it was a cold day in September and i had no business with the clouds or the color of the skies. i did not go out to see if the flowers are blooming in my mother's garden, or if my grandma's cat was chilling at her usual spot in the steps in front of our living room's door. i did not ask my mom what's for lunch and whether she's planning to go out in the evening or not. i did not care if it was my turn to wash the dishes or if my mom asked me to sweep the floor afterwards. i did not care about fairytales or histories or corporations. i was not in a hurry to know what i want in and out of life. i was not very disturbed by the fact that i do not fully know my own self and the world i live in. i did not mind not knowing whether i am doing good or not, doing something or not. it was a cold day and my cold pillow demanded to be held, and so i did.

the warm golden sun is shining brighter
the cold whistling wind is blowing softly
it seems like life will only get better
because you've chosen to love me fully

they have told and written stories before,
about men and women, their love and pain
taught about similes and metaphors
and how to play with the rules of the game

the romantics and their visions were right
there is hope and a future for the world
the poets and lovers will be alright
they have found both heaven and hell on earth

when you have given someone your whole heart,
the two of you will never be apart.

I like how you answer
those ******, useless questions
they ask. Did i ever mention
how beautiful you are?
I said, thank you, let me
write you a poem.

if i was a poet, i'd write you a letter
confessing the woeful thoughts that
crossed my mind whenever you'd speak your mind.
you've always been attractive, and i have always been
attracted to you. but the universe makes it clear,
we can't trust each other.

Death—You **** the life out of me.
A family— A dog — an Old man—
Death—You **** the life out of me.

this garden of green
(and a little bit of yellow and pink)
    is full of life
         and lies.  I have told
my stories to the plants
and flowers
on this garden of green
many times before, hoping
they'd talk or, perhaps, love
me back.

i have been wishing
for a firefly
to come to this healthy
garden of green
of mine, and none came.

And i'm glad.
i cannot **** a firefly.
something so precious and rare,
i cannot **** or imprison or limit it.
i will be too powerful it is making me
Crazy

a benign laugh
for every ludicrous act
   (laugh out loud, my dear)

to heed and to conform with

the injustices of life,
that you aren't mine
         (and I
                     am yours)

is rather amusing
and divine.