The ghost is stranded in the thriving desert.
The ghost is trying to find asphalt paths.
The ghost climbing over dunes, sweaty with effort.
The ghost is lost but it never looks back.

The ghost finds water in spiky poles.
The ghost seeks comfort in the burning sand.
The ghost prays for stars when the moon shines alone.
The ghost is lost but it never looks back.

The ghost looks for home every day
but the farther it's gone the more it's astray.
The ghost sits in scorching contentment.
The ghost is thriving in what is now its home.

Filipino:
Ang sumusulat -
Lumalamig ang puso,
Nag-iisa lang.
Damdaming tinatago -
Nagsusulat ng tanka.

English:
The person writing -
Her heart is getting colder,
She's isolated.
Her feelings are her secrets -
She is writing a tanka.

I wrote and rejected my own words,
I marked them basic, unoriginal.
I erased lines I never replaced.
I stopped making new worlds.
I loathed that I was only typical,
I hoped it would only be a phase
But I paused.
The pause turned into a halt.
It turned into a break, turned into never.
Then I wrote back all that I lost,
Stopped stopping and breaking and believing the false.
I want to continue writing letters.
So I will mix and match and reach my goal to have never been better.

It's not difficult to think of stopping
when the green light is on.

******* up on an everyday basis,
when everything should be easy,
only to end up with another crisis.

Spitting out the blame on everything
instead of swallowing it down,
just to avoid the bittersweet of it all.

A bubble harder than concrete,
Tears saltier than the Dead Sea,
the waves of frustration when
expectations and reality don't meet.

Lone wolf hunting down dead leaves,
Slumped on the forest ground.
Abandoning the will to retrieve,
Giving up on the wolf that believed.

**** the perfect cups of tea.
All that's left is bitter coffee,
Not my taste but life's not sweet.
I should get used to lifting weights
and doing tons of things I hate.

Not doing well and all but I'm
trying to survive because it's
me.

If I get lonely, I won't blame you.
I'm wrapped in a blanket of gloom.
If the rain falls to my face,
and you don't offer an umbrella,
It's my fault for not approaching.
If I converse with myself again
instead of chatting with my friends,
I'm bound to think I'm alone
Even though I'm not.
I'm a turtle carrying my own home
Yet I can't get inside.
The key I'm trying to find
Is locked within its walls.
I won't break myself to find home,
I'll forge a key instead.
I will open the doors
So I can let you in and I can stop
being lonely.

I am a rotten apple.
I am gray and dry,
I rolled in the mud.
I am covered in white fluff,
and it crawls over my skin
so I am no longer an apple.
I am a host for dirt and filth.

what a day,
we're all blue.
go away.
what'd you do?

it gets worse.
they complain
like a horse,
an endless neigh.

you wanna die?
take the pills.
you can try,
you can ****.

too bad i'm here.
it's too early.
you chase death,
you're getting near.
i run after you,
out of breath.

please slow down.
you rush things.
don't die now,
it's too early.
don't give up.

they see you run,
it's a normal thing.
they saw one.
faster, running,
she caught death.

they weren't surprised.
i want them to be.
blinded eyes,
let dying people be -
but don't let them be.

see the sickness,
i beg you now.
save some happiness,
give them crowns
for living still and
not getting there
(to the place we
start giving
up).

easy to tap the letters
easy to insert a laugh
easy to type i love you
easy to lie
easy to fake apologies
but it's hard to be real

My blanket is trying to swallow me
while I sink deeper in my bed
My phalanges have harnessed fire
and authored many a great idea
but millions of years of progress
conclude in them hanging
like fruit waiting to fall to the ground
Severed from life
not to return again

fingers around in knots
show you the shape of my mind
tense, displaced

and my hands, for holding and gripping
instead only frantic
for no purpose can be presently met

there is no do, but just tapping

Fish would rather suffocate in land than drown in water.

The best fish you can catch is a fresh perspective.

Scan the room, pause at you, blink, scan and pretend I didn't just glance at you.
Look up, pause at you, blink, sweep my eyes away from you.
Lean on the table, look relaxed, write things absently.
I see you at the corner of my eye, scanning the room, pausing at me,
blinking, and pretending you didn't just glance at me.
Looking up, pausing at me, blinking, sweeping your eyes away from
mine.
Permission to push down the butterflies, please?

if i am again reduced to a bad memory,
i might assume that role.
when i am history and i am the writer's enemy,
i might leave those letters frozen cold.
because if that is what i am in your mind,
that might be all i'll ever be.

what do you care if i metamorphosize?
why do i care what you think of me?
i am just a bad memory
and the only pieces of me you hold
are nothing but my history.

there is nothing i can do to change that.
no part of it i can erase.
but if i am someone's bad memory,
why should that stop me from becoming
another's beloved at this present moment?

it's physics, alright, this whole thing is.
my mom flicked us off the goshdarn cliff.
all we're doing is falling but get this:
our fingers gon' find something to grip
ain't gon' do much, that, we will loosen.

we be fallin' and i reckon it will hurt,
y'know, hitting the ground, so small tip.
brace yourself, prepare for the worst.
it's going to be a pretty rough trip.
we will break bones and lose our heads.

we got no clue where we'll land
but we know what we're goin' through
and if we gotta fall we gotta stand.
while we fall there ain't much to do;
just fall 'til we go where we gotta be.

and in the end, when we're healed from it,
the someone you're with don't gotta be me.

You make a fool of death with your beauty and for a moment I forget to worry.

The wall is my punching bag
and your face is my inspiration.
Even when my knuckles sag,
there is no hesitation.

I have bruises on my fingers
but it is not the wall's fault.
It is the surge of my anger's
and they make my fists stronger.

The poison you poured in me
is overflowing the bottle.
Every punch the wall meets
is every sip of my struggle.

The pain is sinking in
and it feels worse than the bruises.
It's buried deeper within
so I dig but it refuses.

The wall is nothing
to what festers inside.
My punches do nothing
and there is nowhere to hide.

The disease is within me
and it is thriving in my mind.
The only way out is nowhere in sight.
I looked to my fists to set myself free
but my fists have no eyes
so I cannot see.

Now, my arms deserve to rest.
I'll even bid them a good night
because today won't be the worst
and I'll need them another time.

i feel your arms around me
my head is on your shoulder
you whisper that you love me
it made me feel warmer

i feel safe with you near
and even when you're far
i know you'll always be here
even when i dont know where you are

i open my eyes and see
im holding cold, white cloth
it's not you holding me.
i sob into my pillow.

when thunder strikes,
i hear you in my head.
scared, childlike
while you're lying in bed.

tell me what you need.
warmth, a hug from me?
it was what you let me believe
and i was too blind to see.

you tossed me the next day,
from your bed to the streets.
you said we'd be okay

but i guess you really were lying in bed.

I laid out my promises on a blanket.
I chose which ones I'd make, which ones I'd break, and which ones I'd keep.

I pick one up to examine it thinking, where would this one be when I'm older?

Sometimes,
I choose in a rush, in a blurry space where liquid burns in my eyes, I ride on a promise I'm forced to cling to.

Sometimes,
I choose with wise judgment, I see myself keeping it until I don't have to.

Sometimes,
I make impossible promises, hollow reassurance, empty, delusional, and temporary.

Sometimes,
I make promises to you, ready with a puffed chest and proud smile. I will keep them all.

Just shallow, raspy breaths in this hollow paradise,

and nothing that inspires me to open my eyes.

The barren ground gives me no reason to rise,

and I touch nothing that satisfies.

The shoes that hurt and clamp on my feet,

painful, black leather's the only thing I meet.

Smiling every day is such a great feat,

sad words in thousands of ink-stained sheets.

Uncountable, the laughs.

Unforgettable, the scowls.

Undeniable, the acts.

Undetectable, the frowns.

It's bright in here and I don't know what's outside.
But I'm sure that it's bright here.
I'll stay here. It's safe inside.

We're really just trees
We can grow
Sprout out new leaves
We can be tall
Our trunks are not weak
We could break
Filed smooth and neat

I thought I knew you
but I've been floating on the surface.
If what I've seen's true,
I'll dive headfirst to your place.
My messy aims
released me to a vaccum in nowhere.
I struck home, felt nothing,
touched everything since you're there.
I thought 'twas over,
but you're always somewhere.
I don't really know you,
wish I did, I want reasons to be there.
So give me reasons to be there.
I'll listen to the things that you'll share.
You don't need to feel mundane
because whatever it is, I'll care.
Small achievements or nightmares,
complaining that life's unfair,
let me be close to you
and let's turn things around.
Just you and me,
we'll leap off the ground and
stay in the air.

Ding went the phone
when I was alone.
Thud went my feet,
loud like drumbeats.
Ding went the sound
then a small frown.
A sigh came from me;
it wasn't from he.

My thumb hasn't hovered over a button for so long until today.
Today I said something, and now I need to make myself pay.
It came in the form of guilt and shame.
A mistake this big cost me a shyness I only ever felt at the beginning of all this.
This is the price of betrayal; a hesitance to send a message, the fear of rejection, and a shame of repeating grave mistakes.

On a day like this, when voices are louder than the sound of trains on the train tracks
and peace is harder to find than attending to the imaginary impending doom of a Roman attack,
I look for a silent sanctuary,
and I hope to never get back.
It is silent when I come but I sit down and make my own noise.
It is noise that's always sounded better than my own voice
and noise that I've always welcomed during days of distress and comfort alike.
It is noise that blocks out reminders of a ticking clock
and a running time.
The sanctuary is not silent; it is noisy,
but it is noise that I will always welcome.

i've an oily face
pimples growing everywhere
i am very stressed

chase the clouds away
anger in its wake
a hurricane, a storm
frustration takes form
let my rain speak
let it be gentle
but let the sky darken over it
let the waves toss ships
and let the wind destroy your home
let the cyclone
awaken your caution

but it's all in my head

I'm not a pineapples-on-pizza person but I know you are.
If I were pizza, I'd have pineapples on top.
If I weren't, would I have caught your attention?
Would you have made that satisfied moan when you tasted me and groped my *** - I mean crust (but really, what's the difference) - while you brought me to your lips for another bite?

i sat with the company of an absent mind
and while my brother bent over paper,
his hands carefully making strokes with a pencil
i watched and heard my mother ask him,
"what are you writing?"
and i thought, "when will you ever ask me?"

when i was hunched over my chicken-scratch-filled
notebook, you didn't even bother looking.
when i proudly read the feelings i turned into words,
where was your question: "what are you writing?"

i think i just missed when back then she read my stories
and waved it at my father.
i think i miss the grins that came after.
i think i miss when i wrote and you'd
find my childish plot and still think it's great.

but ma, ive written 40 poems this year
and when im hunched over another
chicken-scratch-filled piece of paper,
i want to hear the question again -
"what are you writing?"

I didn't have an umbrella.

The night sky was darkened by gray clouds,
and the rain fell from there, way down to the ground.
The path I walked was not dry,
and I could not find a roof to hide.

So I drowned the complaints of my drenched hair,
I told my skin not to care that it was sticky,
and I reached to the sky with my arms bare.
I didn't have to pretend it wasn't raining there.

Because I bounced from a puddle to another,
and I felt like I'd be stepping on water forever
but I didn't have to bother for cover.
I was not any less naked to the rain than the street kid on the road.

I quite enjoyed the ******,
the rain and its touching me,
and it didn't choose where to touch.
It just flowed from hair to shoes,
and I was peaceful very much.

Her faint pop music,
The giggles they make
in the dark
In one room
Different worlds
Deep in slumber
Or awake on the surface
No in between
Sleep won't sink in
Patience wearing
Head ringing
Throat feeling bile
I'm tired.

The rope I'm gripping tightly have
taut fibers twined around each other.
I wove them that way, meticulously.
One string after another, its form gathers,
and I'm proud of my craft.

I've used it to save myself and others,
pulling and tying knots, anchoring.
A tightrope to dance on over and over,
Tugging, stretched, fighting, breaking,
but my rope's getting slippery.

I've used it so much it's hard to hold on.
It's overused and now
everything's
going
wrong.

Only a matter of time before I can cut it
without effort,
just one scissor,
and it's no more.

I'll tie it back together but I can only try so hard.
It's wearing down, going gone.
It withers and soon I'll have none.
Nothing to save me, or them
if I start abusing it again.

If you think of a life with me, picture me with soap in my hair, bubbles lining the strands of my wet-with-sweat frizz.

Picture the tomato-sauce-stained plates with bits of pasta, scattered by the sink like the continents of the world when it should be just Pangea, one place, all neat.

Picture me holding the sponge, scrubbing the red out of the white plates we ate from.

I'll picture your arms wrapped around me, head resting on my shoulder, murmuring behind me that I smelled like sweat.

Picture me smiling at the honesty and then listen to me complain to you that we should get this done. WE.

I'll picture you rinsing after I told you to and I'll hear your whining about your tired arms and how you're impatient about feeling my lips on yours.

And then we hurry, we wash the dishes together and there is soap in my hair.

We wash our hands which go to each other's waist and then we pull closer and then your hand is on my face and the taste of your mouth is on my tongue.

And then we stop. We stare.

Picture that, PinkInk.

Ivory frozen in grace,
Lifeless sight unerased.
They take their place
in the hall of fame.
The artist, the art,
we know their names.

Come over, I'll show you my world.
My world's designed to grasp self-worth
And to embed its purpose in my aging soul.
It's made to rotate and shift from light to dark,
another chance to redeem and to leave a mark.
A thousand heavens flock into one star
And the star smiles subtly at the dying heart.
Obsidian chains coil around the beating heart
and my world is choked but the star
keeps smiling and my world keeps going.
I give and sustain, it lives and maintains.
I will not die in vain because I am
ready for obsidian chains.

Can you read what you read?
I'm sure you can and there's no need to ask.
But it's weird.
Feeling through symbols.
Understanding symbols.
Writing symbols.
Combining symbols to make sense.
But some combinations are wrong.
Making sounds for symbols.
Saying the symbols correctly.
Different accents for symbols.
Drawing symbols, making them look pretty.
Fonts for symbols.

Imagine. We are ruled by systems of symbols.

Rainbow-filled eyes and sin in my heart, watching girls and filling my head with fantasies. It doesn't drag me in straight lines, it takes wavy, wobbly steps. Girls, what pieces of art, so easy to indulge in. No bones and *****, just parts like mine, staring at faces all day, making no regrets. How unfair of God to disable other girls to see this kind of beauty, this kind of attraction. How unfair to have been given such a terrible gift instead of satisfaction at false limits. Desire, my security a liar, for attraction like this does not guarantee freedom from the wrong. Please, Lust, play nice with me. I don't want to have to cup girls' heads in my hands, smothering myself in all their tasteful smiles and tongues. Some would look in distaste, the disabled, the ungifted. Them and I, our uncommon views watch us battle over the love that has been hated since the beginning. Old policies, restrictions, forgotten over time, the rainbow rising after the spiteful thunderstorm.

That night was our (my) Polaris,
where I thought our futures would take us.
I suppose it wasn't Polaris because you left me with my future, not ours.
I wished for the stars to take us where we thought we'd be, but I guess I wished for dust in the desert.
The stars took back their promises.

What if when I said I cared for you,
it was only in that moment?

What if even it was true,
it was only temporary?

I never said I always would
since I wasn't sure I always could.

So I wouldn't be lying if I told you again, because it would only be for the sake of the moment.

We owe it to ourselves to grow
and think of the places we can go.
We owe it to ourselves to grow
just as high as the sky allows us to
but let it be that the sky owes it to us
to rise higher as we will it to.

Let the clouds part that our dreams may pass
and they flower into bills and wads of cash and more than that -
let it be that we don't stick our heads up our *****
and that we breathe comfortably together with those we love.

Let it be that when the time comes, we are cut down before we wither.
Let it be that decomposition should come after and that we die before we break down.

let the fireworks fly and light up the sky
when you decide you need to stop crying.
let them hear the booming of color and might.
when you admit that you have feelings
and when you forgive yourself for pretending.
it's time to stop pretending