Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
When’s have always been reminders of solitude,
Cementing two and half decades of a fact,
That humanity, in its entire multitude,
Seemed to miss the better half of your story’s act.

Thus, you leapt; thus, you lost and learned,
Not once was the game won, not even close,
And you settle with consolation you think you earned;
Proceed with the radical acceptance of aloneness.

For how long, for now I cannot tell,
As it is both within and not in my control,
Here’s to hoping this treaty with oneself goes well,
It could be or perhaps nothing at all.
Written 01 May 2021
Allan Pangilinan Dec 2020
Lie down with your thoughts and inquire,
"From when were you? How did you come to be?"
Listen to the orchestra of the faintest beats on fire,
A happening called you, an entirety you can't see.

Be curious of oneself, be the self's genius,
In sitting, in thinking, in acting,
Identify and find what is obvious,
Figure out yourself on your own timing.

Second guessing leads to validation,
Of what, in the interim, you are,
Take it all in and remember this position,
Nowhere near but you've come so far.

Refine the self-conversations you chime in,
Replace the old daydreams with new ones,
To others you will seem a little disappointing,
Eagerly forgive yourself for these future bygones.

To wait actively is to follow an imperative,
Be disturbed, be dismayed, be downtrodden.
For today you have chosen life - so live,
Take comfort in knowing all will be forgotten.
Allan Pangilinan Sep 2020
What gives out authenticity
Leaning towards unfiltered reality?
Tell me how can I see
That I and they say is the real me?

A being governed by time
A soul separated from the divine
Annointed keeper of the self
Posturing as the impression of depth.

Indifferent towards the apparent terminus
Compact strides with the daily onus
Drifting on interim spaces
Figuring out the rest of the ages.
Allan Pangilinan Jun 2020
I think we underestimate how overwhelming it is,
Unknowingly hiding under absurdism and comedy,
Climbing clockwork cliffs for some inner peace,
Trying to find clarity in the muddled nows of tragedy.

Deep breaths for another duplicate of tonight,
Making sense of waking moments as we see some light.
Asking oneself, "Are these feelings right?,"
Given varied consciousness of the same plight?

Slowly we try to make space for some needed nothing,
Catch some air, look at some greens, and just surrender.
The fleck that challenged the universe started learning,
Be reminded that no one narrative is greater nor lesser.

Tonight is a happening of an ever-changing now,
Live it, ride it, rule it in ways you know how.
Give in to reasoned and reckoned submission,
Walk towards the collision of the warranted delusion.
Originally written on 29 May 2020 00:40
Allan Pangilinan Mar 2020
An affirmation of distance of what is and what needs to be,
No wonder one sees and feels similar sequences.
That which lives privy haven't yet been freed,
The self is pretty far from effectuating further phases.

"It started a new daydream nonetheless,"
An old line proving pragamatic in the contemporary.
Followed by a sudden halt, the endless pause pressed,
Cave in, yield, and wait for things to be once more arbitrary.

We'll wake up and count the sum of the days,
How what was months before was now in full tilt.
Let a new day take over as time surely pays,
As an exhilirative eventuality is bit by bit being built.
Written 18 March 2020
Allan Pangilinan Mar 2020
A bridge no one crosses becomes a statue of solitude,
A reminder that a form is purposeless sans its essence.
Sudden waves come as a legion, a multitude,
Overwhelming you with matters that yet again seem to make no sense.

Perhaps it was the imagination of the crossing that ruined it,
Or might be the region where it was mistakenly built.
The structure is here now and waiting for its fate,
Will it be a picture of what could be or will it be a realized gate?

Time will pass and it will certainly grow old,
We can maintain it or let rust reach its core.
Whatever happens, stories will be told,
If the thing was a bridge, speculating what it was for.
Written 18 March 2020
Allan Pangilinan Mar 2020
Not feeling myself these couple of yesterdays,
As if I don't puzzle in well in my own mold.
Looking for the blur that once was of praise,
Stuck in a form pretending to be wise and old.

I think I need what was for what will be,
Ah; the agony of existing between then and now.
Wondering if this mind will ever be free,
To actually relearn the whys and a few hows.

Why do I seem like a tragedy waiting to happen?
A fire that is continuously being put out?
Half the universe of ideas the mind did sharpen,
Are those of tiny voices shut when want to shout.

"It's all in my head, it's all in my head,"
As I try to breathe and attempt to calm myself up.
Close my eyes and go to the familiarity of the bed,
Just to wake up anticipating that one big drop.
Next page