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Julia Quizon Sep 2014
And I should admit
Falling in love with your cracks & crevices
Wasn't exactly my cup of tea

But your gasoline filled veins
Were just about enough
To create a fire in me
Julia Quizon Mar 2016
Today, I am beginning
Only to end.
This body has blossomed in a field of green;
Has bled shades of red;
Stared at a horizon ablaze with yellow;
And now, this body will face
The bluest of skies.

Whether my skies are clear or
Consumed with droplets of rain,
I will always end up seeing
Nothing but blue.

Nothing but 10 shades of blue,
Until I see another sun set
Until a palette of colours are
Painted on the horizon
Until stars are forced to form constellations
Until a beginning of
A new morning.

But one day, my new mornings
Will not consist of
The bluest of skies.
There may be a hint of pink,
a touch of purple,
or a sliver of orange.

And that's okay.

Because weather forecasts were not meant
To only be clear blue skies and
Colours were not meant to have
Only one shade.

Blue possesses a fading beauty
Now unappealing
But never forgotten
It is THE last set of my own primary colours -
green, red, and yellow.
Once I set down this
Familiar brush dipped in
blue paint,
I will start anew with a
Fresh set of colours.

A clean canvas once again.

Today, I am ending
Only to begin.
thank you to my two best friends for pushing me to write again.
Julia Quizon Oct 2013
I used to visualize the perfect family;
One that laughs to brighten the darkest of days,
One that delivers praise for every little success,
A family that will accept your flaws despite the circumtances.

But I suppose things will not always come our way.
The darkest of days are treated with suffering and consequences,
Small achievements are ignored and brushed off,
And your flaws dominate your mind to the extent that that is all that runs through your head.

There is always time for forgiveness,
Always time to right your wrongs.
Because after all, at the end of the day,
You are of their blood.
Julia Quizon Jul 2014
I think Death aims to surprise us
It can do so much as erase someone
With a click of a camera or
a bolt of lightning

As we drag ourselves onto grass,
still wet from rainfall last night
We tend to forget that
someone we once knew,
Beating heart and all,
Is buried beneath our very own two feet.

Death does not warn us.
All he does is ****** loved ones from between our fingertips.
No matter how hard we grasp and no matter how tight our fists are clenched,
Death will claw open our hands and force us to let go.

Take note, Death grabbed you from me.
I know Death is inevitable but he needs to understand I was not ready for tears and heartbreak.

I was not ready for the Last Good Day.
The flash of the worn out camera and the constant ringing of our dusty old phone.
There are so much things I could have said to you and your gray locks.
But alas, I did not.

Now, I stand here above your grave;
Red roses in my bare hands.
I tell you how much you mean to me and
how I will never face your smile again.
I cry out I'm sorry for not answering our dusty old phone and for not telling you how much I love you, present tense.
Kneeling on my knees, I beg you to come back so I can feel your warmth spread through my veins one last time.

My voice gets lost in the wind, I realize.
So I set down the roses we picked for you
And commend Death on how easy it was to take everything and leave me with nothing.
Dedicated to cdg
Because you wanted a poem that will make you cry
Julia Quizon Jun 2014
according to the old & worn out dictionary i tossed away in the attic
to cry is to shed tears
to cry is to shout or scream 

the words in my dictionary are wrong 

crying is leaning against the wall at 1 in the morning
your hair messed up and
your shirt ruffled
the tears in your eyes build up until the world is just one big blur 

at 1:30 your tears are replaced with bloodshot eyes and trembling hands

at 2 in the morning you stare
right through the concrete wall and
all that runs through that twisted mind of yours is
what did i do to deserve
all this pain and heartache

you try to stand on your feet at 2:30
in the morning but your legs feel like they've been glued together and you sink right down back again

you are drowning and
you can't gasp for air
you'd do anything to breathe again
you would do anything for a touch of sunlight
but you realize you're not even underwater
you're drowning in all the pain
that happiness is far out of your reach 

that's what crying is
and maybe they should add that to the pages of my old and worn out dictionary
Julia Quizon Jun 2014
how do i extinguish these memories
from my messed up mind
so ablaze and so vivid
burning up and eating me alive
you were once the flame to my fire
now i want you to be the ash
that rides the wind
i want those memories to rise up in the night sky and mix with the atmosphere
and i want to forget you
like how you forgot me
Julia Quizon Oct 2013
do you
ever wonder
if stars
feel unappreciated
to the point where
they shrug and say
"no human even
takes time to look"
then with their last
effort to shine and
they explode
into gas and dust particles
never to light up
the night sky

withered flowers
bother you?
what if they longed
to live
to grow
to survive
but just because
of one
wayward human
its petals
its stem
and its color

what about
the clouds
in the sky
are their drops
of water
a plea for help?
do they tear up
because of all
the unpleasant
chemicals and
vile stenches
we bring?

do you
think that
the wind moans
because it didn't
the way it
wanted to go?

what if
swayed side to side
when they
hear the
beautiful songs
beautiful melodys
of the bluebirds
perched on their

did it cross
your mind
if the sun
and moon
were long time
but now they
feel loneliness
and despair because
the only time they
is when the sun
sets and
the moon rises

did it ever
occur to you
that if humans
nature could too?
Julia Quizon Jun 2014
not even two years
and she has mended her heart
stitched back the pieces
and glued it in place

God it's not fair
it's not fair how she
kicked out the memory of Dad
and graciously opened up the door
for Another Guy
cozying up to him and
whispering sweet nothings
the shoe does not fit

while Another Guy woos her
with a candlelight dinner
new beginnings for the main course
and empty promises as dessert
my Dad's picture sits on a stool
covered in dust and dirt
waiting to be cleaned
waiting to be polished
waiting to be looked at
waiting to be held again

i am angry
there is an invisible bomb
attached to my chest
nonstop ticking
24/7 ticking
make it stop i say
to no one in particular

the porch light is on
i see the silhouettes of
the woman i once knew
and Another Guy
they're wrapped in each others arms
and i explode
pieces of my heart on the freezing floor
i'm forced to pick up a thousand tiny
broken hearts
by myself
always missing one

a piece of me is missing
is it stuck under a cushion?
did i forget it in the park?
maybe i left it in school?
no that Piece is watching
from up there

Dad's starting to slip away
so i rush to the abandoned picture
tripping over my own tears
and stumbling over my own heartache
i clean up the picture
so my Dad doesn't slip away
too far
for mja
you push with all your might for the
right words but they won't
so i opened the door and pulled them out
for you
Julia Quizon Jul 2014
A blank canvas stares right through me
No colors on my palette
None splattered on my apron
What has become of the beautiful brush strokes I once used to draw?
All my eyes gaze upon are smeared zigzags and uneven lines
There were instances where I could sketch every inch of your face and draw every corner of your heart with colors borrowed from a sunset
Now I cannot bring myself to map out the dimples on your cheek nor can I doodle the sparkles in your eyes
Guess what I can do?
Nothing because I am an artist
Lost without her muse

- J.Q
Julia Quizon Oct 2014
A poet is the cracked spine of your favorite novel. As you begin to peer inside, words fly out from every direction. Sentences you can't make out and phrases you can't even begin to recognize. His mind is a dusty dictionary of all sorts.

A poet resembles the tide that rises and falls just as your heartbeat does with every syllable he breathes out. Corals scrape your legs and fish nip at your feet yet you linger in the water.

A poet is a pastel picture frame. Amazing how 4 corners can freeze the sparkles in your eyes and the grin on your lips. Feelings do not last forever so we tend to keep anger, sadness, joy & love sealed in glass, sitting on our night stand.

His mind is a factory.
Gears & wheels working late night shifts, making sure all periods and commas are in place.

You see
Poets are
Tear jerkers
Risk takers
Shape shifters
Heart breakers
Julia Quizon Jul 2014
Do not fall for the plucked daisies & the sweet smelling roses
Just yet
Do not let your mind wander off to places even out of your own reach
Just yet
Do not fall for the tousled hair boy with poetry on his skin and a heart as soft as clouds
Just yet
Do not unlock your heart for someone who tells you you're cute
Hand over the key to somebody who focuses the camera on you and not on the sunset ablaze in the distance

Don't rush Love
Ring Love at 2:30 in the morning and you'll get him, half asleep and drooling on your nightgown.
Wait for Love and he will arrive at your front door with a grin on his face, a rose free of thorns, and a ring in his back pocket.

You decide.
Julia Quizon May 2014
the teardrop factory is closed
a rusted sign suspended by worn down chains read

the teardrop factory is closed
workers and co-workers retreat to their
teapot homes and their well paved streets

the teardrop factory is closed
usually the halls fill with shattering
screams or distant wailing
but now it's as if
Sound has finally kept quiet

but behind a door on
the 25th floor was a man

peacefully asleep he was
but his bare body
seemed to think otherwise

chained both hands and feet
bruised from top to bottom
his heart had been pierced
his soul spread out on the cold floor
the burden in his pocket weighs
another pound as the minute goes by

the poor poor man stirred awake
eyes bloodshot and puffy
remembering his misery
he began to sob

the teardrop factory is now open
a rusted sign suspended by worn down chains read
Julia Quizon Jul 2014
they crowd the palace
kings with golden scepters
and queens with glimmering crowns
one by one standing in front of
the tallest tower

inside there are
streamers painted with every color smudged on an artist's palette
the music is blaring
entering the ears of every listener

inside there is
food on every porcelain plate
and napkins folded into delicate shapes

there is a banner
looking down from the heavens
written on it is the reason behind this sudden celebration

congratulations my love for
once again you have managed
to make me the dust
beneath your feet and
the rust between your bones
Julia Quizon Jun 2014
the thing about me is

i know that i am worth it
yet the voices in my head are telling me otherwise
there are thorns piercing my fragile heart
and with every insult and hurtful word
the thorns dig deeper
the voices scream louder
the light in my eyes fade slowly
as does the *** of gold at the end of the rainbow
as does the light at the end of the tunnel
my voice is hoarse and desperate
i know i am screaming for the light to stay
it's trying to
it's screaming back at me
darkness fills the room
it's pitch black and
i don't see the light anymore

the thing about me is

i settle for coal when in fact
i deserve scintillating diamonds
Julia Quizon Oct 2013
On the verge of giving up and letting go,
She lashes out her agitation and frustrated soul
With drastic earthquakes and sudden tears
Just to insinuate that the end is near

Oh how her wayward inhabitants respond to her plea
They have suddenly become oblivious to her only decree
To save her, help her become whole again
For her abandoned spirit and soul to mend

After tarrying for too long
She does not let them right their wrongs
Everyone intently listens to her final breath
And they know, that sadly, this means death

The last thing she hears is
Abrupt screams and desperate cries
Her mouth utters a final goodbye
As she sheds one last tear

She’s dead
She’s gone
The end is here
Julia Quizon Jul 2014
one day
when the sunlight
stops playing hide and seek
with the clouds

i will set down my worn out pen
and stop scribbling about you
the tears streaming down my cheeks
will not be for your benefit

as the trees
shed their leaves
the color of the summer sunset

my pen's ink will have dried up
and my sappy poems brown at the edges
i have learned to pick myself up
one discolored piece at a time

as the waves
start to calm
and the tides
start to quiet down

i start scribbling
i start scribbling about happiness
about how the stars are all in place
and how i have taped and colored in
my once shattered heart

— The End —