I want to make my own money.
I want my own job.
I want my own place.
I want my own friends.
I want to be independent.
I want to meet someone special.
I want to get heartbroken.
I want to be lost.
I want to be found.
I want to learn the value of things.
I want to experience on my own.
I want to feel comfortable being sad.
I want to know God.
I want to feel free.
I want to feel happy.
I want to be loved.
I want to feel ready to return Home.

You asked me once,
if I'd written about you.
I'd smiled as I shook my head.
With every word I write, a part of you settles on the page, amongst the ink that never dries fast enough.
Leaving smudges across the page.

I used to believe the reason I picked up a pen, sprawling ink along a once pristine page was to rid myself of you.
Word by word, drawing you out to settle amongst the ink that never dries fast enough.
I reflect on a night, spent with a lover.
My hands refused to settle,
agitated by the urge to write.
Long, shaking lines made up the letters trailing around my bare legs.
A whispered voice calls me to return, the urge is gone.
Perhaps the writing isn't for the abandonment of you. Perhaps it is the last of you - all I have now.
Muddled amongst the ink that never dries fast enough.

Tonight,
the full moon was not allowed to delight me
despite my charming and persistent coaxing
she remained quiet behind the clouds
and my wine dripped slowly
on the outside
of its glass

Kung sabihin mo sa aking hindi seryoso ang paghalik mo sa kanya,
Paano pa kaya yung mga matamis na salitang pinaparinig mo sa akin?
Sabi nga nila diba,
*actions speak louder than words.

i wouldn't know which would be easier
to roll down the hill
or fall straight to the ground
cause either of the two will bring me down

i wouldn't know which is the lesser evil
to snap right then and there
or to fall apart slow
cause either way i'm bound to break