like a needle in a haystack -  i swipe right
i followed her then i type
then i like

then i make sure she's alright
and she asks me for my like
and i asks her for her Skype

She told me "I felt so alive"
and I told her "that's divine"
i think i told her it's a sign
so she blocked me on line
but i think im fine
so maybe next time

ill find sunshine
the girl next door- online.

A trip to the moon is once glorified in a series of preposterous misfortunes such that the moon did not descend itself but scurries itself higher into the cosmic futility of one's grounded ambitions.

i may have lost faith unto my idealism and romance of the far side riverbank where roses bloom everlasting of such bright exuberance in youthful dreams and woodlands imagination that can not decay unto the doom of a failure but yearn that my tomorrow wouldn't gallop itself into  the hole of the dark tunnel but would reach the light in its end.

i'm going back to sleep and wish myself a good night and a good life so by the morning after
; i'm now prepared to receive the beginning of the end.

this keeps me daunted from the haunted houses and bottled wines sitted and lying down the bench with the glaring spotlight above casting a smaller shadow of my ego and my shattered self-belief.

crying with a bottle of wine

a left hand for the nicotine, another hand for the holy alcohol; I try not to think about death but he craves for my heartbeat down through the darkness and oblivion forever silencing my faith. I hear the screaming silence and the caged agony beneath my soul.

i will mourn for the death of my happiness yes i am vulnerable like a starving naked man whipping and lashing out the inner physicality and dual virtues of our humanity.

i will follow what I want but I will give them what they need;

let my thoughts bleed and fly high on the sky of fallen angels and let the baphomet drag me below the caverns of the rocky earthly world as he welcomes me to eternal damnation
all just because i’m


crying with a bottle of wine.

I get to see the world in unbounded manners and patterns of oceans crashing down on the pages and endless endless beam of lines strolling towards nowhere leading to the path of horror and agony creating a void of dreams and memories columned against the walls of our ideas, I have achieved total enlightenment through the craft of my words, and the bending of my mind:

i am a writer of no demands.
a writer of no in betweens.
a writer of pure passion.
a writer of reckless consumption.
a writer with no roof but the trees towering on the hills beside the mountains endlessly inspiring ideas and visions of no pragmatic truth.
a writer with anything but a candle for his hope and a box for his cigarettes.
a writer with no pen but his mind and his tortured soul.
a writer who believes that religion is immoral.

I am the starving writer and I'm full of cliche.

Outside the white walls, symmetrical pillars, and broken windows do I find solemn within these saints and sinners and colorful people trudging down the hallways of unwashed history and flaunting peso bills all over the skies of painted jazz

The one that is running to the bottom of the staircase holding a box of cigarettes and a mouth full of curses- striding all over the barlights of blissful BGC and numbing taste of bitter alcohol in Taft- wandering on the streets of neon traffic lights and a plentiful of terrible people.

The one that is contemplating heavy metal (!) and bring suitcase for a living-walking faster than a madman of a classic 1980’s horror flick but talking like a dead man, grudging and grumbling his collar, mentally inspecting his fat books and depressing academic memories, calling on the birds of personified freedom weeping beyond his words and scratching his head with that awful haircut looking for a blessed be redemption.

The one that is like Sheila, hands on the wheels with glass-plated stilettos and terrible taste in music, bruise and battered chin, wounded shin and complete with broken dreams –flattered her way up to the pool of stingy bureaucrats and hateful hateful daughters of sacredly publicized personalities continuously eating her tossed salad and puffing marijuana to suffice her thoughts off dull memories and empty void of a brain’s one’s gaped hole.
She can’t be bothered to find peace in her ******* because one must work hard to the top of the social strata!

The one that is gifted with prophesy and hypocrisy of pretentious façade writing broken poetry- creating **** films for a living while dressed in his chelsea boots and pain-bearing insecurities of beautiful nightmares and leather bags of no significant purpose but to seem delight on all these saints and sinners and colorful people

Spilled out of my random thoughts and shapeless blossoming rainbows of emotions and grievances in all things I find goodness on the beautiful surface of that white wall and stubborn-looking beardless hip-hop heads with overpriced headphones and greasy Drake shirts and magnificent bomber jackets from angelheaded fuccbois with mom-washed jeans skinny trousers left them much to be desired and compounded inside the school of design and arts.

about my childhood
and left me naked on my bed

twitter won't stop me from this pain
Mortal Kombat doesn't feel the same
my youth, my eyes, my thoughts, my dreams, and my ******* brain
tell me how can one man stay sane?
When they swallowed their imagination
for corporation money
and left us with a staggering minds of a sheep
and a soul that doesn't bleed

thoughts spilled out of my memories
my soul left for dead for centuries
gave myself a long nap
questioning my existence formed gap
wake up wake up wake up

I don't blame myself for my sad existence
beyond the ageing testimony between my childhood and my grave
but yes i buried my youth under the stars
it faded and disappeared with the birds and the flowers of our time
left it in an early morning cartoon show
cat n mouse

pathetic brillance

roller blades and computer rooms
nostalgic backdrop inside my head
crumpled beneath the nights and the sunrise

what a sad way to die?
fap, fap, fap

truth.

social reality-- numbness boyhood dreams
beyond the lost souls dreaming for the highest beam
lost and found? no
life goes on

i have accepted the entire notion that bending words and changing minds are nothing but a futile vision
but still- i keep on writing

embraced the society's expectations
sends me up high into flying
jumps myself towards the lovely skies
of the Manila skyscrapers
forever seeking the love and admiration
of my fellow humankind
but still- i keep on writing

at this point my creativity is dead and my lifeless words and institutional mind was absorbed by the validity of my pride and the people around me
but still- i keep on writing

broken poetry and helpless memory
formed myself into tripping and falling
in the pit of empty words and nonsensical jumble
of letters deemed and formed as a poem
but still

I still keep on writing.