Maybe my dreams of us
Are recorded inside my pillow

Maybe it's either those dreams about what we could have had

Or why you had to break my heart

Maybe that's why my pillow's damp every night

Maybe that's the reason for my sleepless nights

I was always looking at you, always at your back. Watching your every fall and every rise. It's too unfortunate I'm too close to you. I can't see your face because I'm always behind you, staring with my eyes from afar and with my heart from nearby. I'm afraid that if I touch your back, you'll turn out to be the person I wouldn't have thought of. I can't say hello just to say goodbye in the end. I'd rather have us stay this way, me tailing you and observing you grow. It is better for me not to get to know you and be disappointed with just myself, than have known you and be disappointed with you and myself. That way I can leave easier.

I've been wishing for you,
wishing on you;
Is this the reason why
my dreams don't come true
because they don't need to?
When you're here
dancing as the pale moonlight
across my shadowed skin;
it's only in the dark
when I can let you in,
and we can see each other
best and in our brightest.
So paint yourself on the canvas of my thoughts;
allow me to be the blank pages you need.
I'll empty myself for you to fill me whole
with this dance of the thirteenth month—
a tribute birthed out of this tune.
When it ends I'll never move again
the same way I did before:
because now you are the echoing pulse of my bloodstream,
and I'm completely anew like the full moon.

I think I'm always meant to be a writer; in the way where I always see things in third person.

I guess the past boys I used to like were, in a sense, too flashy for me. At first, I don't know what they lacked that I had to stop. I'm looking for something but they just didn't have it. Maybe I'll know when I meet the right person?

So now, I'd rather stick to just observing the boys around me--those of potential love interest or not, like I do with every other person. The most recent boy was such a main character in many people's stories; he has main character quality, albeit only from afar.

I conclude I'm looking for a person who's like me; not exactly a writer, but someone who balances. A reader, perhaps? Someone who sees things in a third person perspective as well; someone who can read people, understand the atmosphere and we can watch and scrutinize over anything and anyone.

I'm not saying that the boys in the past were incapable of being observant, but maybe they just don't care about these things, in the way that I do. And I don't really want to waste my time on a person who's like that.  When you observe a reader, they sort of observe you back.

So, back to my most recent--he's just a main character, lolling about in a plot, used to being watched, and not being proactive enough to be another writer or reader. It's ironic, because there are supposed to be two people in a love story. Two characters are needed but I don't want to be in that situation because I don't think I can be "main character" enough.

I'd rather find myself a reader to match me, a writer.

I've learned something about myself after liking a person. Now that I think of it, I guess I am looking for that thing that sets non-readers and readers apart. It's just really obvious, to me at least, when you know a person reads or not.

The superficial factor is, which I'm sure everyone sees, if a person "looks" like a reader. But you'll only truly know when you interact with them. The reader's thoughts are beyond their "looks" as a reader and goes farther than the minds of non-readers.

There's no rush in finding a relationship, I guess. I believe the readers will find the writers they will want to read, even if they don't know the writers' names at first. They'll come across our stories and they'll feel like being a part of it once they've read; not in the sense where they feel like the main character, but how they understand the writer's thoughts through the plots of the story.

You can see it in one's eyes and we writers have this in-depth instinct in sensing out different types of people: bad, good, weak, strong, non-readers, readers, etc. I suppose sometimes we don't want to admit these things because of easily misjudging people, but it's a fact that's silently agreed on by almost everyone.

I'm really dead set on on finding that quality which will make me love a person, a reader. And so far in the boys I've met, I never found it. But that's okay, because I always find little bits of myself, even if it's just a bit, every time I don't find what I'm looking for in them.

It turns out I'm looking for my other self in someone else. I'm looking for a reader who can read, know and understand me.

i am forever
stuck
in a flurry of words
while you hurry out
of my
book

and i realize
you
are not
a protagonist
i've made up
in my head and heart

i can only do so much
as to write about you
and make believe
that you were once
beside me
that i'm trying to read
a book that's incomplete

i lost my words
when
i
lost
you

a lady of colorful blood
prepped in white uniform
she'll put your heart back together
whenever you feel down or torn

she deeply loves a boy
as if he's from her books
way past his words and actions,
way past his looks

ointments of her embrace
and her medicinal laughter
she dreams and doesn't know it
but she's already a doctor

sometimes her puns are die-worthy
yet sometimes they give life
she cures with her compassion
and bandages the strife

people give her their sadness
in return, is happiness, she gave
all will be unnumbered--
those lives which she saved

i liken her to the sun
i liken her to the stars
i liken her to the brightness
outshining the scars of dark hearts

she's no plain jane
she's no ordinary girl
i brought her into my life
and she brought healing to my world

"Everything you think of
Will become all of me
Look at me and be my lady
You’re my twenties
As more time passes, when I grow up
I’ll understand you more
My love my love my love, my dear,
Don’t you dare let loose of my hands"

To have you here right by my side,
To be with you both day and night,
To watch you in your highs and lows,
To keep you steady at your toes,
To support you even when you're wrong,
To put you to sleep with a song,
To complement you when you're right,
To be your morning light,
To see you when I open my eyes in reality,
To tell you what I honestly feel,
To see you when I close my eyes in dreams,
To show you we are more than real.

i know we're in the same book.
but yet to be on the same chapter,
waiting for the other
to be on the same page.
i'll wait for you.
not like a hopeless romeo,
and definitely not like a juliet.
i'll wait for you.
even if it takes us
volumes,
sequels,
prequels,
and even a different author,
for us to meet.

You hold me down
so I won't drown
or drift so far away.

I'm tied to you
like the stars to the moon;
like curious to everyday.

A survivor's raft:
will not capsize
but will stay dry
because I'm safe with you on sea.

An anchor:
does not sink a boat;
it keeps it afloat
—that's what you are to me.

The Lady Moon
Used to glow
With all the joy
We've yet to know

     But now her face
Has fallen apart
And broken--
Is her weary heart

     To a crescent phase;
Half of her emotions seen
A mysterious night-ruler,
The sad, pale queen

     She is crestfallen
With the falling stars
She is the lonely Venus
Left by the gone Mars

do you know
what's harder than
crying?

when people think
you're fine
because your eyes
don't look puffy
nor are they bloodshot.

do you know
what's harder than
losing sleep?

when people think
you sleep peacefully,
dreaming behind your closed eyelids.

do you know
what's harder than
living?

when people think
you've moved on,
looking for a new life.

the hardest thing of all, though,
is when i have to go through them all,
but without you.

I used to make poetry
That would appeal to many.
I was wrong.
Because now I write
As long as I would feel right.

washed ashore
onto the hands
of a man
I longed for, dearly.

rugged touch,
tarnished shine
and value,
treasured so merely.

back to home
seeking warmth
in the waters; on land
I was misguided, nearly.

then I knew
it was the sea
whom I belonged to
and who loved me so clearly.

How can you know when something or someone is near or far? Or there or here? Is it the gravity felt between the souls of two people destined to be in each other's lives, similar to the moon and the ocean waves? Could it be the same feeling when you know a pair of eyes are on you in a crowded place, waiting to see what is brought upon by the twist of fates? Or maybe it's the pulling red string which stretches from two pinkies, thus binding two hearts together.  

...

I liken loving you to stargazing. On clear nights, the destination and direction--you-- are just as clear. Only the distance as usual, remains vague and vast, filling the space between us. With me reaching out to you, it was more hopeless than a child wishing on shooting stars. There were even times I had to wish for a shooting star; to wish for you falling down and into my arms.

I look for you in the places where I know I'd find you, and even in the places where I know I wouldn't. We're so close, yet so far, with every centimeter between us seeming like an eternity of a mile. You were immoveable, yet it seemed as if you were getting farther with every inch I moved closer to you. Neither my fingers nor my eyes could ever catch you.

And all so suddenly, on one clear night I realized: I didn't, couldn't and wouldn't get my answers to knowing how near or far you are to me.

"For all the air that's in your lungs,
For all the joy that is to come,
For all the things that you're alive to feel,
Just let the pain remind you hearts can heal."

And Darling, we all have a little demon called "sadness" sleeping in all of us. You may not know it but it attacks sometimes, if not always, randomly and openly. It will call upon its henchmen "grief", "stress" or "heartbreak", to name a few out of many others. They will bite you individually, or all at once. Your head or heart may ache; your eyes are going to bleed salty tears.

But let me assure you- everything will be okay. The pain of this world is temporary. Never take it seriously. You are not yet a goner, and you won't be as long as you find and keep hope. Your hope may come in an animal, a person, an experience. And you will learn from it.

My dear, it is okay to feel empty once in a while. It only proves more that there is more space for many, newer things out there that can fill you up. To be honest, it does not mean you're greedy either, it only means your capacity as a better living person has grown. And you are going to love searching for things that make you happy; for happiness.

The negatives need to be there and it is impossible to extinguish them because they put a flag to what is the positive, and vice versa. This world is a magnet, and opposites attract. You may be a negative person but you'll mostly fall in love with a positive person, because he or she will get the magnetic pull inside them that you'll need them. You may be a positive person and you'll fall in love with s negative person, to save him from living the lonely, outcast life. Zen is never acquired without ying or yang; colors can never be achieved without black or white. Feelings can never be feelings without sadness or happiness. Life won't be life without death or survival.

To top it off, I'd like to say everything tomorrow will always end up better than yesterday. If it's not tomorrow, then the day after tomorrow, and so forth. You just need to have the will and the hope for it all. You'll be better than okay, stronger than fine. It might take you a day, or years.

Never stop living. Take all the time you need.

today i got admitted into my university's writer's guild, after submitting five of my best works from here (hellopoetry). I am ecstatic to be a part of the university's official writing organization and i thank you all readers and friends for reading my works. I love writing, i really do, and even if I'm an fine arts student, words speak more to me than pictures and symbols do. I dedicate my acceptance into the Guild to everyone who has supported me by liking, sharing and reading my poems. Thank you.

roses are red,
ink is black.
give me credit
or give it back

here?
you're here?
well, i am too.
but i won't be there for you.
no, i will always be there for you.
but i don't think i will be there to hold your hand
or call out your name in reachable distance.
it's been more than a year since we met, hasn't it?
we haven't really met, though.
and i thought this time
we could meet for real.
at this rate, i don't know if we can ever.
i know i've been frozen and stagnant
but you've melted and moved the waters in me again;
i'm able to swim and breathe.
three more days, and you're sinking deeper in me
by every hour.
you're the one sinking
but i'm the one in the waters?
never mind, i can't think straight when it comes to you.
you're real, you're here.
i wish i could be there
to see you.

Two shooting stars.
Two wishes.
Two chances.

I saw two shooting stars tonight.
First, as usual, I wished for you,
for me, for us to become true.

Then, I wished for me to stop
wishing for the impossible--
that I'd stop wishing for you.

the little things
that they do and say
come and stay
in their place.

I thought of the boy who has yet to be the best of himself. I thought of how the love I felt for him seemed like a crooked line, wanting to bend and curve into any shape possible. I thought of how his words enraptured me like a tornado with its never-ending cyclonic movement; a cycle of feeling the rush of breathlessness. I thought of how the boy has my heart and mind racing in a circle. I thought of how he was soon to grow into a hurricane, ready to captivate others beside me. I thought again of how he has yet to be the best of himself; give him a thousand rotations of the clock to grow. But I realized how much better I can be for him by then, when now he has already gotten the best of me.

so young,
you've already taken
the world
by a storm
grabbing their gazes
enticing their ears

so old,
you're still taking
our hearts
by a gentle breeze
sweeping us off
of our feet

you are the element
natural
and
unstoppable

i might have become
         h o l l o w
         as the bottles i drank
                       numb
             as my cold fingers
      e m p t y
        as the inbox on my phone
         disoriented
  as how this poem is typewritten

how much more naiveté
do i have to go through
in order to realize
because i know im hurting
yet i dont know how to explain the pain

i. We are lost stars,
A thousand of us falling freely
From and into the sky.
Seeking to disperse and find
Ourselves in the orbits of love;
Looking for a place to settle down:
Is it on this planet of blues?--
Still an aimless pursuit of home?
We are the nomads of the empyrean;
The stars of the earth.

ii. For us to chance upon them,
Those called quasars,
We are drawn in by their light.
Making us touched by the lunar,
Kissed by the solar,
And struck by the stellar;
We're ****** into the vortex of their eyes,
Where a thousand other burst stars loom.
This is it, this is the final big bang;
This is where galaxies form and live anew,
With them, the meaning of space--
The quasars of the ether.

iii. On some days,
In our states of cosmic haze and daydreams,
We sit on Saturn's rings
With our legs dangling on the edge for the thrill of it,
And we watch the universe pass us by like clouds.
Although we are light years away
From such unfathomable quasars,
Their pull is strong enough to tug
At our fragile little hearts.
And although at times it may hurt,
We let our hearts ignite like supernovas,
We let our tears flow like space dust,
So that our love breaks into pieces
Of comets and shooting stars
That fall into our hands like petals,
For every existing matter to see.
And we hold these things of space,
Of celestial bodies falling into place:
To give them to the quasars of the ether,
From us, the stars of the earth

Eighteen―no,
Age is just a number.
Like the page number of a book, her story, her life;
It doesn't matter.
The ending doesn't matter.
The beginning doesn't either.

I read her in chapters, in scenes, in words:
she lives in each and every one.
She is not merely the main character,
she is the plot herself.
And I picture her in my head,
Through mundane moments, rocky cliffs, twisty plots;
She endures.

I don't want to reach or read the ending.
I want to keep reading,
keep browsing through the pages of her.
I want her
to keep writing.
To keep living.

the thunder is my cry,
the lightning, angered veins.
the tears fall from the sky,
known as summer rains.

you left me there,
frozen with a tired heart.
cold with winds high,
i watched you go,
a final
weather of goodbye.

When one leaves,
They never really do.
They are present in the void
They have left you with.

Sometimes, you think you'd be recovered from a heartbreak.
But when I saw the picture of the pagoda I took on that day,
I saw your face.
Memories resurfaced,
the sewn heart has a few stitches loosened,
and what if's appeared once more like how they did on that fateful morning.
We weren't close,
I admit we never were.
But you affected me greatly,
and I wish I'd done better.
Now I can only look at you in photographs or in memories and dreams.
Suddenly, reality seemed less of a reality compared to the dreams and photographs you were in.

i'm just a whirlwind
i'm one of the mere walls
which try to surround and get close to you
but i know you can never be contained
not even with the strongest arms
or the toughest heart

you are the eye of the storm
and no matter how calm
or vague you are or seem to be
you are the gusty centerpiece,
the focused target
of everyone revolving around you

i hope you realize you've caused
the best kind of mess
that's all natural
and has left me speechless

because in this storm
of youth
i have found the calm
in you

to the beautiful quiet boy
who lives in a timezone earlier than mine
they may not know it
but your heart beats louder than how you look
i hope you're asleep
it's thirty minutes after one a.m. isn't it?
Recounting the moments i watched you sleep
With an innocent, rested face
with your hands by your sides
you're even beautiful when you sleep
but more so when those dark chocolate eyes gaze upon the windows of my soul
wish i could hold you in my arms now
Even better if you're wrapped around me
While you're with your signature turtleneck
And me with my red pashmina
These thoughts are nothing
but at least something

Broken people are beautiful. Their shattered parts are clear. You can observe and see what's in their minds. And their rough, edgy sides... oh, the excitement to discover! Those large pieces of them -- you can probably hug the life out of it. The smaller portions can easily hide and wait for you to seek it.

But take caution: Once you mishandle them, you'll get a cut.

You won't forget me,
Like the back of your hand.
You never truly will.
I assure you with everything I am.

Because I am the song you've never heard;
The book you've never read;
The painting you've never looked at;
The one you've never thought of in your head.

I am the sea you've never swam in,
Or the keys you've never played.
I am the star you've never wished upon,
Or the prayer you've never made.

I am the dawn you've never seen,
The pillow you've never had at night;
I am the door you've never opened;
The glasses you've never used for sight.

As I came to know and realize
You like the back of my hand;
Knowing you exist, in my eyes,
I assure you with everything I am:

I never truly will,
That I will never forget you too.
But you've never known me in the first place,
So it was never the same for you.

Two beings of above--the sun and the moon, once loved each other a long time ago, only to lose each other and themselves through the expanse of time and space.
...
Now, there is a certain girl who fell in love with a certain boy, with the expanse of time and space between them. I love you, she says to the sky, in hopes of the wind bringing her words to him. I hope to see you again, soon.
...
And the boy, in his walking pace, randomly stops. Do boys wonder about their soulmates as much as girls do too? Because he certainly did. I would reach for your soul with my hand if I could, he said to no one in particular. Wait for me, again and again. I would reach you soon.
...
A breeze picks up and tucks a stray strand of the girl's hair behind her ear. She felt her palm grow warm, as if her hand was being held by another-- by his hand. She felt a tug in her, as if her soul was being tied to another-- to his soul. She closed her eyes and let the wind, her silent messenger, caress her face as she took a breath. *"I'll wait for you, and for us to rise again: against all dark odds and in this expanse of time and space."

the stereotypical way
of a girl or a guy falling in love

is a boy whispering sweet lies
because a girl likes what she hears
and a girl dressing up or down
because a boy likes what he sees

but between you and I,
the boy and the girl,
I was the one speaking words
and you were the one with visuals
I was the one who fell in love
and you were the one who never felt the same