I stayed up until 2 am.
I was a little bit high and my hands were itching to write, I was able to finish one of my drafts out
of boredom.
I read it again and again.
Lost in transition,
indefinite blues.
As far as I remember,
the things
you want to say
in a form of simple
words and with
a passive conviction
can mean so much
more without any
fancy borders which
sole purpose is
just for attraction
because all the decorations
does is spoil the point and the
rest is a trend and then history.

Why can't I get someone to
get it even though
it's not my business?
Whenever I get an
approvable on point
it gives me hope
which translates:
not only I feel like ****
because of this stinking world
and how the society
adapted to it
and me dragged along,
of course
like a man in
the middle of a stormy sea.
I'm tired of it all. . .
the figures of speech
and how I can't use it
properly. .
the never ending debts. .
the omniscient monthly bills. .
the same old
******* thing ever since
I graduated. .

. .but my motivation
is, today's my Thursday.

We sat ******* those university chairs.
We knew nothing about directions except the path we were heading to.
I fell hard during those times, harder than you did. At least that's what I thought.
I don't know if you felt those words.
Those were all the words before what I am today.
You weren't the only one. .
I am not the only one. .
but sometimes I think it's just me
who remained, who in at least a day in a week thinks of it whenever something familiar reminds me of you.
I know the reality
doesn't care, but the truth is,
I really want to know
how far did it took you
to condemn me.
And all I've heard was,"Hindi lang ikaw ang may pinagdadaanan Nikko."
That was the last thing I've heard
and I don't know wh-. .
what ever since. . . .



Here we are.
We are now a myth turned into a gossip during reunions whenever someone who knew our story but didn't know how it felt cares to touch the intangible memories;
the coals in the fire;
those tons of patient Catcher in the Rye books in every bookstore;
the change for the bums on
the streets;
the infected livestock meat to bury;
and yes,
this is outdated years ago,
and here I am
not halfway through
wasting away.
ughhh. . .

It takes a lot of remembering
when you don’t feel like yourself
anymore. . .

And lines like these won’t fit
to the regular ones because
the number one authentic
branding is “emo”
when one is just trying
to get a hold of his emotions

so we stop. .

Dry mouth.
Probably because of
too much smoking.
When did I start
the things I feel so
filthy about when I was young?

Well anyway,

I remember
“Que, Sera Sera.”

My grandmother used to sing
that song to us, her grandchildren.
And when I aged, I found out that
the meaning of the unfamiliar
phrase is within the song itself
all along;
that’s why she always bet her
money to those big casinos
whenever she gets some.

She wasn’t afraid to lose
but then she is a loser
I suppose.

And that taught me
that there’s something
I’ve been born with;
not a curse,
not a blessing
but
endurance
to
the

last.

Velvet spikes, the medium’s circular
Like a carousel for all the ordinary lives.
I spent a man’s life time
less than two decades.
The Erotes are laughing above
the picture frames in my room;
they know that I’m a poor man,
wasting away while joining the
non-believer’s lament,
forever cursed and immortalized
in stone,
in memories
and in
violent behaviors. . .

And so I accepted my fate;
and these smokes
I have been smoking,
are all just for you.

your smile has always been one of the things i wonder. .
there's a lot of things i could say to describe it,
and. . .

there's a thousand reasons why but i only need one....!

it matters and i'm afraid of the truth,
that if i conjure it,

.....it wouldn't be the same for you belong to the past.