What if we were together?
I'd listen to all your jokes,
Even the bad ones.
I'd cover your favorite songs,
No matter what the genre.
I'd cook your favorite meal,
And bake you sweet treats.
But what would you do?
But i guess for now
All i want is just for you to love me first

And i wish i could take away your sadness
with my arms around your frame
and to make your pain disappear
With my hands holding yours
And to remove the guilt eating you from the inside
With my love flowing in your veins
And to wipe those warm tears away
with my fingertips and lips
If you'd just let me in
We'll never have to feel hurt again

oh but the joy and beauty
of the unrequited love

for she loves as far as she could
even with him miles away
and people between them

and she loves unconditionally
and though she hopes for the best,
she doesn't expect much from him

so she just gives and gives.
caring and loving.
and i think that's beautiful.

it's this time of the night again
when all the pain i've kept,
all the anger i've pent up,
all the tears i held
during the day,
are to be released,
until i fall asleep.
and i wake up the next day,
seeming perfectly fine
and the cycle continues.

I want to know you. A lot.
I want to know you because I like you.
I like you because I want to know you.
I like you. A lot.

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.

On days like these,
It isn't distance that
Keeps you away from me,
But time.
As I look at your life
Through images
And hear your voice
Through recordings,
I can't help but think
If you're real
In this world with me.
Three hours isn't that far ahead,
But slowly waiting for time
Is quickly making me miss you
Much more than I thought.

that day in December
my roughest trip started
i remember how we met
i sat there quiet
you moved closer and said
my name was pretty
you left but promised me
next year again
and i waited for 365 days
but you never showed up

until 3 months later
and you almost forgotten
but i sparked your interest
November was the best,
when you first held my hand
and never had i ever felt so safe

little did i know that was the last month
we'd ever meet
and i would be hanging on for
193 days
on a feeble rope of hope
losing grip of myself
while you slowly forgot
how i felt against your hands

the rope snapped then,
but i knew
i was free,
from the difficult mountain of you
i did hurt and bruise when i fell
but those scars only proved to show
i am standing stronger
ready for the next adventure of life

crashing:
              tear stains on the pillow
                               i imagine ocean waves

flowing:
              shadows on the wall
                                i imagine jet-black ink

dripping:
              raindrops on my window
                                i imagine foot steps

drowning:
             in a tall glass of water
                                i imagine you

all these happening:
             whenever i drink
                                 a glass of you

other people like to pretend that airplanes are shooting stars in the night sky, destined to fulfill wishes as they dance about the air.

as for me, i like to imagine that stars are airplanes suspended in time, frozen in travel, bound for a place across the expanse of the atmosphere.

more than anything, you're either the airplanes or the stars to me.

Have you ever looked at someone and thought that they aren't completely good-looking, but they're so attractive like a raw form of art, and even emptiness?

People tell you to move on to the next (and real, pure) form of art but you see potential in this raw one, and you just want to watch that change; watch that space be filled up.

You think of that emptiness as something, because nothing is still something, no matter how paradoxical or illogical it seems.

You want to witness the metamorphosis and you believe that it will change before your eyes, so you watch close and just believe.

It's taking me awhile to move on to see more but this raw art piece really has taken the highlight exhibit in my art museum of a mind.

Maybe because I'm an artist, I'm positive about this and I just keep hoping I could witness the change, if not be the artist to do the change myself.

A certain raw art form in my life has been changing; I'm not able to observe closely but to hear about it is more than enough and relieves me.

To you who is reading this, we don't settle for the perfect in reality. In truth, there isn't a perfect in reality. We aren't all artists by profession or by the definition of 'artists', but once one learns to look at people this way, one can be an artist.

An artist believes, accepts, and appreciates; finding beauty in everything. Once you find beauty in even the most simple, mundane or raw form of art, you find the artist in you.

He was a blanket, covering all of me. Fabricated by the most delicate hands, he kept me warm on cold nights. And one of my favorite parts of him is that one string attached to the right side of his neck; it was as if his life depends on it. Because that very string diverged into tiny threads which spread out to his hands and feet, and converged with four other strings that lead to his heart. They are rich in color, and I wonder how just those strands of life sustain him. But sometimes his strings would loop, link, twist and turn, and I would get so tired of being pulled along; every fiber in me started to turn into a knot of uncertainty.
...
He tugged on my heart strings that night though, as soon as I was about to cut the twine we had made with our fingers braided together. That's when I realized I can never really untangle myself from him and from the cross stitch of our crossed fates. Because for us to live, we need all strings attached.

I hide away all my feelings
To see who would care
I won't show my discomfort
Or the joy that i should share
Because at the end of the day
No one will be there
I'm all alone again
Real friends, i know not where

I can't even tell if I've really gotten over you or I'm just numb to the fact that I've not forgotten you

beware when you fall in love
with an artist
be it a painter, a singer, or poet

for the artist will
paint you
with strokes and hues
in shapes of every kind

sing about you
with heartbreak lyrics
and feelings which rhyme

write about you
with the simplest words
and a secret message she wants to say

beware of the artist,
and her love
one wrong move
and you're an artwork in her display

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.

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.

And yes, i have always wanted to chase you and pull you into my arms to caress your soft neck with my silver friend and she would cut me open in front of you to show you how my heart has been turned to stone and i would take it out and smash it to your head that you would finally know how it's like to lose your mind, just like how i lost my heart

rich with red passion
deep shades of blue
a girl in love with
the way people speak
and who pouches
rainbows in her room
a little flame
lit up for her love
for this boy
who's miles away
one day
she'll see him:
without her wearing colors
with no barriers of speech
a simple look
a simple hello
he'll be in her reach

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

"I know what you're thinking," he says. "That today's just like any other day. That today is just your birthday; that other people are also born on the day you were born. And you're thinking: what is even so special about this day if other people are born too? If other people are much more talented, beautiful and lucky souls, then they deserve so much more than I do."

She replies him with a silent smile, waiting for him to construct his words-- to see what he could possible come up with to make this day, at least, brighter than the others.

"You know I love you, and I say this to you everyday. But just like any other soul, you are just as talented, beautiful and lucky. And what makes you special is that your existence makes me talented, beautiful and lucky in return. That's what makes you special to me. And I don't think I need a special or certain day to say all of this to you, because you're special in your whole life, from the moment you existed. You don't need a special day-- you have a special life."

She nods with a tinge of pride for him as it dusts her cheeks: she is glad she has someone like him who understands her.

He finishes, "This is why you're special to me. This is why I love you. And in the least, this day is a little more special that the others."

I could never count
the three words
for you.

It was always
just one, two, or four.
"Us," "What if,"
And "What could have been."

Art would last forever
But i learned feelings don't always do
And even if i painted you in hues
With every classic medium of art
This old tradition of painting
You on my canvas
As well, would never last

And even if i used digital art now
Where it would be fast
To bring you back
Reminded me that
This love faded faster
And this advanced way
Of lauding my love for you
Would never really make me move on

maybe i will learn to love the moon again when it's far away. but i swear, i loved you so much to the point where even my words loved you. and i could see your craters of flaws where you got from absorbing my negativity, only to radiate positivity. and the gray skin under your eyes where you got from watching over me all night, only to make sure i was asleep safe and sound in your arms. even if i don't see you on some nights, i know you're there, quiet in the dark sky. you may have left me for now to continue orbiting the world, but I'm your astronaut and I'll always continue to watch and love you.

They say that it is good to remember things; but somewhat better to forget if we want to forgive and move on with life.

I never wanted to remember everything from the start but being gifted with a sharp memory, I could recount almost every detail of the major events that has happened to me. Life has thrown both the good and bad memories to my face, and somehow, the horrible ones are more vivid and clearer than the pleasant ones. In all honesty, I did not really want to remember some good memories— especially those associated with the heart-wrenching ones which took away a piece of me. So what I might have is not “a walk to remember”, but rather, “a run to forget”. I want to run away; away from all the troubles and despairs of my haunting past, even if it means to escape from the happiness I used to experience along with it. But I know I would never really forget because I know my heart and mind do not want to discard those negative experiences totally in order for me to learn from them. And I accept that this is the way that God wants me to live; that I’ll always have those memories for the sake of building up a better me in the future.

I guess I thought that I could burn them all and throw the ashes of history. But I realize that these ashes will be forever buried within what makes me in the future— the past and the present.

"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.

the drummer boy’s
existence is emphasized
not during holidays
or birthdays
but rather onstage
where he’s the true conductor
of the band
I see him as the heart of the band
the lifeline which pumps strength
and keeps the blood flowing

because it is only through his heart
and his beats
when the strings know when to strum
when the cords know when to sing
when the keys know when to play

whenever he’s onstage
whenever the heart beats
it is not only the song which lives
but the band as well

I am an earthquake. I shake up other people's lives and shatter their worlds. I swallow everything of theirs in greed, stealing every moment of their day in my selfish demands.

But he still chases me, records me down, keeps account of me and tells me that my destruction is beautiful, it's what makes me. He says he wants to keep on watching me, hoping to save me one day.

Somehow I feel like protecting him from myself. Somehow I want to destroy him.

Or maybe I can destroy myself first. That would destroy him.

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.

Kindness is never worrisome. It will not bring you down. It will not let people abuse you. Do not listen to the world and their saying that "kindness will get you nowhere", or "you'll be taken granted for because of your kindness"; they don't know the real meaning of kindness. They are just lacking it for themselves, so be kind to them too. Be kind to those whom you wish to get back at. Anger won't solve it or make you the more mature one. Be brave enough to be kind. Be balanced enough to be fine. In your words and actions,

Be kind.

I don't think I can ever master the art of living without you even if I'm the reclaimed master artist of missing you

I have been experiencing
a type of bleeding
And it's not those
Monthly lady pains
Nor is it those injuries
Of open wounds or of sliced veins

But rather a cut that's
Deep within in me
Which takes root in my heart
Because ever since you left that day
My whole being was already
Torn apart

Your clear eyes,
a sea of accumulated raindrops,
started to ripple
as I touched the surface.

In your depths I dived;
neither sinking nor losing air—
never drowning despite the rough waves
of unchartered waters.

With no fear of trenches
as deep as the Mariana's,
or fear of undercurrents
as mysterious as the Bermuda's,
I sought further to know
why I felt more familiar
in the water than on land.

Floating, swimming,
breathing underwater;
I stayed warm in your gaze,
in the calm of you.

I found myself at home
when I looked into your eyes.

two fragile hearts made up of glass
everyone could see right through them both
only they themselves couldn't see the reality

both fell for each other
and whatever falls
will end up breaking

now those two once-glass hearts
shattered into a million emotional pieces

now those two once-glass hearts
will never find their missing parts

now those two once-glass hearts
have turned into nothing
but back into crushed sand

You usually make breakfast,
But this morning you were in bed.
To find your arms around me,
On your shoulder lies my head.
You normally don't use perfume,
So I breathe in the human smell,
Your arms around me get tighter,
Longing, is what our actions yell.
I nuzzle my face to your collarbones,
Your face buried in my hair.
I pulled your ear and said,
"Make breakfast, I'm hungry.
We can just share."
But you laughed as you bit my ear,
"But I'm already having it.
You're my breakfast in bed."