nothing of it. when i saw the first few leaves, i knew it was curious."

"i dug the rest of the plot, removed the bricks, removed the cover on our gate. and i thought it was the most i could do."

"its the most anyone needs to do, you know" she said. "then it just grows. you wouldn't even need to water it."

"even still." i showed her the dust on the leaves. "the air here would clog the leaves from all the smoke. i showered it with water when i saw most of the leaves shrivel. i still do so."

"that would cost you, though. it's not a big tree, and you know it could die anytime, from the soil, the stones, the smoke."

"it didn't, didn't it?" i smiled, led her under the shade. "it grew, and i was glad. and right now i am glad it is still growing."

"well, okay. i still don't get it."

"you said earlier that it would grow anyways. i knew, but i still made it a plot to grow in.

and you said after that it could die. it didn't, and i'd like to think i helped it live.

and we saw that this place is hard and barren. i knew it is. but i knew it means something that suddenly one day, a little sapling decided to look for light, and air, here of all places.

i gave it the little help it needed to take root, and it made me happy it did. and i water its leaves every so often, because now it lives in the same air i live in.

not really that it makes me happy to see it without dust, but i felt it shared with me the struggle of not being able to breathe.

and really, i like to think that it shows me appreciation, for growing"

she looked a little less perplexed, but it still showed. "okay, but it's just a tree. it seems a lot for you to care for it for years, while it just sits there."

"at least it won't go anywhere.

and besides, it became a part of my life, just being there.

i put lights on its branches, that kids like to frolic upon and sit under.

i see birds flock above it, and i like to think they are grateful that it won't go anywhere. that it is there finally.

and i now see flowers grow, a stark contrast to all my life's grey. i see fruit that says to me, i can go on and grow some more, and i could grow here and there.

i see leaves that fall, and the small broken branches. the little sorrows of its life. i see the tree grow newer branches, that told me of its persistence to keep on."

"it's still a tree. there are trees everywhere"

"i am glad there are.

but i am glad for my tree. it grew on the hardest of places, and now there are flowers, birds, butterflies, and shade.

lucky for some trees to grow in better places, with no one needing to tend to it. lucky that there are forests, and soil, and orchards.

but i feel that me and my tree belong, and that what i do for it, and what little it did for me, is better than any forest."

it was the fire of love
that left us both
with scars

and hers is healed
but cold, when the wind comes

and mine
itches and bleeds
and feels like the damp of rain
on bad winters

it is true
it didn't matter that the fire was brighter than the sun

and it is true
that i must not look for warmth
to ease my scars
it matters more
that the scars are left alone

but i am coal
crude oil
dumpster fire
filled with smoke and ****
and it seems i am to burn
until everything is gone

burn
until i am done
and i hope
my scars burn with me

its when the earth stops for a while
and the winds curtain you delicately
and the sun peeks shyly through the clouds

and you breathe the same air
see the same light
feel the same fire from each other's hearts

and when she touches the last cold of your spirit
with the warmth of their words
their hands
their smile

the world will pause
for you to love
and to keep loving
night and day
sun and moon
you and me

asked for so long
what is the root of sorrow

and it made so we could not answer peacefully
what is the root of joy

most will think
and some would say
in their hidden minds
there is no happiness without knowing what sorrow has done

for even a child, born off the miracle beyond our mentalities
will cry entering this world
and into their mother's arms

and it is the most sorrowful to us
when they don't

some would add
sorrow is the pit that forms
when joy floats away

still, i asked my gaping wound that makes a smile
what it thinks

the sun was not unhappy when it warmed the stardust around it
and the sky is not ecstatic
when it rains on the fields

i wonder if the time will come
when sorrow does not have to precede joy
when euphoria doesn't have to be
the cure for agony

i wished to let it be for people
when i let myself smile
drug induced and core rotting
take the happiness from me
don't think that i must have suffered
to want to stoke this constant warmth
think instead, does joy need a root

and i wished for them to pay no mind, and think otherwise
when the pit of sorrow is filled with the maggots that fed on my peace

i wish for them to stop asking
is the happiness all over

the sea went quiet, and so did the wind

the hunters found all the wolves howling at a street light, and all the birds walking down on an expressway

and they found all the lilies lost their smell, and the rot of the woods took over

and the warmth of winter fires turned into the fear of cold summers

while the graves turned into a humid frenzy from all the happy worms

there became one less shining light in the night, but no one expected the darkness of the mornings after

there became more lights lit in the cities, but blinding to the point of chaos

everyone thought they can light their ways on their own; the moon wasn't as bright as they were, they supposed

but now the world falls into a void for the rest of half their lives

we did not think of the moon when it was in the heavens, that it would warm the night

but we now know that it made the sun harsher, and sundown terrifying

and the sea went into a slumber, away from the lips of the shores

and the wind blew alongside the ennui of a moonless life

january 1

rice, leftover ham, leftover cake, a glass of coke, ice cream, leftover beef pastrami.


february 12

rice, sautéed vegetables, coffee, leche flan



april 16

rice, bacon, fried fish coated with honey garlic, coffee

april 21

rice, fried fish, coffee



may 1

a bowl of rice, karaage, tempura, prawn sushi, ice tea

may 2

rice, karaage, coffee

may 4

cup noodles



july 6

porridge, kopiko

july 7

chicharron, chocolate milk

july 8

water



august 1

rice, fried chicken, salad, sprite





september 14

rice, leftover fish

september 15

watermelon

september 16

watermelon

september 17

rice, fried chicken, mashed potatoes, ice cream

september 18

watermelon, water




october 1

water

october 4

coffee

october 18

iced coffee, kopiko, chewing gum



november 3

rice

november 8

rice

november 30

a bar of twix



december 1

water, and a cigarette

december 4

iced tea, and a red

december 7

three reds. kopiko


december 8

a buffet. shabu shabu. soft serve ice cream

december 9

coffee, mountain dew, yogurt, leftover chips

december 12

chocolate.

i am mush, in a pouch, hiding from the rain

could it be that it is just the hidden pain in growth that keeps me from seeing
we are to be marvelous in end

or do the caterpillars in cocoons feel pain
as their bodies dissolve
and live on conscious
with nothing but their stored energy
and their miraculous, thinking minds

stewing with memories of their youth
gaily, living in their past
before they decide to climb to their future

i have been well too acquainted with my shell
or chrysalis, or prison
i forget why i am here
and where i am
but i know
i put myself here

it is to grow
but is it for good?
am i a moth, or a butterfly
i often wonder
in reprise, i distract myself
i'll be eaten by birds anyways, if that is any consolation

will my wings spell out a name
or someone's initials
or a skull with empty eyes
will i be orange, with red
or white, with nothing
will i be blue

i don't think i will enjoy my emergence
i don't know if my fellow caterpillars will
i know that i didn't enjoy my metamorphosis

i only know that i have enjoyed my past
and i was in excitement making my shell
we do not enjoy our future
it is not certain if we will enjoy making it

but i do hope, when time comes
i'll have a fellow winged friend to circle around with
and i do hope, then in our hard-earned freedom
we enjoy the flowers we previously couldn't reach

i know, in time
i will face the rain once more

i hope, do hope
that it will be in confidence
knowing i am among them
in the sky

to whom that left me in the rain
i'll see you again, dry

to them who shared a drink with me
in the coffee houses with ***** fridges
i'll see you, thirsty

to the moon that turns red, and the stars that hide
i hope to see you brighten that splendid canvas

the butterflies often tell me
you have to worry this time
but to the ones that say
your day will ****
oh, i'll see you in a nice noon

and to the books that tell me
don't worry, you'll be sharing the sun with someone
sometime again

oh man, i'll see you

and to the changing roads, the moving bridges
aging guitars, young beer
you'll be annoyed by me, soon

i'm in love with you, stranger
would you like to join me
there is only so much space, so much time
i haven't met you yet, but i like your shoes
i like your umbrella
i like how you wear your tired smiles
i'll see you, hopefully

and to you's, all of you's
the one who shared some drinks
and stared at butterflies
in cold mountains
stared at sunsets
and velvet undergrounds

you'll know where to find me
oh, all of you will see
that i see you

i haven't touched you in a while

i haven't stared at you for a while

i haven't been kissed by you for a while

i haven't dreamed

i haven't cried

i couldn't cry

i don't know if i can dream

i don't know if i can stare at you

my skin will crawl from a single tap

i don't know how everything changed

i haven't wondered yet

because despite everything, i feel within me

i haven't changed

he came from a small asteroid
and learned so much more from this big messy world
than those who have lived in it

how does he do
when we have to face hours without sunsets
and fall apart in the night

how he does
when we make ourselves the strangers he saw
and pretend the world we share is our own, only planet

how he has done
when we would rather throw our rose's glass case
to the floor
when we remember her thorns on our skin
and complain about the shards of our own doing

he has the innocence to believe the sheep was in the box
we would freak in our bigotry that there is only the box
and nothing within

he is an alien
and so were we
we covet his life
for we in our humanity
effort to strive to his simple omniscience
the opposites to our situations
our own baobab trees
growing within us

and i wonder
why was the price he took
to go home
what is the price we pay
to make ours
to return to ours
to be us

shine like star,
you meteor, ephemeral

i must need to leash my sheep