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38.5k · Jan 2015
epictails Jan 2015
She finds beauty in everything, in everyone
But she can't find any in herself.
6.7k · Jan 2015
epictails Jan 2015
a shadow lurks to where I go
trailing me, inflicting doubt
on the path ahead
to the great unknown
it grows bigger
and my feet plant themselves
in resonance
soon I will become its slave
heeding its words as truth
denying my mind a clear verdict
only to bring me closer to the shadow
and cower in its safety
6.2k · Feb 2015
The Dreamer
epictails Feb 2015
Be a dreamer. See all the beauty despite the peril. The joy in every strife.
Be a dreamer. Reach out for the impossible. The illusions in a distant future.
Be a dreamer. Live out the opportunities. The ones where only dreamers can perceive.
Be a dreamer. And see the world as it should be. Alive and vibrant.
Be a dreamer. Wonder and be surprised.
Be a dreamer. Dream the moment and build the life of a free soul. Unrestrained and glorious.
Be a dreamer. Paint the colors of your dreams. The world is your canvas.
Now that I think about it, this was my very first poem. To all the dreamers out there who are always the odd one, always misunderstood, always in his own world, this is for you. I'm never ashamed of being a dreamer and having my head just over the clouds despite people telling me that I should change.
4.4k · Apr 2015
Self-forgiveness (10w)
epictails Apr 2015
Life became an open door the moment I forgave myself
One of the best decisions I have made
4.0k · May 2015
epictails May 2015
—the shadow of everything that once was
the visitor who only sipped a little tea
dead leaves in autumn
someone who got away
despite begging him to stay
chipped paint in old walls
butterflies in their cocoon
trends that fill voids of the moment
but leave after they are forgone
suspended words in whispered talks
a child's wonder
faces with remarked lines
empty laughters turned into glistening tears
flesh to ashes, ashes to flesh
wines in glass bottles

—a beginning of everything that are to be,
cradle of brighter, better stories to come
as the pieces of long agos
are laid to rest
100th HP  poem . So glad to have been a part of this wonderful site where wonderful people just find wonderful reasons to write. 4 months into poetry and my love for writing could not be better. Thank you for everyone who made me grow and realize my  capacity. :)
epictails May 2015
Through the incredulity burning
in the grim reaper's eyes,
He unwillingly received the souls
of those who did not deserve to die

The bright fluids of life lay bare
and insignificant in the godforsaken lands
He sighed the heaviest breath he could muster
Death was his trade, but this affair had him
loosening his grip on the scythe
Mumbling the dead's prayer,
The half-living defied fate's ruthless threads
And squirmed for barren hope
A child nearby cries for the light to save him
As the shadows devoured their youngest feast, so far

Now standing alone, the reaper cursed the gods
Who may or may not be listening to him
He was disgusted with the greed of these people
And their bloodbaths
Where those who avoid death and the
ones who thrillingly seek it
Summon each other with empty excuses
Thinking these are enough to fling
their guns at the righteous
Drink the innocent blood like
the finest wine from their vineyards!
Stab the weak at their remaining spots
Oh how foolish they are!
How foolish indeed!

He pities those who speak death as their honor
When they have only lived like rats
Scavengers of chances that purifies
their filthy names
He scorns those who
do not even speak of death
In their wild belief that some curse
will hand them like a platter to their graves
When death is the end that no one ,
not even him, can escape
Those cowards!
No one lives to cheat that dark fate!
No one!

The reaper was provoked by humans
Them and their incessant wonder and fear of
That that is unknown
Them who have stopped looking
at their small, definite lives
To anticipate what they could not
even begin to understand
Feeding their illusions that a special place
awaits their petty souls to rest on
Ahhh!!!He was tired of them all

Might as well finish his job...
Idk what's with my idea of this grim reaper but he suddenly made a story inside my head. Will try to do Stories x Poetry just so I could have something different every once in a while. This is weird af but I guess I msis writing stories that I just came around doing this. i had mad fun though so all's square and fair
3.2k · Oct 2015
epictails Oct 2015
The very worst of demons are the ones that can't be destroyed because they are a part of you
Happy world mental health day for those of us who are deep in pain.
2.8k · Apr 2015
Young Fighter
epictails Apr 2015
A child with no name
In fragile strength and small frame
Will they see you?
Will your pain be theirs?
Your back is giving you will
As each day you seek happier tears
Life has been hard for you
And all of them close their doors at your call
Will they stop and hear you out?
Will they warm your cold nights?

Young fighter,
steady your heart
someday they will know
of the dark that keeps you awake

Young fighter,
buckle your limbs
you've put up quite a lot of fights
there will be more

Young fighter,
pick your torn
legs from the ground
being knocked down is just the beginning

So hang on,
fight on,
brave little one
This was extremely hard for me to write. This is a story of a young boy I met a few years ago who at a very early age was already working. He remains to be a stranger, a nameless face that will always fuel my poetry because I consider him one of the few people who taught me so much. I had to struggle what perspective I had to write this on because I never really got the chance to know him. I still believe this poem does not do his story justice.
2.6k · Aug 2015
Mary Had A Sheep
epictails Aug 2015
Mary, Mary let go of that sheep
It has bleat too loudly as we lay asleep
Feet in one steady direction
Out from the pen its throes

Mary, Mary the meadows are fresh
Though they are green only for so long
The dogs have slung them over their heads
Strung out from wayward beds

The clueless drunk shepherd that was your father
Waiting at the neck of foreign spirits
Sheathed it like a monkey peeling bananas
For a fat buck a glass, what's it to him?

Poor little sheep, shivers from the whipping air
Clouds gone too soon
For the rich merchants
With hanging gold in their mouths

Mary, Mary, poor little sheep
Jumped over the fence
Probably too hurt to walk alone
Thorns and rocks ahead
But they must have been better than the cold in his head
2.2k · Feb 2015
Dance, Dance
epictails Feb 2015
The moon illuminated her
as she flowed with the rhythm
of the shadows

She cascaded her body
with a passion
she only knew too well

Her desolation slowly adrift
with each flying second
all consumed in a beautiful madness

No one would glimpse of
the illusion she brought to life

No one would hear
of the music she sought

No one would believe
a woman free in her own course

A woman dispossessed
by the eyes of an audience

A woman left to her dreams
as if she was insignificant

But she danced
despite the crowd telling her to stop

But she danced
despite being burned and bruised
for the fantasies she loved
before anything else in the world
Title inspired by Haruki Murakami's book of the same name. Although I haven't read it even once. Hahaha no idea if my poem is even remotely similar to the book all I know is that the namesake is catchy. :))
2.2k · Jul 2015
epictails Jul 2015
I'll fly out from this rollercoaster
Filled with disgust, with dizziness
The operator stands aghast
Amidst the turning machine
Above his heels,
Within his well-fed hands

It spins and turns
Like Big Brother's voice
On a broken loop
Creaking engine recalls
A sordid, mechanical taste
In the mouths of the trapped

They think it's so wondrous
To be on top of a flightless
Soar to the heavens
To see those ant-like buildings
Like a grain of dust in their hands

But they have paid the price
The people of the carnival only feeds them dreams
While they snicker inside the tents
Fairy godmothers on their breaks

Clouds darken beneath us
Rumbling, rumbling, roar the
Blue-violet crack in the sky goes
As we rode along to the earth's tremble

The view matches not what they promised
But everyone must go on till the ride stops
I sniffed the steps of rain in a small stairway to my senses
I knew right then that ride wasn't what we all thought
2.2k · Jun 2015
3-Line Poem: June 6
epictails Jun 2015
I believe in myself
More than luck could delude me
More than fate and destiny could play me
2.1k · Feb 2015
epictails Feb 2015
Remind the children
in books
in tales
in life
that monsters
are not always supernatural
do not always live under beds
or creep inside closets
in fact they can be amongst us
walking, breathing, existing humans

Only they are far more real

**Far more terrifying
2.0k · Mar 2015
Spider Girl
epictails Mar 2015
She was a spider
who spun and spun
webs of lies
which grew bigger and bigger
until all her fine spider legs
got entangled
she could breathe no more
and her web became her world
until she weaved her own undoing
strangled by the threads of untruths
This is for a friend I truly care about who got addicted to lying she doesn't even know who she is anymore.
1.9k · May 2015
3-Line Poem: May 19
epictails May 2015
An open book
An open mind
You'll go places
Poem before I clean my room and admit that it has now become a dumpster lol
epictails Aug 2015
So today, I just had some sort of epiphany. It's weird because I get these sort of things when I am in the weirdest places. And that weird place for me is inside a plane. Near the window seat, not quite ,but the soft sunlight hits me in the right way and I feel pleased.  I had coffee before I boarded so it had the effect I needed to behave quite cheerfully. Oddly enough today I did not go through my all too familiar episodes of inability to function normally, submerge jn a lake of hopelessness or just hate everything and anything all at once. Though to be quite fair my stomach feels strange again maybe be cause of the cold drink I had or the influence of feeling panic every single morning (an uncontrollable fear that usually starts before I get depressed, I may add) or maybe both. It's so amusing how my mind works to be honest. I started observing people in the plane, the ones beside me and the ones who are going back and forth to stow their stuff or whatever.  Then this sudden thought about my depression laced my mind like a orange streak during sunset. I thought exactly this "Hey I don't feel so sad or miserable despite of barely having an hour of sleep after the tedious packing last night. This is good—this is great." And I just found it strange because there were times when I longed for the tide of melancholy—that despicable depression every time I am in the normal mood. At first, I was almost certain I have gone insane. Or totally depressed. Or both. I mean who wants to be ******* depressed all the time and then go through emotional calm and then the ******* cycle recycles itself like trash made to look pretty but when consumed gets to become trash again. Who ******* does? But I also realized I must have come to this sense of familiarity with the pain that drove me to the edge for almost a month now. It really becomes your home when you lose sense of yourself and the only thing comforting you is that very pain which have wrecked your home.

And all too suddenly, these thoughts just made me half hysterical half teary-eyed. Because at that moment as I waited for the plane to ******* trace the runway already ( I get impatient, yes) I felt grateful. The word really is grateful. Not even happy, delirious or euphoric. Just a hell lot of gratefulness. I find myself thanking this moment of just grasping happiness even if I know for sure I'll probably get depressed tonight again (as per usual). Before I'd get hyper and just laugh like there is nobody to mind me but I never felt this thankful ever. I started looking back to those moments of happiness where I get to believe in greater things again. Where I'd worry for a second then dismiss it saying "Ah this hardly matters, so ***** it." After being drenched in so much unexplainable pain and going through this high and low almost everyday, I've come to a conclusion that I never really appreciated those moments of peaceful glee as much as I am at that moment. And I thought hat could have never been possible if I wasn't crying myself for nights, being vulnerable and seemingly weak to a bunch of people, admitting to myself that I was losing interest in life itself. It was like going through a warzone unarmed but after the trail has left the danger, you start feeling a wave of relief—a recovery after the storm.

When I started accepting the fact that I am a person with a high tendency to get depressed, I also came to accept that I've always been a sensitive person. It hardly ever shows, to be quite honest. I can appear to people as uncaring or too self-absorbed or reserved but it's only because I **** at the art of self-expression. Really, since 1995. I'd keep it all to myself although inside I am shattering. And people would have no idea because I NEVER SHARE. But ever since I was a child, I'd get these instances of melancholy simply because I can see other people (who I should not even care about) twist in pain or I'll see so much injustice that it makes me feel indignant or I can see something is wrong with someone the moment I talk to them. Things just affect me in ways that I could never understand. Add to that is my defining characteristic of being a ******* introvert. My introversion has given way to me becoming a highly introspective person. So I'd think about life a lot, question life a lot, wonder why we are as we are and some existential **** like that.

I hated all the pain I went through these past few weeks. I am a person who is independent and knows herself completely. But when depression hit me, I was clouded in a mist of ambiguity. I dont know anymore who I was, I could not understand y emotions, i could not feel happy when I am doing the things that I love. It just ****** me into a black hole. There were times that sleep was my only remedy. Partly because I wanted to escape the loneliness, the anxiety, the self-loathing and my entire body refusing to cooperate and partly because I felt tired all the ******* time and even if I slept for an entire day, I would still feel the same when I wake up. But today, I felt happy that I went through all of them. Even if there was one time that I gagged my mouth with pillow because I was about to scream in so much pain— (thank god I was alone in the room) and afraid that I might scare the other dormers away. That night as my eyes felt like rivers ,I swore that I will not let this control me. I swore that someday I'll find out why the hell this happened to me. And then I cried even more because even when all that pain was overpowering me, I still had a little hope left in me. I felt like I found a fragment of myself again. That somehow I wasnt totally *******. It was absolute contradiction but at that time I existed in between the two polar opposites of myself.

Depression is like being on the edge of a very steep cliff. You're about to fall, constant fear stops you but beneath your feet, you see wonder from beyond. You see possibilities. You see a town from somewhere far where there is so much life. You see a forest from afar and it seems so wonderful you start believing in good things again.I've  come to remind myself that I had a family, I had friends but most importantly, pain is a great wake up call. I thought love is a great unconquerable emotion. I severely underestimated pain and how it can change people. Pain brings wounds that either scar us for life or bring a different perspective. I'd say I've seen the worst possible side of me when I got depressed. It was scary and it makes you hate yourself. You get repelled because it's dark and ugly. But on the flip side, I saw how pain has made me see that after all that, I could make it. In fact, everyone can. I also peered into the mind of depressives and it was extremely helpful since I have good friends who have been cursed with this disease (they were suicidals even). I'd lack the understanding when they shared their experiences to me before but now I was slapped in the face for even considering to call them selfish or cowards. They are not. I feel like I need to tell people this because depression can only be understood when you have been there. People have different ways of handling pain which my mom likes to call 'pain threshold'. Some have it deeper, some can only contain pain in few doses. I wanted to give each and everyone who had ever been depressed a big hug because nothing is worse than losing meaning in life. And my heart goes out to each and everyone of us who caged all that pain and somehow moved forward despite the odds. Quite honestly, I would have preferred being hit by a car and be confined for more than a month than go through all that sadness and meaninglessness where hell is walking right inside you/strong desire to want to give up on life altogether/strong desire to be shaken off by society as an outcast and that won't even matter. You'd literally want to do anything just to take away all that hopelessness and misery. But at the same time you're too tired to do anything. Most terrific **** I have been so far, just ******* terrific.

*I wrote the first part of this entry when I was on the plane going home. Tonight, I finished it with a heavy heart. I am depressed again despite being with people that I love most and engaging in lovely talk with them just a couple of hours ago. My emotions are being strung along by someone other than myself. My distractions are no longer working—I might need new ones.  As I looked back to parts of this entry I realized that this condition gives me brief chances where everything is peaceful. I just hold on and wait for those chances. I've seem to tolerate this better now and my mood swings reveal a general pattern of anxiety first, normalcy then on to depression. Sometimes there are specific times, sometimes it's all random. This has been unnecessarily long but I have only been comforted by two things during my depression: music and writing. Although to be quite honest, writing can also cause me to be more depressed as I have lost my energy and motivation to write even when the other side of my brain cries in frustration because I do love writing so much. Music on the other hand gives me a lot of hope for some reason and a form of escape from all the unwanted thoughts. Some songs do make me more melancholic but my interest in music has changed ever since I started getting depressed.
Super rough draft. My writing has become pretty meh but I really wanted to share this. I have jumbled all my ideas in what seems to be an incoherent mess. Though in my defense, my brain has worked 5 times slower ever since. I could still count but most of the time my head's all black canvas with slight moments of paranoia.
1.7k · Feb 2015
Art is Alive
epictails Feb 2015
Anything that stirs life is alive;
therefore art is alive
It moves and perturbs humans
since time immemorial
Revolutions, wars and madness even
were chronicled in art
History bore witness as art
metamorphosed lives, ideas and
Eventually the world

Art is a living entity
it has kept us alive
And breathed into us our
imperfections so human
They are as timeless as Bach, Dostoyevsky or Picasso
The reason why I write.
1.6k · Feb 2015
The Flower & The Bee
epictails Feb 2015
The flower told the bee
Who was about to **** himself
"Why do you insist on dying?"
The bee, sad , replied
"Because in that death will
I only ever feel I was alive"
Shaking its pretty petals
In contradiction, the flower said
"You are wrong. To exist is to
live for something, for someone"
The bee now mad, cried out
"What do you know?You're
just a flower!"
The flower,smiled, sadly
"No I live for you"
"I breathe in knowing you need
me to stay alive and that
is enough reason for me to
The lines in this poem are supposed to be a dialogue I planned on including in a story I started ages ago and just couldn't find the inspiration and time to finish. And this is how I see friendship, how I see our human connections as something enduring and genuine. Have a nice day :)
1.6k · Mar 2015
Thank You, Art (10w)
epictails Mar 2015
I found the meaning I could not find—in art
1.6k · May 2015
3-Line Poem: May 31
epictails May 2015
I have yet to see freedom
In classrooms where
Checkmarks win over the students
epictails Mar 2015
I have been bruised
I have dropped six thousand feet after a euphoric high
I have been defeated in reaching an imaginary sky

But the ground to which I fall on
Has become the strength to which I stand on
The pillar to where I pick myself up after a laborious fight
The friend which tells me that in order
To gain infinities, I must win the
Battles of small beginnings
rough day. And even rougher days to come. My inspirations are nowhere to be found like before and the coming weeks are filled with anxiety. I tell this to myself that has been doubting a lot of things lately
1.6k · Jul 2015
why it sucks to be a realist
epictails Jul 2015
It ***** to be a realist. To know that the world can be terrible and at the same time be filled with the possibilities of the wonderful. And then there's you, the poor realist, who somehow has all this truth and hope and idea of everything black and white, good or bad. So you build up this fear inside you, this pain that everything can go either ways of opposing extremes and there's nothing you can do about it except go on  and live with both sides.
A rant of annoying levels
1.5k · Jun 2015
Magic Hour
epictails Jun 2015
waiting for the magic
hour of one
so I can creep into
the dawn of my mind
like an uninvited guest
get lured by the labyrinth
of carefully woven thoughts
soak in the irreverence
of muted passions
in the crypt
of my shadow
1.5k · Jul 2015
The Scarecrow
epictails Jul 2015
Beware the eyes of the scarecrow
In that field of green and yellow
He moves not but he knows you

A shield of reanimated rags and a hat of straw
Staked in the middle of whirling wheat land jigsaw
Beware the eyes of the scarecrow

Sunken, rigged mask in funny hue
Birds flapping far from the voodoo
He moves not but he knows you

In petulant summers, in the aloof snow
He stays still, beholding every secret through
Beware the eyes of the scarecrow

The sandman woos the town into a sleepy slew—
Wood limbs brought to life, twitch in vile brew
He moves not but he knows you

There in that calm caverns an Orwellian show
Of deeper ends that only some gods know
Beware, beware the eyes of the scarecrows

**They move not but they see you
Structure inspired by Mad Girl's Love Song.
1.4k · Apr 2015
The System
epictails Apr 2015
A mist withers our eyes
From a destructive what is
Cloaked by the manipulation of fear
The obsessive consumption of greed
The yield of inequality
Blessing the treacherous snake
that is society
Protecting the overbearing tower of hierarchy

We are the rising hope
and the colossal downfall
Of an era so entrenched with fools' promises
and wicked minds
It is not anymore righting a wrong
so much as righting a system of wrong
Once a system of good
Which should have foretold better times
Meant to have put everything in place
But has left in its wake
A black hole that took everything
Right in all of us
In everything worth believing, worth hoping
The kind of thoughts and poems that come to me while I'm in the shower
1.4k · Jun 2015
3-Line Poem: June 2
epictails Jun 2015
A hero wears a cape
To hide the scars and hand marks in his nape
Keeps them hidden so he can fly and escape
Ugh ******* responsibilities eat up my writing time. I just feel like crawling in a cave and forget what I need to ******* do. I am seriously annoyed this past couple of days because of the pressure of doing what I should. ***** that
1.4k · Jun 2015
epictails Jun 2015
One flower slept soundly

in the ground

perhaps not wanting

to be found

I picked it up

for it looked quite


But then how funny


I was, too
epictails Oct 2015
The world is too uncertain for us to be sure of anything. Personally I don't think there is an absolute truth. There I said it. Take me away Nietzsche, I'm with you on this one. We are all so different, all so set apart in our unique, frail and wicked mortality. To have one single frame of existence is debilitating. If this difference is so telling of our humanity then why the hell do we have truth? To what purpose? To contain and unite us despite our individuality? Suppose the truth is given this way: A newborn and a goat are expected to survive with just a small patch of grass. Which of the two gets more chance of survival and existential fulfillment? How can that be when those two are apples and oranges? Their circumstances are so opposite. How is life supposed to be fair to the newborn? I am not saying that life is fair because hell it is far from it. But do we accept that unfair principle or make our lives a little better?  Will his happiness be on that grass as well? Of course not. So he looks for new ways to be happy. He has his own truth.

To this end, I have questioned everything from my faith, to myself, to people, to science even. Life grows along with time and so are our realities. This is why these past few months I've been contradicting myself to the point of thinking I've gone mad. But the fact is I've grown from these experiences of letting my two polar opposites meet. It is honestly scary when these inner voices start jabbing at you like pointed needles.I am a walking contradiction and my mind is a maze of paradoxes and questions with no answers. Eventually, I got used to this mentally exhausting activity. When something entirely different from what I believe be it an opinion, an idea, or a controversy) speaks up in my face I've learned to accept them not as the truth but as possibilities that could very well be right or wrong. I will never be always right.

People are so used to the concept of certainty that we have altogether ignored the existence of possibility. Or the gray area to which simply no one end exists. I realized that we are all predisposed to find answers, to hang on to some sort of explanation to a world so phenomenally ungraspable. It is to the detriment of our open mindedness enough for us to fabricate truths which may very well be coverups for the all too universal fear of the unknown. We are afraid of floating in the ambiguous nature of our lives that we'd rather correct this with assumptions.
*** I was supposed to save this rant as a draft but I guess I published it instead -.- i am so disoriented as of late that sometimes Idk what the hell is going on
1.3k · Feb 2015
Faith (10w)
epictails Feb 2015
Lost, stumbling in the dark,
I struggled for Your light
1.3k · Oct 2015
To create is to destroy
epictails Oct 2015
They say live
live alone
straitlaced as an
arrow meant
for that
one gruelling

Live for the
of the skies
and never the
gravity of
the ground.

I say
fall and rise
fire and air
swept in
up there
for burn or tide

I say create
and destroy
live still
and die all ways
and change
until time stops
and bustle

Every waking
Is both
a funeral and
a birth right

I say create
as we all
write our stories
amidst the
downpour of
and the ruins
in our heads.
1.3k · May 2015
3-Line Poem: May 9
epictails May 2015
There were so many roses
Still, I chose a thorn
Still I chose* **you
off the grid again
1.3k · Mar 2015
epictails Mar 2015
That part of you, you so detest,
is someone else's beautiful.
epictails Apr 2015
Sleeping beside rocks and ants,
Roaming the vast fields like it was their own
Laughing, breathless angels of a blurred heaven,
Everyone thought they've gone mad
While I say they are just a different kind of brilliant

Living in oddly colored homes,
Rusty ceilings and ******* garages,
Singing their hearts out to the hum of a broken stereo
Everyone snickers at their bliss
But I say they are just a different kind of brilliant

Painting stories in abandoned walls
They feel the world is as beautiful as tattered pieces of clothing
As delightful as the scars and bruises in their knees
But the crowd can only feel ugliness
For these free spirits who are a different kind of brilliant

It makes me wonder, everyday,
Why the world runs on similarly crooked ideals
Plenty of despising, cynicism, pessimism
—more cynicism
When at the end of it all
You and me
We're all just a different kind of brilliant
I love how this poem came in my mind at just the right time. I'm planning on redrafting this as many times as I can until such time this deserves to get printed in my personal book of poems.
1.2k · May 2015
Unrequited Love
epictails May 2015
You are a lot of things,
       but never mine
Have heard so many stories of unrequited love from friends who have remained heartbroken. I guess I need to write about it
Yours truly, the spectator
1.2k · May 2015
How We Ruin Children
epictails May 2015
I think we ruin children by telling them
Crying is bad
When crying is being vulnerable
An expression of pain so natural
So they grow up to be ashamed of emotions

I think we ruin children by telling them
They have to become someone
When being themselves is already being someone
So they grow up wanting to be someone they are not

I think we ruin children by telling them
Disobeying the rules is inexcusable
When sometimes breaking the rules,
Is freeing one’s self from the expectations of others
So they grow up to feel insecure in the face of uncertainty

I think we ruin children by telling them
Monsters are supernatural creatures
When monsters can also take form in humans
Who exploit, manipulate and trample on others
So they grow up unable to confront even their own monsters
For how could something so unimaginable take form in themselves?

I think we ruin children by telling them
Punishment is discipline
Spanking, verbal fear to shut them up good and easy
When there is a thing called gentle discipline
One that requires less pain and more understanding
So they grow up to become aggressors
Believing they are heroes who save others from disorder

I think we ruin children by telling them
School is the best way to getting around life
Drowning in grades, homeworks and activities just to get by
When experience teaches far more important lessons
School can only teach in words
So they grow up to believing the good life is a tried
And tested pattern and there are no other ways to live

I think we ruin children by telling them
To avoid fears instead of confronting them
When the dark, cockroaches, dogs, can be overcome
So they treat fear as an enemy
Instead of being a friend, a lesson
One that teaches them to be braver, to be stronger

I think we ruin children by telling them
What you wear is what you are
Frills and laces for girls, ties and pants for boys
When anyone can wear just what the **** they want
Clothing is a choice in as much as who they want to be
So they grow up confined by what the crowd is wearing
Fearing any diversion would make them odd

I think we ruin children
By making them believe that success
Comes in fancy clothes, cars, a truckload of money
When happiness is the real mark of a well lived life

I think we ruin children
By telling them being alone is a shameful thing
When the key to understanding one’s self
Is through the painful yet productive solitude
That people so likely shame
So they grow up believing their happiness
Is in other people’s hands

I think we ruin children
By telling them outer strength is the real strength
When there are children who
Cannot lift their own chairs
But have the strongest, bravest hearts
Fighting their way into sad days
Like the heroes that they are

I think we ruin children mostly and importantly
By believing
That they are wrong
That they are too young to understand
When all the while
We could have been wrong
Age makes us not wiser
Just older
And so children lose their capacity to see things brightly
And the biggest chunk of the world’s dreamers are then silenced
By adults who never really believed in the magic of the world
As much as the kids do

So how do we ruin children, really?
By telling them being themselves
Is the least they could ever want
By telling children
That being who they are will never be right

This is extremely long and I don't even expect anyone to read this HAHAHA.  Just that this is not so much a poem as it is a rant. I could care less about the mechanics and rules of poetry but this is really important for me because this is my  (and a big number of kids') childhood. First draft and will continue tweaking this until it can be read better lol xD I have no right to question any parent's way of raising their children but this is just how I feel.
1.2k · May 2015
3-Line Poem: May 15
epictails May 2015
The dunes in his heart are in a storm
Parched, dry as a land he was
All thoughts wander to her, the oasis to his deathless drought
1.1k · Jun 2015
Here's To the Nonbelievers
epictails Jun 2015
Here's to the ones who loved and just forgot
Broken promises, easy endings, no tying the knot
Perhaps they lost before and that was their shot
Around and around they go, the ever loveless lot

Here's to the ones who never thought a thing
About heavens that soar and angels that sing
Gates up in the clouds and a heavenly king
Smothering the ungodly flames that hell bring

Here's to the ones who are above the rule of order
Steering clear and clever from the symptoms of cancer
Minding, winding their stories into their own favor
Rather than to the social systems they know better

Here's to the ones who are devoid of anything good
Whatever path they lead—will always be misunderstood
The eternal monsters and demons of their neighborhood
Not even the exorcists will save them even if they could

Here's to the ones who look at life with a skeptical screen
Something bad must have happened in between
Distorting their eyes once so pure like crystalline
Soiling them with a reality unmendable and obscene

Here's to every nonbeliever in this world both beautiful and sorry
Believing in their own terms glorious and free,
though rather* **painfully
I'm with the ones who are shoved at the back for their beliefs. I have some pretty liberal and weird beliefs myself. I'd say I am not a conservative person at all so I could look on to their beliefs as an extension of mine.
1.1k · Jan 2015
You Are
epictails Jan 2015
You are your heartache
You are your mistake
You are your destiny
You are your catastrophe

Your thoughts are your poison
Transmuting to mindless action
Your words your dagger
That yourself can only conquer

You are the world you create
You are the answers you await
Be your own mentor, hero and friend
For the one who makes your life is you
In the end.
epictails Apr 2015
Skin as fair as ivory
Eyes as arresting as the art of crime
Nose, a high ground where her pride lay
Lips as fragile as her wavering will

She flashed the most agonized smile in the mirror
Beauty so ethereal, beauty breathtaking as a scene
A brew of knife stains, self-loathing and twisted charm

Her face a cherubim's wail
Plagued with deformities she herself named
Miserably patched with skin-shallow creams and cuts
Spilling her diffusing worth with the bitterness of her shame

She looked at the mirror again
(Perhaps the only thing keen on heeding her tell-tale facade)
Where she rendezvoused with a floating ghost in her likeness
Although not quite
For it was a stranger,
Profoundly stranger than the biting truth
she managed to live with
And a face that launched a thousand lies
1.1k · May 2015
I Owe It All To Mom, Thanks
epictails May 2015
She told me often when I was six, seven eight,nine and even ten that she used to read books, newspapers, journals (probably even shampoo labels), anything at all, every morning as she carries a breathing lump in her tummy—me. Growing up into a pensive, serious child,  my compounding curiosity was indulged with her providing a plethora of books. From giant, intimidating encyclopedias (I could barely understand but read on,still) to old, dusty fiction paperbacks to her interest in Greek mythology, she never ran out of things to tell me. How she told in a week the story of Goldilocks earning the rage of the three bears  and how I memorized it by ear when I was three or four, recited it in front of a throng of older kids in school. How her eyes glistened at that moment (I could not tell) but in retelling everything, her voice glows with just a bit of pride. She fed me fairy tales and in soaking in their magic, I found a dreamer in myself. I've always been a little different from other kids. A little too curious, precocious, mature, head in the clouds which I have maintained until now. She excitedly told me the story of how Thumbelina in her smallness had a larger than life adventure. How the last pig survived the wolf's bullying through his cleverness. How red riding hood looked dainty and pretty in her red cape. Or how tasty looking  her presents to grandma were. She read them all—every night—tirelessly as I held the warm milk I hated with all my naive heart at that time. I started writing for the school paper, eventually as a news and features writer. I did a lot of spoken poetry, orations, storytelling and speeches (mostly in school and some events) .Mom was in front row seats in all the writing and literary competitions I went to. And together with dad, they shut off the doubtful voices in my head real good.

I stopped writing in high school—when I was twelve. And for a long time, I wandered aimlessly with myself. To make matters worse, I was plagued with nightmares and an extreme sleep paralysis condition that heightened my fears. I often seriously thought I would die in my sleep. I totally got wrapped by my problems and forgot about writing and never got the chance to ask mom how she felt about that. But life paced itself differently when I was fifteen. One crazy dream and an insight in the shower later  and I began writing again. It was like I came from the bottom of a dry, dark well and someone wedged me with a rope back into light. I never looked back down the well, ever.

In all this history and flair for the literary, I go back to the fondness of the days and nights when mom was also my favorite storyteller who somehow put me in this direction, unknowingly. Now that I think about it, I always had an affinity with words. Like birds with the wind, like painters with their brushes. It comes as natural as breathing for me—maybe I should feel happy about that. Behind that deep connection was my mom and her stories that awakened my inner dreamer. One day, I hope to stack all the poems and stories, all the words I have ever written (good or bad) and hand it to her. Just like how she handed me this dream. I'd like to tell her I never stopped writing and probably never will. And in the very first page of that compilation, signed with my slanted signature are the words—*

I do not know how I could make this into poetry so I went back to what I do better—prose.Hahaha. This is probably the most honest piece of writing I ever did, seriously. Guess I need to thank my mom for she really did a lot in bringing me closer into literature, maybe I had it in me—maybe both. This post is too long and again, I dont expect anyone to read this. Just that I needed somewhere to put this message because it ran as long as 5 pages in my notebook. Hahaha
1.1k · Jan 2015
epictails Jan 2015
I flaunt my clothes
You open your eyes
I bare myself
You close your mind
1.0k · Nov 2015
Après moi le déluge
epictails Nov 2015
The world shall fall as they fall
In their ruin, everything will follow
And so it ends

Bring in the seraphim
Tear the pure clouds, reveal the gods above
If doubt is a stronger virtue
Then I am its paragon

Women fall at lofty feet in a harem
Gorging on peasants' spines 'till faces turn mauve
Fear is the new moral breakthrough
A scale higher than the utmost echelon

The world shall destroy as they destroy
In their ruin, everything will follow
And so it ends.

The snake bite no longer stings
Calloused as a tyrant's compassion
The purest hands do grow relentless weeds
As they laze on the filthiest plots

Kings and hearts mount to slings
Foreboding most malleable deception
Blood spills bright on their letterheads
As truth gets set by red-handed bureaucrats

The world shall burn as they burn
In their ruin, everything will follow
And so it ends.

Marksmen are wealthier than diplomats
Golden bullets to the golden rule
The trend is to laugh at our silence
The principle is to break lives not dictates

There lies no purgatory for these aristocrats
On to the vile ember cesspool
Until then, they fawn in worldly omnipotence
And not one revolts, not even conscience

The world shall end as they end
In their sceptre,everything follows
And so it goes on.
1.0k · May 2015
3-Line Poem: May 25
epictails May 2015
You see but do not seek
You hear but do not listen
You love but do not forgive
1.0k · May 2015
3-Line Poem: May 30
epictails May 2015
I can hear the  walls of my soul creaking slowly
As poetry went* from my fingers
Into this **page
1.0k · May 2015
3-Line Poem: May 28
epictails May 2015
There is no *** of gold
Only a mixtape of funny songs
At the end of the rainbow
1.0k · May 2015
3-Line Poem: May 28
epictails May 2015
Smiles—the same on anyone
Anywhere in the world
*Are we that different, afterall?
It *****, it ***** so bad it's making me cry. But I promised to make 3 poems everyday before I sleep so ***** this
1.0k · Jan 2015
A Letter to Mother
epictails Jan 2015
Tell me why people
Hurt each other
Why father tears you apart
Yet you smile in pain

Remember the time
When a homeless man
Was a filth
In a woman's eyes?
A curse even in his helplessness?

Why do the kids in school
Despise a color?
Is black all that bad?
I happen to like that boy,
why can't they?

Why did cousin die
Just because
She wore the wrong clothes
Acted funny
When she was having fun by herself?

Why do people hurt each other?
Make me understand
My chest feels weird
When I see tears and black and blue
And scars, too
I hate seeing people sad
Don't you hate it too?
Tried to think of this poem as something that my inquisitive seven year old sister will say. And I think when I was young I asked something similar to someone ( cant remember who)
1.0k · Feb 2015
epictails Feb 2015
I pray that the every girl
and every boy
in earth
and the universe unknown and beyond
will think of peace
as a way of life
and not an impossible wish
that is about to fade from our
984 · Jun 2015
epictails Jun 2015
We grow up believing that the magic stays. But it never really does. Experience skins us, bares us open. To a reality that is far from what we want ourselves. As children we were blank canvasses. Time went on and so did life bring so many colors to that canvass. Sometimes bright, sometimes dark. Filling the white, pure spaces as each day we learn to fear, to hope , to love and to desire. But we also lose our ability to just go back to that blank slate. Where everything is clearer, unclouded. And we just think that the world is full of it, when all along we are just full of it.

I'd like to know the art of just being that empty canvass again. To learn and to unlearn every color that the world has given me. To be thrown into an absolute mess but still go back to where I came from.
HP has become some sort of journal for me where I can express my thoughts that people will just undoubtedly dismiss because they are too weird or too abstract or idk. I'd like to think of these things though. I am someone who takes comfort in her thoughts and these are the kinds of things that fly to my mind when I am alone. This beats thinking about my professor failing me because I am just writing instead of  playing by her rules.
955 · Jul 2015
3-Line Poem: July 7
epictails Jul 2015
I don't want to go there
to that place where nothing
is also  everything
Off the grid
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