I.
This is for each time
They told me I was only good with words.
Maybe I did spent too much time discovering words
That I no longer know how to put into good use.

II.
This is for each time
My skin yearned for yours
Your memory etched into the prints of my fingers
It was the first time I thought being alive wasn’t bad after all
But I left before you realize I wasn’t worth falling for.

III.
This is for each time
Your words converted me into a ghost
Floating while screaming, “What is this emptiness?”
Each spoon of salt poured unto my wounds
Became the only confirmation that I was still human.

IV.
This is for each time
My best wasn’t bubbling to the brim,
Not enough to let it flow out of my mouth gracefully, effortlessly
This is for each moment
I choked, pushed, and pulled it out of me
Until I was left with a sour tongue & shaky fingers
But at least I can be of service with whatever spills out.

i have built a garden
full of words that spills relief
just in case i forgot how it feels
to feel something besides pain

the dust clouds have settled
from days of drawing rivers
and fearing the night
i have loved the way the sun
doesn't burn my skin.
i have loved the little lights
as they scatter across the black treacle
making my hazy head look up.
the rain still falls
and my days are still blue
i have grown fond of myself
even if most days i don't believe that's true

i use to think that the world was my oyster
until I remembered that i am as important
as i am useless.
the sun doesn't color the sky for my pleasure
and the air sure as hell doesn't arrive for my survival.
the universe still gives me reasons to be alive
but it doesn't give me the reasons why i should live.
theories upon theories
suggesting that one isn't cursed
to anything immortal
while another suggest that
the endless stretch of the universe
was made for absolutely nothing.
it is human to seek for meaning
and it is human to accept the impossibility of finding any.
but the glass will always be full of something
and maybe in a year or so, i'll be sure of this.
for now, i'll let the air speak
"it will be fine."

the smell of this place
will soon fade at the back of our minds
each thought & memory
will soon be broken into uncompleted lines

one day we will find our feet back
walking the ground where you first fell in love
touching the halls that are now a different hue
to see if they've forgotten you

tales of fairy & lore
will soon be covered with dust
your firsts and lasts
will soon all be eaten by rust

the place of our childhood
though many years have grown
its ceilings may decay
but it will always love to be your home

the trees may bend and left forgotten
hidden behind tall buildings & lampposts
most of what you left behind
will soon all be ghosts

familiar faces with unfamiliar scents
they wont expect you to stay same
tight bonds will melt into loose ends
and they will forget your name

my name isn't carved into something historical
all of this will be washed by the rain
how bittersweet it is
to travel down memory lane

you belong to you.
nothing fits better
in between your fingers
than your own

fall deeply in love with yourself.
every inch of your body
is painted perfectly
to represent a masterpiece that is you

your body is a temple
built only for those
who'll look at you
as if you are the whole universe

lovers may pass
and chances may knock
but the cells that compose you
aren't ready to share you yet

different hands may grasp this skin
and various fingers may hold this heart
every meter of my flesh
will always belong deeply to me

you are yours,
i am mine
the key to our heart
is placed at our own hands.

There are countless of things that the previous year has taught me. From how to travel to the city on my own to picking ears to whisper on. It introduced me to beautiful people, mesmerizing places, and hard fights. Confusing and nerve-racking moments which leads me to learn a few things that I shall carry with me to the years I will exist in.

1. It is okay to get bored of something you enjoyed for a long time. People change. My bones and skin continues to stretch and sometimes, some qualities & likes are left at the bottom of my feet. I can be completely different from who I was 5 days ago. Life never runs out of things to teach you minute by minute and you are not expected to always stay the same.

2. Never be afraid to meet new people. Whether they have a beautiful or horrible effect on you at the end of the day, you will be so glad you had them and continue to have them in your life.

3. I do not need validation and justification from others to know that I matter. The biggest love that I can receive is the love from myself. No one can ever understand me more than myself. I am a complex anatomy that only I can fully understand. I do not need a partner to carry me through life. I should carry myself. I know myself the best.

4. I am not an exception to being toxic. More often than not, I cannot see the effect that I make on other people. I can hurt others just as much as others hurt me. I learned that I should always be considerate of their feelings.

5. Coffee will never leave you alone. Through sleepless nights and buckets of tears, coffee has always felt like home in a cup. With every sip, I feel my body fall back into place and function properly again.

6. Love will come when it's time. I've always been impatient when it comes to love. I was always so envious of my friends who has sweet partners that would put a smile on their face. I wanted that, I wanted romance. And when infatuation came, I misunderstood it as romance & grabbed it fully. Then, it faded away and I was left wondering if I was that easy to get. True romance shouldn't make you feel bad about yourself. It will come and when it does, you will understand why the past was tragic.

7. He may or may not like me; either way, it doesn't matter. So I like this friend of mine and by the time I read this piece again, I probably don't like him anymore. He understood what you were, he just did. He found joy in discovering the comets and planets inside of me. I don't blame you, self, for falling in love with him.

8. Just write. When something fails, write it. When it prosper, write about it. I always had the fear that one day, I will lose my ability to write again. I am still unsure if any of these musings mean something to me but I hope it means something to others. I will always leave my poems without an meaning because it can vary from reader to reader. Whatever the poem made you feel, that's its meaning. To make you feel something.

There is no doubt the coming year can be worst or better than the previous one. There are so many things to learn about someday. That's how life is, you suffer then you learn. And it's never gonna stop teaching you. Seize the year, folks.

I told myself to write forever so that you will find every word that I've included in my poems about you in every place you'll go. For the past few months, the air around me lingered with nothing more but the memory and essence of you. It haunted me for so long & I don't think I could ever get rid of your essence completely. Every night I struggle with the hand of guilt that chokes me and the only way for relief is for me to admit vocally that everything that happened between us was all my fault. There were countless nights that the image of you runs tirelessly in my brain, keeping it awake. And just like the poison that you are, you release the dangerous chemical that makes me believe that I'm not tired yet. I struggled to get you off of my system, I struggled so hard that I found myself at the edge of the rooftop. The things that I wish I had said echos in these four walls, bouncing back and forth but unlike the normal echo, the volume increases the more it hits my ears. For days, I did nothing but destroy my body because I thought I wasn't beautiful enough for you. It's always my fault, isn't it? I guessed I charged up too much negativity in me that it radiated out of my skin.

I've grown a friendship with the moon and the stars from the countless nights I spent hating myself. I hope the night lingers in your daylight and I hope the sun never bother to shine your way. I hope love and romance hurts so bad that you'll spend the rest of your night drowning in the thought that you'll always feel cold for the rest of life. And if someone did wrap their arms around you at night, I hope they'll be gone the next time the moon rise. I hope my words gets plastered at every wall you'll set yours eye upon and I hope each line chokes you until the only way out is to verbally admit that you were also wrong. I hope the clouds will never be in your favor and even if they did, I hope the sun while shine so bright that you'll finally see your wrongs. I hope love walks away and slams the door.

I write these stuff so you stop listening to only yourself. I write these stuff so you hurt and you learn. This is your torture.

You told me before that you were willing to give me anything I wanted. I told you tales about mysteries & unsolved history and my deep fascination of puzzles. I told you I love mysteries so you went ahead and became one. A jigsaw puzzle with confusing edges that doesn't seem to interlock with each other. And maybe that's enough proof that we were never really meant to intertwine. I became so reliant to people's words about me. You became a compound mixture of formulas and theories that wasn't suppose to mix together but somehow they did. They told me I was a fast thinker so why couldn't I understand you?

When I'm done drowning in my own tears, then that's the time when I'll give up on you. When I'm done picking all of the pieces that I had to rip from my skin just to swallow pages of encylopedias, then maybe that's when I'll cut all of the bridges that leads my feet back to you. But for now, I'll just continue burning the half of my heart that you hadn't taken.

I wish to take countless things back. I wish to take back all of the sonnets & haikus that I burned my fingers writing for you. I wish to take back all of the nights when I told you that I'll give you every piece of my self, you can take it all. And I wish to take back all of the burning stars that I heavily planted with the sore image of you. I never gave you an expiration date as to when you can have every piece of me and now you walk around mindless of the pieces of me that cling helplessly to your body. I never gave you a due date as to when I can get it all back. I take it all back.

they said that my collarbones
was a fascinating sight,
my bones looks as if they're dying to escape
like how words fall from my mouth.
so i avoided things that could fill me
and satisfied myself with the feeling of hollow.
maybe the one can effortlessly lift me
as we kiss in the pouring rain
and i would never have to squeeze lemons
into a fabric again.
my bones will form a sharp edge
preventing people from hurting me again
and someday, i will feel safe.

although there would be nights
of scratching my skins and biting my lips
until i can taste again - a sense i havent used in days.
there would be pain from the center
i will cry but they will stay.
because people only likes to touch beautiful & frail things.
the more ethereal you look,
the more they'll handle you with care
and thats the saddest truth i learned.

i will continue to make myself look like a stick
so maybe people will stick with me.

there is a hole in my tooth
but there is bigger one in my soul.
i will lay my head against my pillow again
longing, pleading that every breathing
wouldn't expand the hole within me.
every joke i have to ***** out of me
every laugh i have to hurt my ribs to execute
every smile i have to crack my skin to present
because they are only there when you're happy.
my academics will yell at me for marking it so slow
but how can i listen to the lectures
when the voices inside my head are louder than my teacher?
each moment of my life
i am accompanied with a screaming will to live, asking for its life
and i will realize that i'm the only one who is killing it.
it is difficult to help yourself
when your own murderer is you.
i will hate every moment
when i have to be alone
because alone means silence
and i can hear them more
i tug my hair hoping that with every pulled follicle
will vanish the ghost that lives in me.
it is hard to feel okay with people
when it is programmed in your brain
that every person has their bad side
and you are its trigger.
my world has completely turned black & white
no grey, no hue, nothing in between.
and here comes another day of
right first before left,
closing your stomach before it inflates,
joining the hateful voices in your head
i am my own murderer
and i will not cry until i drown myself in the ocean of my own pain.

They await for a certain wave to trigger the hammer that'll smash my body into a splat on the ground. It'll be a couple of days before they set me free but I'm afraid you'll come right before that day comes. I'm afraid you will **** me.

I grew up with the tales of crying in the rain, screaming "Come back, come back, come back!". I never liked the rain nor do I like screaming and that's why I never liked the idea of you. I always heard tales about floating in blue matter because of you. I never liked the color blue and that's why I never liked you. Those happened when you left and we can't always be right, right? I rather stay inside this box without your shock than to lay on the ground, scattering every bit of my ruins into the blue matter & drenched in rain.

The earth under my feet begins to quiver. You're not a radiation, as far as I could remember. But your lips radiate every energy inside this lonely box and I'm afraid the hammer is sensitive to touch. Under the city lights your eyes never shined so bright. It was a beautiful idea to coexist with someone like you. Your eyes are like the dots scattered into the night sky but just like those dots, upclose your eyes are a fiery ball of destruction. Your waves triggered rocks to fall into my fears & crush them.

The clock is fastly ticking and the hammer is slowly rising. I'm not quite sure if this is suppose to feel this way. All I know is that I am both dying to make you run away from me and both accepting my fall. I want the future, man do I want to live. But future would mean a box without your touch & you already contaminated me with your poison. I do not want future if you aren't here with me. You've developed a catastrophe in this box and you marked it yours.

But what can I do now? After all, love waves cause the most desruction and I can't run away anymore.

when i was little,
i cried because i wanted It.

It being the crisp sound of fulfillment
that keeps the black hole in the middle of my body quite.
i wanted, i needed It.
sometimes the black hole
would turn red as lava
and it would feel like a volcano
wanting to erupt
but the thing is,
it doesn't have anything to force out.
and i do not like the feeling.

i woke up today
and my mind was a shade of blue.
i don't quite remember
drinking 10 bottles of anesthesia
to feel this pale.
every crack on the pavement
looks like a long razorblade
that would cut my foot if i step on it.
here comes the habit of right first then left,
counting the leaves of my neighbor's bush,
and the amount of C's i swallow
because everything should be even.
2,4,6,8
only that to relieve the ache
because you are what you eat
and who wants to be odd?

there in my bed,
i wonder if the rain is infused with anesthetics
and the black hole erupting
is the only pain i am feeling.
and i like the feeling.

now im older,
i cried because i do not want It.

Love is a foreign thing for me. It is a language that I am yet to hear and learn but I know that once I get my hands on its words, I will write about your face.

I woke up today with a smile that is triggered by the memory of your smile and hands that drops everything because all it yearns to touch is your skin. Every food becomes unappetizing because I've developed a stomach that rejects edible things and it only wants to be filled by the butterflies that you bring. And last time I wrote, I wrote about wishing my words and lines were aligned but suddenly, I don't know how it may be, but I feel enough. And that is a foreign thing for me.

Love promised to grab me by the hand and travel to France where it will ask me out to dance. It promised to fill my soul with Italy's chaotic tranquility. It promised to fill my mind with Greece's ease. It promised to love me in Germany tirelessly. And it promised to take me to Spain and take away every bit of my pain.

Love may be a foreign thing for me but I feel like I've known your soul since forever.

i don't like myself
the way i look, the way i think
the way i was made,
i don't like it.
i wish i wasn't lazy
so i could make this poem more appealing
i wish i could conjure metaphors
and poetry would come bursting naturally out of me.
i wish i could reach that cupboard
without standing on my toes.
i wish i could be one with my words
and i could write about the way i feel.
i wish i wasn't so dependent
on people's praises
and i wish that statistics wasn't my only form of self-validation.
i'm always waiting for the day
where i'll wake up living the life
i dreamed about last night.
i wish my body was just like theirs
you can say that my body is unique
but i don't care
i don't want unique, i want pretty.
i wish i could pull a poker-face
without being self-conscious of what i look like.
i wish i could walk without
thinking that i was the center of the universe
that all eyes are cameras pointed at me
waiting for me to stumble & fall.
i wish i didn't have to delete
the past attempts of composing this poem again and again.
i wish the voices in my head isn't my lullaby and my alarm clock.
i wish i didn't fear falling down the reject hole
i wish art would radiate outside my skin
i wish i don't beat myself
for every time i restart this poem
and i hope after this last line,
i never have to.

i never knew cold was a color
until i saw your eyes
a pair of globes that once
displayed my home
but now they look like foreign planets
and i dont know you anymore.

we chant that winter is coming
every night in front of the tv
but i was so stupid to realize that that was a subliminal message
for the emptiness that you'll soon offer me.
you said you're with me every step of the way
but why are you taking the opposing path?
you always spilled flowers
out of your mouth
but lately all you ever grow
are mold & bugs
and i just dont know you anymore.

and i'll slip & press
the flowers that you gave me
into the notebook infused with poems you caused
then i'm gonna hold on
to every bit of you
that i still have.

and here we are again
on this page of a book called dreams.
as the moon & the city becomes our lightbulb
and the end of your cigarrette burning
like how time burns when we're together.
on our blood are paint produced by love
and we color these streets with the color of romance.
in that moment we understood
why people call life a jigsaw puzzle
because everything is falling into pieces
and here forms the picture we were always trying to build.
we understood why painters
mix different hues of a color to create a new hue of that color
because a hue that's a little bit different
wouldn't fit into this painting we call "right now."
the words and the world molds into one
and turning the page doesn't make sense.

but we cant help but roll the thought
of a burned out cigarrette being thrown to the ground
once it no longer gives warmth & light.
we cant help but lose the passion
and we'll brush a lighter shade of color
because something is missing & we cant seem to find it.
slowly by slowly puzzle pieces will be misplaced
and we wont understand this picture anymore.
one day, we'll push each other away
unbeknownst to you and me
then we'll be similar poles of a magnet
which will drift apart from each other.

i will be pained
and although i'll wish you'll miss me
but i hate seeing you hurt
so i'll just hurt myself with the mere thought that your mouth wont form my name again
and every memory of us that you'll remember
you'll wish to forget
while i am here holding on to every bit of you that i can grasp.

so whenever someone tells you they wont hurt you
or you'll say your love is greater than your intention of pain,
remember that your heart is a muscle the size of your fist.

months ago i left my home
because it was a tragedy.
the place where i never felt alone
starts to feel so crowded and heavy.

so i wrote my lines into your palm
and you took me everywhere you go.
walking to the middle of east & north,
unsure of where we would end up but we knew we currently stand
and that what truly matters, right?

there were times when i would miss my childhood bed
but you offered me your chest
and suddenly i refused to lay down somewhere other than you.
there were times when i would miss
them and their memories
but you make each moment of my past before you
unworthy of reminiscing for the lack of euphoria they hold.
and there would nights where i would miss being okay
because we are constantly moving
city to city in a world where i don't wanna stand in
but you, for just being you, make me glad to be alive.

and the stars hide at night
for they would always be set aside
because i will always favor your eyes.

but there were also nights
where you'd forget to hide the cracks of your sin.
and the light that escapes your broken lines
shines through the dark night, keeping me away from sleep.
there goes your light
shining from your interior
it was so bright as can be,
it blinded me from reality.
you were a hypnotic drug
that commands my feet to follow
you wherever you go.
i gave you my nights & rhymes
and all you gave me is toxic fumes.

you had me the moment your secondhand smoke entered my body
and you marked me the moment your
toxic-laced smoke clouded my air.

your heart and my heart
are now located at the ends of a line.
like intersecting lines,
we were once perfect at one point
but for some reason,
we had drifted from each other.
all i could stare it is the starry night
but i don't like stars,
i don't know where we are
and i don't know where to go
though, i'm glad as hell i wasn't where i used to be.
there are nights where you'll suddenly throw rocks at my window.
the moment you'll lay your head on my shoulders,
it will always feel like home.
you were home
and just like my previous one,
you are a tragedy.

i was asking you before
to discontinue your supply of poetic awakening
the ink that you're always giving me
has expired and dried two years ago
and i can never write about now.

i can never write about "what ifs",
i can never poetically execute my dreams
because i am contaminated by
our "what could have beens."

babe, your expired ink tastes bitter & toxic
but i just cant seem to stop you.
i don't ever want to stop you
i dont want to step forward.

here i am again, haunted by your memories
leading me back to the past that i have learned to seek shelter in.

you were to glue that pieces my bones together
whenever these four walls are declaring that i'm falling apart.

you are an endless pool of ink
and an endless pad of paper,
you want me to continue writing
because you said my face was too pretty to explode.

how could i step away from that?
i wish that my muscles would be strong enough to lift me away from here.
i wish i could say that this isn't about you.

i am never gonna move on from you
because the day that i do,
the day i will stop being a poet.

i am not good with words
i was never good at literature
never good at fathoming
my thoughts, cries, and pleads into lines and rhymes
always on the look out
for words that i can never understand
and metaphors that dont match
but i'll use them anyway because i thought they'll look nice.
i was never good at poetry,
always forgetting to water
the flowers on my tongue
so they just wither away
and the soil of my literature
will run dry as the pen on my table.
i was never good at using words
as an outlet of my shriveling thoughts
i
never
knew
when
to
hit
the
enter
key
i was never good at this.
but your ears were always closed
and your eyes were always open,
on the look out for your next lover
so here i am.
a girl with poetry for lips and paint fir blood.
here it is.
my poetry,
in all of its pain & glory.

how kind is the planet
that it continues to
rotate around its orbit,
giving us both warm and cold
despite the bombs we explode
in its scalp?
how kind is the planet
that it continues to sprout
leaves and fruits
to fulfill our empty, needing stomachs
yet we cut of its green hair
and cover the brown & green with grey?
how kind is the planet
that it continues to force away
humongous space rocks from colliding with us
regardless of the hatred
that walks around it's crust?
one day the planet will get so tired
of pushing space rocks
like how tired we get from
pushing our own kind away
and one day, our memories
will turn to dust that will
float in the deep, unmeasurable universe.
but the ashes of earth
will find it's way back into our bones.

the electricity posts
in my veins are all broken
and there aren't enough
electrical engineers to revive them.
the atmosphere is getting colder
and the flowers in my tongue slowly whither.
i'm running out of words to use for a the color of your eyes
so im sorry if they turn out to be like anyone else's.
the absence of the tidal waves of poetic awakening
cripples my wrist and fingers until the only way
to get me to write is to bleed.
i want to feel alive
like im a cloud swimming through
the fantastic colors of the sky.
i miss the way ink drips from my fingertips
i want to feel home again.
home with words, with poetry.
laying down on a bed of proses while a piece
sings softly in the background.
that's my hyper-reality, a kind of fantasy
i can no longer find meaning in.

one day the world
will forget our names,
our memories will be
wiped away from the surface of the earth
and the things we used to own
will turn to ashes with us.
then, we'll be buried underground.
we will become one with the earth
and our flesh will linger through
the wildflowers and sprout again above our coffins
and we'll say our last words to the wind.
the temples that were made for us
will turn into an artifact,
a museum of what we were
and what we could have been.
one day, the last star will collapse
and the universe will be inhabitable.
but we will linger around the
dark and black void that we
once called home.

I am a writer, a ****** of words. I am a pen that's skipping ink but I still continue to write despite the broken lines because that's what I'm made for in the first place. Maybe the reason why I get hurt so much is that I fall in love with words a lot. I'm in love with people who is in love with literature. These poems and letters may not be made for you or because of you but their main purpose of being written is to move you. I want you to do something about that girl who works in your favorite book shop because I don't want you commiting the same regrets as I did. I want you to raise your voice and write about the oppression or the wage gap. I want you to write about something from the deepest part of your chest. I want you to write about something I cannot write about.

But some days, I feel nothing. I could write about being in love and about the color of their eyes but nowadays, their eyes look exactly the same. I could write about sadness but sadness itself is what hinders me to grab a pen. Now, I could write about happiness. But I rarely feel this way and when I feel this way, ******* I feel this way. I could gather these words about being filled with the color yellow but happiness will say that those words are not enough to fathom the euphoria I feel in me. Maybe one day, I could explore enough dictionaries to find the perfect words on what I have to say.

You don't have to be the greatest writer there is to make someone feel something through your words. Write about everything, every emotion, and every person who finds their way to your heart. When you can't write anymore, get outside and get your heart broken. Go outside and experience an experience that you never thought you would experience. Soon enough, you will write the words you never thought you would ever write. Don't hold anything other than offensive and oppressive thoughts back. Let the poetry run through your veins and drip down your fingertips. Write, write, and write until you can't write anymore. When you can't write anymore, seek a perhaps to write about then write, write, and write until you can't anymore. Even when the poem is below my satisfaction, I continue to share it anyway because being stoic and still would lead me to madness.

I am a writer, a ****** of words. I am a pen that's skipping ink and even though my lines are broken and unappealing, I continue to write anyway and because that is what I am made for in the first place.

if i were a little taller
maybe i could be big enough to be your sun
if i grew a few inches overnight
i would be able to fix that broken light
i could talk to people without
hurting the back of my neck
i could reach that blue canvas above
i could see the city
the endless stretch of a green scenery
in all of it's light and glory
maybe if i were a few inches taller,
i could strut that outfit
without looking like a
child straight out of the 90s
i could run faster
towards that goal
i could dream higher
i could finally stand out
you could spot me in that picture
with the face i drew earlier

but i guess
i'll just be down here forever
that girl who was nothing more
than a person below your elbow
somtimes i walk alone
and i feel like the world is drowning me
although i see the sky
and it keeps on screaming
"this is vast"
"this is yours"
"the world is yours"
but i cant always feel that way
i cant feel among you
when your arm is resting
on my shoulder
it pushes me further
into the ground that holds
all of the demons that'll tell me
that im not good enough for this world

i am not a barricade
i am not a post
i am not a doll
i am not an object
i want to see what's in front of you
i want to be seen
but i guess
i'll just have to accept
that this will all i will ever be.

i guess i should write
about the trees and the skies
but then theres your eyes

oh darling
i have something to tell you
i met this boy once,
his name was blue.

blue had the face of a man
michelangelo would paint.
he told me he loves art and
that is why he loves me.

my hair was a tangled mess
yet he liked the chaos it holds.
he liked the chaos so much,
he went to the middle of one.

blue went to my house the night
they shaved his hair
i whispered sounds of sorrow
as they took him away.

oh my darling,
why'd you hit that wall?
you know that i love you, blue
why did you suddenly growl?

i watched as you hung your head
i look at your face
and it feels like the way it was
before you went away

i stared at the blank canvas
that is all above us
oh darling i have something to tell you
your face lit with solid confusion

oh darling
i have something to tell you
i met this boy once
his name was blue.

There was a boy beside the river and he smelled like poetry.* His lips watered the flowers in my tongue and soon grew infused with words and metaphors. His touch delivered a tidal wave of poetic shock that awakened my dull veins. But one night, he had his arms around me but somehow I still felt cold. And my lungs are suffocating with toxic that he hid behind his artistic mask. When he was mine he drowned me in poetry. When I was his he drowned me in salt water.  My spirit is lurking in the riverbank where I first met him. There was me, above the water, my poetic veins contaminated by salt waterthat aggravates the wounds inside of me. He was sitting there by a stone, smelling like poetry, looking for his next victim.

i want to be your sun
the reminder that all of those demons are gone
i want to be the one
who you yearn to see at midnight
i want you to grasp my wrist at dusk
pleading me to never leave at twilight
no, i dont want to be your moon
i dont need a ball of fire behind me to shine,
no, i dont want to be your stars
there is only one me that you should find
i am more than a silhouette of something shallow,
i am not that broken to scatter all around your black treacle
but i want to be your constant dose of relief
those demons behind your face will vanish because of me
yet you always seek for those **** little twinkling dots
because there is more of them
but i am also one of them, why can't you see?
it's probably because your eyes burn when you look at me.

I am your poet
when you need a light to shine through thr dark, clouded curtains
that you call your mind.

I cannot give you the sun or the moon,
I cannot offer you a thousand rings.
But I would write you endless amounts of sonnets
until you drown in my poetry.

My words will be yours,
Every letter will be written for you.
These lines will be your constant reminder
that you will always be enough.

But, it seems like you will read
but you will never know
that these poems that tore my skin
was all made for you.

This is all for you.

I could say that I only have eyes for you but I know one day all I will ever see is black and an empty side of the bed. But please know that I will still yearn to see your face. I would travel through hell and back just to find you.

I could say that you will always be in my mind but you mentioned the other day that you don't like being confined.

I could say that your hand fits perfectly in mine but lately, my cup of coffee provides more life than your fingers. But I would still hold a pen & write for you if it makes you less sad.

And I could say that you have my heart but yesterday you threw it on the ground then said, "Find someone else."

I have learned that I was not always right because all my life I told myself that I was unworthy and yesterday,  I overheard my friends talking about how I deserve the greatest things in life. I learned that it's not bad putting yourself in front of others. One day, I will live the imagination in my head today.  Sooner or later, someone will bring shivers down my spine and I will awaken the butterflies in their tummy. Someday, I will deserve someone. Someday, someone's going to love me more than I love them and they will give me back the things that I gave the undeserving in the past.

Does it really matter? Because time becomes ephemeral when you're spending it with romance. The way his fingers latched with mine was gone the minute he saw his friends. What is more important is the memories and the thought that you've lived long enough for you to meet him. What matters is the thought of him coming in as oxygen, intoxicating your system even though he left immediately as carbon dioxide, someone you don't recognize.

Your smoke has intoxicated me long since my dad stopped driving me to school. I am scorched by the touch of your atmosphere that I will never get used to. I can never take back the money I've spent on ***** ice cream and orange quail eggs. And despite your ridiculous amount of potholes and how every corner of you is corrupted, Manila, you are still my home.

I will forever treasure the nights I've spent walking through your pavement. The lights of you will never fail to fascinate me. How every monuments and art musuems becomes a portal from the past to the future. For all the laughs, tears, annoyance, and anger that I've had with you and the inside jokes that only we know. For the people I've met and will meet inside you. For all the streets I've walked and will walk onto. Despite your lack of snow and intense evidence of climate change,  Manila, I am still and will always be in love with you.

The wall that seperates our home
Was as thick as the callouses on my fingers,
But I could hear every brush stroke
That he made on his canvas.

With every flick of his wrist,
a new image begins to build.
With every breathe that he took,
breaths of love and passion.

I can see in high quality definition
The looks on the spectator's faces,
As they admire your colors
On the wall beside the colors you once admired.

Today I realized that no matter how many times you've rounded every kilometer of my brain, I have never entered yours. I've realized that you won't help me bandage my hand when it got burned when I reached for the stars that you wanted. I want you to swallow my poison for I have swallowed yours long ago and it's deteriorating me inside rapidly.

His fingers was dripping poetic justice and his heart was covered in dictionary pages. I remember how he compared the works of Dickinson to how the stars shine in the night sky. I loved the way his eyes sparkle and his heart becomes frantic whenever he talked about the beauty of literature.

But not once when we were "together" did his eyes twinkled when he talked about me. Not once did he looked at me in fascination like how he looked like when he read The Tale of Two Cities. Not once did the hairs on his neck stood when I showed him the poems I made for him. And not once did he offered a word for me.

Beautiful, fascinating, ethereal.
Those are the words he use to describe literature. Those are also the words he never used to describe me.

Does it make you happy that someone just can't wash the memory of you out of their head? Because I told myself I would dissolve your essence in my system. I told myself I wouldn't waste a drop of ink or a single letter for someone I know isn't coming back.

The thought of you is toxic. Every cell in my body is yearning for you to haunt me again. And here I am, writing a poem that you will never, ever, read. I don't even know if you know about this account. Hell, I don't even know if you know I still make poems. I told myself I'd stop writing about you. But every emotion that  triggers a wave of poetry throughout my body is caused by you.

And no matter how much it hurts to do nothing but hope your name appears on my phone again, there is no place in this world I'd rather be than to wait here for you.

It was March 5th when we first met. I never imagined you as someone who I will miss because I never thought you would go away. Today is February 13 and I'm missing you more than ever.

Can we have those long talks about our height difference back? Can we regain the jokes we told each other at 3:45 in the morning? But most importantly, can I have you back?

It never occured to me how much I'm missing you until the mark of the second year of your disappearance is approaching. I never told anyone but I'm still hoping your name pops up in my phone. I'm still aching to see you alive again. You're still the name that I put as my passcode.

I just want you to come back again.

I am a poet because of you.
It's the way your being
delivered a tidal wave of
poetic awakening to my
once dull veins.

Your lips watered
the flowers in my tongue
that were once called prose
but now they developed into poems.

Your fingers latched
perfectly into mine and
your nerves reacted to my nerves so right
and in that moment I knew our hands  were designed for each other.

And although
your tongue left my tongue
and your hand left my hand,
the diabolical mixture of your blissful and painful memories
kept the flowers in my tongue alive.

Soon enough, the flowers
crawled through my arms and hands,
begging me to write
the poetry that they bring.

You will never read this
but I forever thank you,
for I will always be a poet
because of you.

You turned your back on me and let the slowly closing door swallow the image of you walking away. That was the last time we talked. That was the last time you look at me. And I swear to any astrologist in this world that that is how the sun sets.

I saw you at the grocery store today and you asked me if you still have my heart.



I said no.



But if you silence the world and if you stare deep into my eyes, you can hear my heart say the contrary.



It's sad that you do still have my heart. I never gave it to anyone else, I never took it back. It's sad that you are still in there. You will always be the center of my love. You never left. You still own every inch of my love.



And I hate it.

You make Death feel alive.