My actions as of late,
have been stunted by the contradictions in your fickle emotions.

Is this how you're supposed to keep me on a leash?
Hurt me then scoop me up into your arms and tell me you like me
You're not even man, or good enough a liar to say it:

you love me.

There is no poetry
in
anger.

Manila is beautiful at night,
Seen from overhead, high above rainclouds in the night sky
with a tantalizing view of car exhaust and the debris of broken dreams
Manila is beautiful at night.

It comes and goes like a shadow in flickering light.
At first, it hides behind wispy rain clouds, playful as a child hiding in his mother's skirt.
If you look closely, it's lights glisten-- golden and teasing
It's incessant winking, an almost promise of what's to come

From your aerial vantage point, you wonder:
"This is what it must be like to be an Angel when they fly"
Below the city, with all it's secrets, sprawls like a handful:
A rich lady's heirloom diamonds, thrown carelessly on a ***** floor.

It will somehow remind you of a creature: perhaps human, or Leviathan in it's wake
Cities, after all, are their own specie of living things

At first it is looks like a Brain, with neurons and synapses electric and active
Certain spots of the city: mall compelexes and large parking lots, like the nuclei of a brain cell
the roads that lead to and fro, the cars zipping up and down in red and yellow lines
remind you of dendrites and axons, stretching far
They communicate with each other in their own language; a code
Your imagination runs wild with untamed fantasy

On next glance, it looks like a heart.
The whole city pulses magnificently in unison it seems.
Thud, thud. Thud, thud. You feel it?
Your heart follows it's tantalizing rhythmic pattern, it's muscle beats
Though and through the city pumps it's lifeblood into each nook and cranny
Oh how it entices your passion so.

At last you seem to hear it breathing.
Listen closely and hear Manila inhale and exhale in steady tunes
Inhale, and exhale-- a silence comes over you,
And it's strangely reminiscent of amazement, excitement and bitter fear
Your ears dull and you listen to the rush of air in your lungs,
the deep drum bass of the pounding of your heart
the dizzying feeling that exists in your brain

Manila really is beautiful at night.
In the shroud of darkness, it rises from slumber;
Vivacious and lovely, it's seductive and free
Manila is lovely. Manila is a woman, as it should be.

My favorite color is yellow.

I doesn't seem like it by the looks of me, I know.
I'm all dark everything now
Dark sunglasses, dark hair
Dark clothes, trussed up, a rockstar late for her own concert
No kidding even my heart is black
black as the cold night's deepest obsidian

My mother insists it is yellow, though
She remembers me: I was five
little, skinny kid with pale skin and a large head
The first color I go to is yellow
Big old box of crayola jumbos with the eight colors
The crayon mighty meaty; huge in my little hand
In that big old box
Yellow was the shortest crayon stick

give me sunshine, lil baby.

Oops I did it again,
I tried writing measly poetry,
Now I did the next thing again:
Oops I did it again,
I held my hopes up to the light like a moth with it's wings
So I got burned and this next thing happened:
The internet was down, again
The perfect punishment to my wishful crime
Reload, submit, publish it in public
And oops I see the error: wonky sad face icon, 404
My poem and my words are now Internet trash, debris
Goodbye old prose, goodbye sentimental meaning
What do I expect from the digital, the temporary?

Oops I did it again
I let my heart feel sadness, the madness of gladness and
Now I have Irish cream,
Drinking, stylish, from a coffee cup it seems.