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.

our romance began when nobody
wanted to start one
i remember it like it was a while ago
on a day when the leaves were yellow
and the times suggested
parks that are far away from the road.

my heart felt something
and it remembers
in a quite unfamiliar sense.

it is just like the first time in a long time to
witness the sunrise again in this dull life
the wind blew. . .
and changed its direction

i followed it and i knew it’s
that time again.

there was no way to tell
if it was the same before
but to splash my frail body in there
for a leap of faith

but i was sure though seemingly different,
i convinced myself
it was going to be all worth it.
and when it was about to happen,
i didn’t give admission to my doubts.

as

i played the bull
on a rampage
to be killed
for its desire.

it made me forget the pain of
the thousand scrapes and wounds
of trust
i succumbed into
for what seemed
like many years
and you were there,
                  
                   you
        
       came;

you
      
      found
                  
                 me.

the ******* feeling
in the world
that you can ever feel
is that being deceived
that someone truly cares
about what or how you feel.

you can never avoid it.
there are so many people out there,
so many, that you won't be able
to stop yourself from believing
that someone actually knows
and someone actually cares
and someone would really
do something about it.

take one example,
the internet,
it's the place
where you can meet
a lot of people

because it's the place
where all the people
are now.

and all the people,
including you and me are gone.

all heads are niether
up or down
but gone.

it's a vast disappearing act
like magic
but the magic is that
nobody anticipated it

and that ignorance
is the most cliche bliss,

taken for granted
as it is meant to be.

upsetting outcomes
and
useless confessions,

****!
now that i've figured
how to get by during
the previous two decades,
i can't figure how
in this present time.

to define this
frustration
is to result
forced efforts
to a grumpy poem.

the reciever always
pick up bad signals,
bad ******* reception
from no good people
you meet.

if i close my eyes
in a room full of
people i know,
i just know no people
i know knows.

sometimes it feels
stupid to reach out
but it's more stupid
not to, however it
makes more sense
to be alone and over
analyze things and end up
with the same result:
it's another grumpy
poem.

there's blood dripping down
wipe it off
the wolves can smell it
from a hundred feet away

yeah, we are sons of *******
just some beat up strangers
in the streets
homeless
cigarette-bumming *******
asking for spare change
from gold stained hands

the cross they hang from
way up there
blocking the light
casting a shadow like
a ******* crosshair

they'll shoot us with
everything they've got
if we choose to stand in their way

how are you coping
up this week?

i guess we'll figure that out
when one of us does.

There’s an eruption,
as delicate as mid-teenagers’
jeans could topple its ugliness

There’s an eruption,
turning the streets and its
cigarette butts upside down

There’s an eruption,  
sprinkles of salt in
every man’s heart,
vivacious more than what it seems

There’s an eruption,
the veins of a business man
is clogged as he watches the graph fall

There’s an eruption,
Hemingway;
in another Earth
called for a shooting spree
all the way off to madness’ extinction

There’s an eruption,
the anxiety steams as some of us
chokes down and digest
the indigestible memories

There’s an eruption, all over selected
rooms of each suburban
addresses and houses

There’s an eruption, the words of some of us adhere
serves as the thick barrier
of revelations
buried beneath the soils of turmoils
and tumors residing inside our heads    

There’s an eruption, it keeps up, stops, breathes,
stares, flashes, keeps up, stops, stares, flashes,
keeps up, stops, stares,
flashes, keeps up, stops,
stares, flashes, keeps up,
stops, stares, flashes, keeps up, stops, stares, flashes;
keeps up forever. . .

if you say that
you don't want
to do this anymore,
the job, the work,
the office,
the spreadsheets. . .

then what else
would you
be better doing?
what else is there to do?
all thoughts are leading
to ending up into a ***
in the streets begging
for change.

it's a trap you see.
everything is supposed
to be free until everyone
started owning things.
they caged us with
most of us not knowing.
it costed us our
true freedom.
they contained us
like gasoline
for their desolate machines
that has no flesh or heart
that no single human being
could ever stop on his own.

where the homeless are
right now is just pure
evidence how cruel
we let things happen.

you wanted to praise Jesus,
and the next thing you know
is that you didn't helped
at all
and you only
helped yourself with lies
to cover up the absence
of reason.
why such terrible things
happen?
leave it all to God.
what is a god?
leave it all to nothing.

honest, i sometimes
think i believe in
the terrorists.
they are like mental
scars left untreated,
bound to do things
their own way.
never again
to sit still in front
all of these established
conformity that was
created for our minds
to submit to,
to unconciously
accept
as the standards
or as the only way,
the right way.
but it's absurd to do so,
either way.

i have these thoughts
out of motion,
inanimated,dead,
therefore i failed
but the tiniest spark
will do
against all odds,
against the
thousands of
your faithful followers
and your statuses
about yourself,
your beautiful self.

only smoke lives inside
this empty chest now

and a book lying in my bed
is the only companion I have
during most nights
and for the following nights

I can't confide with it
or exchange words with it

only it fills the little gaps,
small spaces
that I recently have made room for

it will take time
to remember how to take
a few steps

it always does

but I'm in no hurry

one good thing
about it is it doesn't hurt
like it used to
and I wonder if it really
mattered,
all those four years
because I couldn't feel anything
from it

and I keep having
this thought in mind
that loneliness
granted for a long
period of time isn't so bad
after all

I could use some solitude,
some peace, privacy and
time and time again
to reflect

however loneliness
isn't good for
a heart that chooses
to take action on its own

it doesn't matter,
for I can always cover it up
for as long as
I could

there are plenty of women
out there
but now's not the time
for that
since
I have no use for
relationships built within
the confines of the social
standards
especially nowadays
where no one wants to
keep their happiness to themselves

hold it like some treasure
bury it deep down like
you wouldn't want anyone else
to find it once you
get your hands
on it


and this poem
is as horrible as,
serves as a tribute
to
the last relationship
I had.

This phase is the slowest phase a slow dance song
could pattern itself with.
Not all but those souls darkening inside every
rooms after work is religiously cursing
that this is not everything should be.
We have plans:

Heroically-precised plans of an idealist when
he’s drunk and has to wake up at six in the
next morning and turn himself back into
a realist so he wouldn’t be expecting
something great to come.
The best part of it was he is and he was
an idealist at some point, not too frequent and
not so often.
And tonight he didn’t make much difference to you,
to me and to those poor kids the government couldn’t
handle but he thinks about it sometimes; about the difference
between how “he can’t do it but thinks of doing it” and
“enormous profits can do it but doesn’t even bother
thinking about it.”

So averagely unreliable he can’t be good at something
anyone would appreciate or at least make money
out of but he’s still there and sometimes
he’s a she. Doesn’t make any difference whether
a he or a she but their lives are meaningful
as a party lover’s or a narcissist who breathes
through attention that will never be filled.
...

They climb walls too.
They watch.
They sometimes write their
butts off.
They live.
They matter.
They are your belittled fans.
They were beautiful cosmic beings of space,
humbled enough to place themselves
down here and forgetfully
regret it and they still live.
...

I don’t know. Maybe this phase is just
so disappointing, I try to make something
inspirational about it and yeah, I failed.

I am wasting away. I am angry.
I am scarred. I have instabilities.
and this deformation I succumbed
into reflects how the world treated me.
the other day I was being idealistic but
tonight I address all my worries to
how I was brought up. . . God! It
feels so ******* good to put the
features you imbued upon my hide
in use! I got half, if not, close to a quarter
over the sum of it all. This me writing
is the spill of what you pour on me;
an excess of the limit of what I can process.
Like a swaying drunk on the pavement,
soon I'll be waiting for the audience's
middle-fingers directed to me and I'll be
fine with it like a madman with nothing to
lose.

Well, that's the last hit I could take
for the day. .

it's cold.
the moving casted
shadows from
the headlights of passing
cars,
reminds me of you.
all i see are limited
scenes slowly turning
from happiness
to a strange interference,
a howl in a slow phased dance.
i am in a cave
and when i open my eyes,
you know that
it's time to
read this down slowly,
the scenes are cut,
the end only means
moving forward.
it is cold tonight.

brief introductions, skipping fining judgments and
unconsciously accepting regret some days later;
i should’ve known better. . .
anna is a narcissist.
jerome is a hipster.
kenneth (also a hipster) wants to be the alpha all the time
when it comes to movies.
anthony’s a poet, at least considers himself
to be one because he writes
and stupid girls loves his generic works.
marianne thinks of herself sharp and has
nothing to say but “cliche” on art pieces
that she doesn’t like, pretentious as ****.
just because kath graduated from one of the
well-known universities the world
has ever known, her opinions and
views about everything must be and should be golden.
olivia who seemed to be a kid at heart,
turns out to be a ****-loving ****** of all sorts.
jacob who’s good at playing guitar is a self-indulged
narcissist
and thinks that anyone who’s not as good as him
or plays in band like he does can’t join he
and friends’ “clique,”
like hell it would mean the world to me
to be a part of those phonies.
professor richards who teaches literature
disapproves of my favorite writers, also a phony.
benison is a bully with nuts for brains.
to hell with this, and i’m a pacifist who’s
judgmental.

some other days our twenties dry like dry leaves
no cold establishments would take our souls
hey I just lost my job let’s drink with what’s left of my paycheck
I’d carry us a little bit higher than the rusty rooftops
if not, we’ll carry on as dreamers as the belligerents failures
of the previous generation into the four corners of
this small apartment

it’s a gathering of the minds

it’s all there is for us other than what wings that covers us
in our home, in the suburbs, in our comfort shelters

I get so tired of letting people know
that I just want to take back their idea of me

and of course, anyone of you who’ll lend me

the phrase “we’ll figure it out in the morning” will be much
appreciated

no need to force our depression-embodied bodies to work
we can bathe in alcohol lose another day loosen up lay down
get laid get high wake up late and despise the industry..

I thanked December way too early
now it has taken things way too seriously.

The wind probably knows it.
Probably because,
it’s the only thing that knows it
but if you think about it,
it makes sense in a way
where you can understand
why writers write and
******* always win.
(Charles Bukowski’s an exception)

Oh how you wish that
when you feel it the most,
the more it would show
and that you’d actually
show it
but you’re a pro when it
comes in hiding what
royal rumble of rats
are inside like it’s
an automatic reaction
from the nervous system
and you (I) don’t know about (you)
anyone here but,
it really ***** when
you think about it,
everyone’s having the
time of their lives.

Destiny exists but,
only as you’ve always predicted
it, like how you got hooked
by one of Morrissey’s
hit which is ‘Everyday is like Sunday,’
Destiny commands:
every single day of your life
to be like Sunday and you
can’t help it
and o!
Plus the fact that everyone’s
too focused in stardom
to know what is it
with Sundays and why
it is supposed to be sad
so you’re
in for like how Ozzy Man
puts it, “Destination ******!”

******* references...
since when did knowing
such things makes one hipster?

(Since every single *******
pedantic-narcissists including the closeted ones
got the idea when it trended of course; I know,
I am aware of the absurdity)

lives are always under the dark clouds.
little kids who just wants to play outside,
in the sun,
in the rain,
away from the busy streets
of
the city
where childhood
meets
the end of the road.
further and further away,
it’s an endless road.

lives after lives after lives after lives...

no one looks
at the sky anymore
just like the way we did
when we were young.

we’re all in the same picture.
desperate lives,
kids who doesn’t want to grow up,
kids who realized too late,
old living room superheroes with capes
now wearing business suits and neckties,
bachelors employed in to something
they’ve been lied to,
hundreds of the kindest, smartest,
educated beings now demands
order through activism,
current bums in the streets still the heirs
of former bums in the past
the same with
current politicians,
heirs of former politicians.
countries, big ones
racing and paddling tirelessly
with people that serves as their
coal. . . .

it’s all happening and you know it.
it’s all happening but they keep you
distracted every two weeks in a month.
it’s all happening while you’re on your
knees with your eyes closed as you believe
in something you’ve been lied to
which costed millions of lives
through history before
it became what it is today.
it’s all happening;
one proof is that writers from
hidden parts of the world
and of history came to feel its
presence and has written it
as a reminder. . .

and

the one sitting on the dark throne
nullifies their stand
by keeping us occupied. . .

you got hired?
you got a raise?
you got promoted?
your boss recommends you?
your boss sends you gifts?
you got your own piece of the land?
you worked hard for it didn’t you?
for what?
to prepare the ones your worked for
just to suffer the same fate?
what?
i’m crazy?

oh you got admirers?
you just posted the smartest
useless thought that caught a lot
attention?
you feel secured because it won’t
come in your time
and
i’m just crazy?

yes,
like a mad dog under a
restraining order.

(the numbers were added to make the readers feel
that the writer invented something new, something
that other writers haven’t tried before but
it doesn’t really work because mainly,
his writing *****)

1.
i hate that she still listens to Motion City Soundtrack
and i don’t doubt it that she already introduced
her baby to their songs like L.G. FUAD,  Everything Is Alright,
The Future Freaks Me Out, Hold Me Down etc,.

2.
i think that i’ve been fairly unfair to my recent lover.
but things are more complicated than ever that
i don’t feel like myself for the past three years
but it’s not her fault. neither of us is at fault.
a well crafted excuse to avoid being regarded
as another poor excuse.

3.
everyone i graduated with
seemed to have moved on with their lives,
are now professionals in
their own prefession and here i am,
convincing myself that i am alright
while listening to MCS’s “Everything is Alright.”
P-A-T-H-E-T-I-C

4.
it feels good to say that “i have no friends”
when what i really mean is they’re all
too tough to get down to late night
sappy conversations which for
the very least, happens occasionally.

5.
fact:
whenever i get to something new like a
job, path, ****, course, wage, state of mind,
level of sanity, new batch of hair falls,
or the latest, ‘country,’
it’s always somebody’s decision

6.
i honestly think that all the people
i’ve met in/on/at work are phonies.

7.
i ******* hate myself.

8.
Dubai is like the Season 2 of my life
and the people I left in my country
are the 1st gen Pokemon
(i have no pikachu)

9.
everyone’s moving along constantly
and i’m a part of the audience,
but the only one
who doesn’t participate

10.
another wasted hour.

tonight.

. . . like a
small **** on the road.
You see, from the eyes of a man who has nothing but himself
to be fooled by the world
and hopes for a better day
or year,
I thought I was different
like I could change the ways
of the world through my own
visions but none of them
seems to work at all.
You give a *** from the streets
a crumpled bill and
next thing you know
he'll blow it all with
what he never had
for a long time
but I believe I would've done
the same because no Jesus
without a penny or dime
would waste such generosity
in this world and I
only believe in monks
who can discipline themselves
but monks are useless.
I have tried several approach
to make a difference
but nothing ever works
and sometimes I dream
with my eyes open in
broad day light that in
the dream I have the loudest
voice in the world
but even so, all ears are plugged,
all eyes are shut and
all hearts are pale.
You either die poetic
or amongst the ones
who have unturning eyes
but still you end up
in a box.
No small amount of
light could ever penetrate
the dark unless
the light is the focus,
and I just made that up
whatever that could mean
to anyone.
You can never be a
successful writer
without good advertising
and marketing nowadays
and with this awful
writing style I have,
I don't count like
those microscopic
sea creatures.

December’s days are numbered,
the New Year’s on its way
and will soon take me with it.
My bones are of the same set,
its whole test of endurance
will be displayed again
as I dodge bullet after bullet,
January light,
my birth month,
its fire will once again
grant me another age.
The scoreboard of this year,
I never saw my name on it.
This battle of stillness is nobody else’s
but mine and I’m its sole competitor
and yet, it still haven’t
consider me as its own.

I'll leave this for now. .
(as I am so tired of being
aware of all my weaknesses
and
the disability to improve them)

in this room
where i had spent a lot of
mental suffering and
arguements with myself
about what better decisions
i could've made
if only i had been
wiser,
i'm having vague
negative thoughts
of ending my life
quickly without any
pain.
i stopped
for a moment
and asked myself
if this is were all my doings.
i don't know.
i can't feel myself making
any sense.
it's something that dies
in you.

how many sad love stories
does it take to make a heart
as thick and black as tar?
how can they take a lover's
plea like it never betrayed
anyone before?

I stare at the young bloods,
the vibrant reds,
the fresh mouths,
the holy bathed genitals
and they all make
me wonder. . .

what will cause them to become like me?

constrict your heart,
your throat,
your lungs,
your dry lips,
your pulsating brain blood veins

keep it all within yourself

no one should live for
someone else

don't let anything
in your way take
what's important

battles scars are inevitable

imperfections, marks, scars and
more imperfections are
all meant to be
visible in you
as you have no other
choice but to
leap into the void
that is the world itself

don't let
love, jealousy, fear,
betrayal, failure,
cheating women,
the system's copulation to
the masses,
vague heavy dreams about
planes, battleships, buildings,
continents, planets,
titans, earthquakes and
volcanic eruptions
expanding sizes
next to the small you
take the only thing
that you have
in your possession
from the beginning:

yourself.

the slowest, heaviest and the
lightest thing the artist carries
is a bag of bones and meat

slouching on the sofa
eyelids as heavy as
boulders

the artist tries to stay awake
as his brain fries for a little
pinch of creativity

the urban pollution embodies
the scene, his inspiration,
and the artist is missing:
gone along with the radio waves

a mild, slow torture is upon
him, he disregards this,
he smokes a cigarette
his eyes lay lifeless
through the night,
as cars, bikes
and garbage trucks fills
his mind

midnight calls him for sleep,
before it,
he remembers some
beautiful things in his
past life and never he
make it past through a single one
on the back of his head

he doesn't want any of it
and he is unconsciously
made to think that way,

he has given all of it away
to the void, doesn't remember
much about everything,
year by year and
what remains is
a shadow of him,
the world was never easy
on him

and the world
always criticized him
with one word:
'pretentious'

because all the world's
intelligence and cunningness
lies solely from that
particular word

with him as a witness
from this comedic
tragedy.

you are the wishes you never
told anyone before,
frankly there's a god who agrees
with you and there's one who doesn't

and the world and the souls
that walks around it

and the time won't stop

and departures never arrives

and the promises never
dared to expose themselves

and the hopes and dreams
can only be seen on t.v.

and the happiest people are
those who doesn't deserve it

and weddings are paid for

and families and its
relatives never had gatherings

and the churches started
to appear in different genres

and the childhood memories
were as colorless as an
untouched coloring book

you're never the first one
to know how
quite awful things
have been

for all of what you've been
waking up for is all
a mad reality,
an impostor of what
you went up against.

let's clean up
this canvass
shall we?

a humid night stills.
there are no stars
no signals
just motions for
the steady notions.

i have changed.
everybody does.
but there are some
moments i want to relive
that i can’t seem to
get a grasp of.
looking at my trails,
i do not seem to get that far,
i’ve been running in circles
for days.
i can only look back
and i can’t get past
the thick glass separating
the present and the days
of my youth.

i wanted to break the glass
but it resides within the
deepest chambers
of which i can no longer
retrieve

and

the beer in front of me
is getting warm by the
hour.

it’s another day of work
tomorrow.

Since when did the heavens get so cold to me?
I was once the night who soared through each
broken dreams and piece them back together
Into something all hearts wished to possess.

Yesterday the street was leading me
to the glowing
of the fallen humming birds;
I yield and hope that
may God breathe life once again
to those who had no choice but to regress.

I must continue.
The heavens does not stand with me
on this one.
Not this time.

I have to lift my cadaver
Higher than the clouds.
Self-motivation will never be enough.
I may fail with this one long leap.

Sleep is deadly.
Loneliness is silent.
My heart is on stealth.
The world observes.

I won't let you do that to me anymore.

My body and mind will always
stand against you
as
the heavens
and its disapproval
may end me soon.

haunted by the greatest poem that will never be mine
i sprung across the centers of mirrored versions of myself
the first one i saw was a barefooted town drunk with a twitching pair of lungs
the second one never lived half the age of the original plan
the third one in a scene my heart couldn’t bear i skipped
the fourth one hardly mattered, it looked a little wiser than the others
and the fifth
and the sixth
and the seventh
and the eighth
and the ninth
and the rest
all looked just like me
all bestowed the same fate from the third:

Mette stole all possibilities as our consent
gave us blind gratitude from it.
i came back exhausted
realizing that the fourth version was more becoming. . .

Someday, when I’m old enough,
none of these would even matter:

the women I could’ve ****
but was emotionally unstable to do so

the dream of being a great writer
where everyone would dream of
giving me a head

the people who forced their own ways inside
my head

the romantic times where I should’ve
let my ****** feelings win rather than
regretting it afterwards

the chances I wasted telling the truth

the frustration in life and
the lie about how I was manning it well

the friends who is no more than words

ambitions I lost during my upbringing

my unhealthy relationships
and state of being

wild obsessions

the real truth that nobody will
ever notice

disgust towards people I used
to look up to

fear of getting judged

and lastly,

hoping.

tight grip ties,
the inevitable desperation
in our palms,
i see it in you
i see it in me
and the world is a
skyscraper piercing
the fruits of our labors.
honey you didn't
need to count our
blessings,
the wolves are already
here
and their mouths
are open, watering
before the scent of our ignorance
and our
mothers and fathers,
they knew it
and they wanted all of it
out of our sights
for the glow
that we keep
keeps the worth of
their burden paid
and we'll carry it
and we'll wait
and wait doing
this living that has been
translated so many times
in our past lives
to the outcome of
our lives.
and this,
honey isn't something
you haven't heard before.

sometimes i get
suicide bombers, rapists, killers, robbers and thieves
because their motives are visible through their actions.

but i never once in my life
bothered understanding businessmen, pastors, priests, muslims, religions, politicians,
and people whose motives in life
remain hidden
until caught red handed,
and also those people
who choose not to see the world naked for what it is.

maybe the UP activists are right
and that i shouldn't think of them as brainwashed kids or
just paid heads to do
what they do but their actions,
my thoughts and this poem
doesn't change anything.

i bet 100% of you
who are reading this would either think i'm deranged or seeking for attention.

i could go on and on writing
this **** and explain thoroughly
but the people's brain
are now wired to ex b's
hit single and yes,
mentioning that made
this a little bit funny but no.

as a ******* filipino
who should be typing this in tagalog, working overseas,
i've seen some fellow countrymen showed some pride
against their oppressors
from work but they don't get anywhere but jail.
i must've forgot,
the movie about manalo
trampled the one
about heneral luna.

see how helpless
we are in reality?

what's your photo that comes
with a bible verse got to do with others?

are you spreading
the word of God?
what does it do to you?

Sometimes I get
The New People's Army.
But I don't get Muslims
who runs businesses and the Chinese too.

Sometimes I wish
I could spread fake news
that doesn't harm others
and last but not the least,
I hope someday the world would stop not and smoke Marijuana all
at the same time
including North Korea.

I couldn't stop.
I also hope that these people,
those who has a lot of followers
use the attention properly but no, people are so ******* dumb and Salinger is right with Holden's, "People never notice anything"
and nothing's too big
if people will stop creating bigger things that'll only add up to the congestion clogging up the world.

and Allen Ginsberg is right,
we are breaking our
******* backs just to lift ******* Moloch.

**** your Mosques, your INC branches, your corporations, your religions, your borders and divisions, your trends that kills the minds of the youth.
**** your laws, about making Marijuana illegal.
**** your disguise and your intelligence.

I almost believe world cleansing is the answerbbecause the ant colonies are so much better
ruling the world.

I don't know anymore, my smartphone's ******
and I am not smarter. . .

once i was proud to have it all over my sight,
these right words that fits each rhyme.
and after the consecutive strings she pulled,
i felt it wearing me out.

but first
let me tell you something anyone can relate to:

everyone goes through a tight relationship
on their youthful days and those were the days
life does its part best;
it lets you feel something to keep,
gives you a lot of memories you never
thought you had.

well, the only trail that leads me to it
is smiling about it, skipping all the bad parts
and focusing on to the best moments.

after a couple of years,
it completely disappeared
and today, i feel no trace of the past
and my words are no different than
train stations and traffic jams
but i'm with someone new now
and i guess it is never too late
to take a chance with the current.

GOD and the guy wearing
red pajamas didn't partake
in any way in this madness
that is going on in this world.

man is responsible.

our leaders?
greedy *******.

wars?
negotiable.

the religious?
wise guys, crooks.

the media?
ask the Beliebers.

the people?
still clueless.

writers?
i'll leave it to you.

born

named after a three,
a brainstormed term
or the same old family name

celebrated

bred

thrown out in the open

eyes widened by the true visions
of the world

self confessions,
both harmless and self deprecating

the only answer to be given back
are tears out of the lack of reason

make a stand against the machine
with trembling
limbs, having courage is absurd
but to live it out is a choice

leave a flower for a few days
without water and it will perish

at peace
at ease

easier to let go
harder to leave

you just don't gather these,
your dissatisfactions in life,
distractions, warning signs,
long durations of time,
probably months without
someone to do,
you keep them until they hurt

why do you keep them
all to yourself?

do you know these people?

they're always right huh?

they're never wrong.

that's why you're there.
I'm here.

we don't resist.

we just want to live in our
own way of how the world
could attain peace,
then we die silently soon after.

the last song you’ve ever listen to,
the last conversation that took
until the first break of dawn,
the unnoticeable look in your grandfather,
the grip you hold
in the neck of the bottle
of beer,
the friday night drunk workers,
the batchmates
and their indifferent
futures,
the longest drags of cigarettes
in every corner of the streets
known to man,
the yearning desperations of
a widow,
ambitions of a drunk under
a street lamp,
the life you’re living,
it’s counterparts
and the main problem
of it:

god only favors
those whose lives
aren’t much different
than his.

brain shrinkage,
dialating eyes of confusion,
the molding of stress
in the pool of sobriety,
receding hairlines and
developing obesity,
the awry rationalization
of everyone's
depression in controlled economics,
the weariness in a blackhole,
sore feet,
sore body mass,
the lower backs breaking only for Moloch,
the lack of enthusiastic sense
to search for enjoyment,
for everything and anything,
one dead end leads to another,
the lights out hour
and
its deadly suffocating bed box
sadness machine;
as/while my relentless contemplation
for suicide delays,
I think I am more concerned
that with no savings at all,
the could/would-be bills for a funeral
may matter more than the death itself
but yeah,
this little enumeration
of a poem does no help
at all

but

a bottle of brandy
may help to make
it clear,
even for me.

writing is like a prayer
but completely different.

you write because you deny
that you don't need
anything from anyone
where in fact you're
not so sure what is.

you write it off,
all your worries
just for yourself
and it doesn't
bring anyone a purpose.

you write it off,
because the reason
is something else
you have yet
to realize on one
of your cigarette breaks
while staring at something
dead or steady
in the afternoon,
in the afterlife.

you write it off
as a coward,
as a mental case
who refuse to
come out of the surface,
as a daily bus window
seat passenger,
looking around too see
if god's roaming around
the same city streets.
you write it off
as someone who has a
tendency for a breakdown
inside a bomb shelter.

write it off as it gives you
false hopes.
write it off for it will remind
you of this reality:

writing is like a prayer,
it doesn't get answered.

the fire of life in me can be compared to a dying light bulb.
ain’t that a bad comparison?
the days were like the days when we still don’t care
about the things we say again
but we’re just fooling ourselves
---

good that you have a drink in your hand
don’t you have work tomorrow?
it feels like the strings are getting cut
whenever you ditch a day doesn’t it?
well it’s that feeling that drains
take my words, i’m not putting you down
here with me,
listen, you don’t understand that
at this age you shouldn’t be forcing
what’s not there anymore
and you’ve been diagnosed with the disease
since you age
everybody does, no exceptions
i hate to be the bringer of  bad news
but it’s the truth buddy.

---

you don’t have to state the obvious,
it’s everywhere, over you, over me, everywhere
i just want to pretend that the day’s
going to be great once in a while
don’t you think that it’s not bad to
shed your own skin for a breather huh?
i mean, it gets tiring, i want to put the
mad dog face down for at least today
and i don’t know... maybe go to
a place where the ****’s not as bad
as what we got here

---

where?

---

ugh ****.. i feel lazy...
listen, let’s just
smoke this blunt in my room while
we listen to your playlist
i hope you have morrissey

---

sounds like a plan...

I have been thinking too much
about what others see
when I walk past them;
and the adversities of my youth
contributed so much in this

and yet this is another
one of my babbles
where I know these words
will never be enough
to be louder than the hiss in your ears.

I was running out of ideas,
not about the ones that could work
but the ones that would surely
let me live a little in the midst of it all.

I am caught between my crazy thoughts
and the standard procedures they
keep on prescribing to everyone
while none of theirs really worked out.

Whenever I smoke inside the bathroom,
there's this big mirror on the wall
with the size of the modern flat TV screens
like the one you have in your living room.
I see myself in it, deformed, defeated,
clueless and occasionally mad about how
I couldn't live at any moment;
always crawling like a bug while carefully
avoiding being stomped by the bigger fellows
from the who-knows heavens above.

If I was a bird, I'd be aware that my wings are clipped
and if I was God, I'll know how to keep my subjects
subjugated-fairly.

Oh how I destroyed myself with lots of ****
in the internet. Other than the self-inflicted pleasure,
I confess that it did get me through being completely
insane with how fast the world moves,
how it forgets that a person can only bear
a couple of things all at once though
on the other hand it destroys more than
it mends.

Don't get the wrong idea, I am not alone, physically.

I have tried countless approach, methods, ways
for whatever the day wants me to shapeshift
myself into, just to reach the most
fitting, the most becoming form in order to
get on the next day while surviving the traps
laid by the worries imbued in me by my upbringing.

My mouth as well as my mind is all dried up
to blame even an innocent rock for all the things
I keep running into, therefore I just embrace the spikes,
rush to the fall, crash to the wall and intentionally drown
while knowing there is no other way to escape any of this
but to run mindlessly towards my problems
that has different shapes and sizes.

eyelids, as thin fold
of skin against the rain,
the consequence
the posibility
I shove this progress,
making space and making time.
I just want to lose
all this will energy just
so they admit me
to a hospital break
and I want to fake
everything. . .
God why can't you
make all this easy
for me?

and to my Mom
who seemed to
forgot what
living is supposed to
be,
you're dragging me
in the same ending,
I hope she knows.

and to my real Father
who never figured
things out,
I'm happy that
I got your ideals and
that you get me in my
current situation.

how many remaining days
are there before I lose
all this and become
a shadow
of what I used to be?
I wasn't great, never better
but around these days
I don't feel much
and as I am writing
this pitiful poem
I can feel the urge in my
hands to break something
in order to let
everyone know that something
is wrong but no,
people never know
I have been fooled of
this fantasy so many times
that it made me
burn bridges, including
long ones.

losing sleep,
restless I come at it again,
I'll force my way
all throughout the day,
earn the money
while I slowly turn
into stone,
losing myself
and drifting away,
****, I am drifting away. .

tomorrow
another blank slate,
thin fold of skin
against what tomorrow
brings
no rhymes
problems in the daylight
and mostly at night

only living
without being
truly alive,
I come as a poet
with problems at night.

Oh good Lord, may you provide us with providence..
Merry are those who are deceitful at ease..
Wash away not only my sins but also my knowledge..
These index fingers are pointing at all direction...
This unclarified purpose is digesting my head..
Why do I loathe a lot of irrelevant things?
When my existence is a part of inconsistency..
I see the world from a moon in my isolation.
More and more souls are appearing to be a nuisance..
For the voice in my head told me so..
Such is defining gravity and drowning on a sunny day..
To a soul with feet fixed on the daily tracks..
Perceptions are unnecessary for these subjects..
Relying on hope itches my pessimism..
I am so eager to scrape my enemies but I don't know them..
And my thoughts.. why are they trying to **** me?

Hail Raymond!
The corners of the room is with you
The silence of the room is within you
The empty and the hollow feeling
is reaching a thousand yards down,
aiming for your throat and you cover
your heart just a little tight for no butterflies
to escape

The sunlight intruder through the window
tells what muscles are made for and you're
not one for more than the hours a creative
mind to waste

The night is your salvation,
Words, alcohol and cigarettes are your
salvation

You don't go well .

As businessmen, in your eyes, are just
men playing God paying other men to be
their broad daylight bad omen

O Raymond, you've written so many letters
to yourself and you don't read them

You fancy the letters as the steering wheel
of your life and those letters aren't
steering your life well enough to sound
mentally well

Raymond, you have so few friends, vocabulary and ambition for today,
what did you do today that is different
from yesterday?
What limbs you have aching now?

You've become so poetic and yet
you are behind, far away from those who swim happily through the deceiver's pool

Raymond. Raymond!
You need to wake up more than
everybody else, the rapid smoking doesn't
help but if it helps you,
may your seasonal belief in faiths and miracles save you from your flesh.

Raymond, we won't be getting
anywhere anytime soon.

Raymond, don't let go of the last hours
of solitude every night.

It's our only hope.

Raymond, you poor *******.

dead bodies moving dead bodies
you know the theme, the scheme,
the thought and the idea

the bodies, dead, paying the bills,
moving dead past the dawn
eyeballs rolling up as windows
closing and doors close and open

the bodies, mass production,
lots of bodies
Monday, Tuesday, Shitday
Thursday, Friday, Saturday
and Christday

Neighbor Allah never greets anyone
and he talks to himself in echoes
Buddha is all smiles and virtues
but no muscle, Buddha's daughters
are out clubbing tonight ******* their
oriental curves, selling their oriental
scents and cold white skin
to Allah's *** deprived sons

Christ is the only father and
he disowns his nieces and nephews,
I knew years back that I am a distant relative

just dead bodies, yours and mine
produce, corporate livestock,
labels from the heaviest bills handed
over in sinister alleyways,
sinister exchanges, hitman to hitman,
extraction to extraction, fraction by fraction,
bodies serves as platforms,
nonliving chopping boards for the butchers
dressed up as elves

the bodies, limb by limb, sagging skins,
rivers of hairfalls, scratch marks,
Ms. Universe stretch marks, the *** tapes
of the cheerleaders whom silent and wise
boys yearned for all through years of fading
innocence

Closeted gay professionals keeping their pointed ******* when nothing's wrong with them until consent turns from probationary to mandatory and hate and red and blue and green and yellow flags and pedophiles and bigots and white supremacists and Allah whisperers and Allah fanatics and Buddha hypocrites and China takes over the world and feminists, and third and fourth and fifth and so on genders and Trump and memes and Filipinos and mental health and memes and mental health and memes and literature and literature and activists and who ****** who and politicians and what Americans, Australians, Chinese, Japanese, British, Candian, Irish and and North Koreans and K-Pop plastic lips and hips who young girls and boys from isolated islands gets ****** for and hipsters and the nine to fives and the ***** to give and the snobbish *** girls in parties, in clubs, in alleys who wants to get ****** by all the celebrity status ***** all just becomes a tiny pinch for the dead bodies not to see and point the flower and shoot the gun to end the human war.

i can't be sure yet
but i don't want to be
disappointed
and disappointments
as they come raining,
i am more than
enough to have
room for one more. . .

It’s hard to be taken away by thought
A predecessor heir to life chapters
embracing facts all at once

Facing the enormous glutton
masticating a heart
like a licorice treat

Wasting away
Wasting away
Wasting away

The madness is gone yet
I felt like I haven’t
been here before
the times went
from good to
bad

It seems we are all
like arms; weary
of holding still
in front of
the never
ending
slog

We kiss and we hug
until we’re
tempted to
bite one
another

We wished for an adventure
from the howling of the
cold rainy wind inside
a tavern where we
thought all will
be cozy until
everything
comes
back
to

normal

to almost succumbing to the heaviest
darkness that we ever felt deep
inside our heaviest breaths
like it’s a couple of our
last ones

You are a warrior, capable
of thinking above as you
see through many and I
will tell you the secret
that was there for a
very long time:

Never lose your grip for
the best people who
ever walked the
preliminaries
of hell all fell
down to
hell.

a comeback with
a draw is no
comeback at all
no matter how
rigged the game is

we are demanded to
be ******
to end the fight
with a ****
no matter how
rigged the game is

and for sure after
each fight
the worry never
stops because
the last one means
there is
a next one coming:

another comeback

why do we go back if the
audience expects another
comeback after the last one?

o well
after all
we are the modern ****-gladiators
and before us are
the unentertained gods of insanity.

the world is changing
and you know that
but let me say
that neither you or me or them
can do something about it

but there is a way. . .
you can put yourself far away
from the world
and it only takes a room
a pen and a paper with
the doors shut
and the windows closed
and write how furious and sick
you are with this ******* country
and its jobs and
over-your-diploma taxes

if it doesn't sound so appealing
then you should know that
I'm speaking on behalf of
those who are sick of it all
but has no choice but to live in it

freedom exists but too often
it is mistaken for liberation,
an unconscious act of abusing
what our soldiers and laborers
fought and died for;
all to be wasted in vain by
spending too much time
on noontime shows,
watching stupid
videos of attention seekers
and listening to politician's
promises through a microphone

the political remarks
of the nation seem
to be not aligned with
what an opinion is
and is now more of a
requirement for everyone
to see how intellectual you
could be and it is *******. . .

Lourd de Veyra knows it. . .
and if he's reading this now,
he'll say this is an example of it
(forever, this country is hopeless)

many people including me know
what powerlessness is
but these words serve as a tiny spark
before the artificial lights
the media and its audience projects

no matter how you arrange
the words, the truth is,
everything is possible like how
The Philippines and its people
(including me) became cleverly
brilliant but stupid. . .