you're probably dating someone right now and you have no idea that you're just wasting your time 'cause you are going to be mine anyway,
but thank you, for not coming too soon, for giving me time to grow, to be better, to deserve you
don't get me wrong, love.
I'm dying to know you
I'm dying to tell you how my day went
I'm dying to tell you stories—I always have a story to tell, I hope you won't get tired of listening
I'm dying to hear your voice
I'm dying to feel your warmth
I'm dying to feel your love
I'm dying to feel
I am just not ready yet
I am broken, and I do not want you to fix me
I am lost, and I do not want you to find me
I want you to meet me halfway, love,
when everything falls back into place
dating a writer
is like guessing the weather.
you think you know what you'll get,
but you never do.
you never know
she'll create a hero
from your weaknesses
and she'll write a great character,
from every last flaw.
she'll create a thousand plots
from your worst nightmares.
she'll take every last thing you hate
and create something you'll love.
she'll turn your anger
into confessions of adoration,
and she'll make you,
everything you're not.
but worst of all,
she'll leave you wondering-
is it you she's in love with,
or things she's created from you?
but here's the beauty of it:
if you date a writer,
you'll never die.
i already buried my voice a long time ago
when i chose to be a poet
i buried it with words in papers
in ink of pen with blues*
it seems like
im so exhausted
of all the talking
of all the reasoning
of defending myself
so i remained silent
I freed myself—I let you go and I freed myself
I freed myself from my deadly expectation, that there'll be a perfect time for us
I freed myself from my own self-destructive thoughts that haunted me mostly at night,
that you might not feel the same,
and yes you didn't since the day you came
I freed myself from the prison of love, even that small glimmer of hope that we'd end up together has faded
The chase is over, I want you to know that I'm letting you go and I am setting myself free
#love #sad #filipino
seconds, minutes, hours have passed
tick tock tick tock
she stares at the ceiling
one blade, two blades, three, four and more
shaking in agony, drowning in the river of melancholy
an unfinished poetry she is, so deep one can hardly understand
cruel fate, cruel world experiencing death before death
her loudest cry was finally heard;
she was found
loveless, helpless, lifeless