i love sunday
gotta love sunday
just love the sun
and the day
but nothing comes between sunny day
or sundae? am i right?
i can rest in peace
and my hands with ease
because today is sunday
today's the day
sunday it is. rest day today.
tomorrow should be sunday.
but that means today is not sunday.
so what would rather sunday be?
if sunday isn't the day of today?
so rest your mind
and touch the sky
because today's sunday.

the road took me to places
unending boundaries and beautiful faces
passing by as the time fleets on its own continuum


the road took me to places
everlasting gratitude and ******* annoying attitude
- of all those disdained people in my life

the road took me to places
with my wallet and my car
i drove and rode throughout the land
cities spit on me, trees bowed down to me, and the pavement welcomed me

the road took me to places
too much grilled chicken and not enough beer and cigarettes
too much thought and not enough vacancy
too much sauce and not enough rumors
too much Instagram and not enough sentimentality

the road took me to places
hoping to find myself
in the midst of the madness of this world

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.

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.

underneath the emotions of this room
isolation between pictures and loneliness
resides the table besides the book subsides the cable on my roof

fingers cracking and mouth-watering knee-shattering eye-rolling tendencies of blessed be the bed of dreams- no longer as lasting as it seems

cries of laughter in spontaneous shouts
right now inside this broken house

sliding between the breathing air in cold night's skin and heedless damp steam of clouds floating above the weightless head of shattering of sea of dopamine and warm bed beside the key of your room in abstract seraphim

the room is full of lust and broken poetry
emotional regrets and peaceful insanity;

Oh how sweet November is feeding on my Christmas soul

The bells, the lights, and the smiles all ready to be consumed

The gardens of flowers and the rampant streets passing by in the cold nights of November- how alcohol affects the minds we speak

I found myself in front of the distant stars in a thursday night of reckless daydreaming on how joyful the celebration is

the youth embracement, society faded, and the fuccbois are screaming "long live the alcohol!" and the celebration bleeds out on its own so-

I went outside and saw the girl who might have fixed my world- "How small and joyful world our lives is" I say- and she left with disgust

Oh how sweet November is feeding on my Christmas soul

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

and saw me bathing on her crystal eyes
drenched in November melancholy

the stars exploded in the enigmatic space and time

but then-

the sadness begins to spit on me, I was miles deep in agony

and she left with little to no regret
and turned her back towards the beholden future- I never knew her name

I never saw her again
but that moment she stared at me

I knew I was in peace

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.

a vile sense of self-pity
forever dreading its agony wrestling your conscious
paranoia by the freedom of your thoughts
reverberating towards the ruined prison of your skull
is there a limit?

overreach and and overqualified for the senses
sedation for the numb
halting the feeling
can't break the chains of self-hate
forever must succumb to the white noises
their words touches my skin longer than others
it circulates upon impact
that enters your eyes
washes your mouth
bleeds your nose
but grows your mind tirelessly
it feeds your senses but drains its capacity
your eyes shutter but sees the tragedy
your words batter but freezes the energy
your brain polemic
but your heart - crying for eternity.

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.

there it is, my mom.

a beautiful mermaid.

always saving me in the oceans of sorrow

such a warm embrace in these cold blue waves.

i need help

there's a dream that i cannot seem to reach
a certain disconnect between the imagery and the
strong emotion left behind; i cannot pinpoint
yearning for its feeling, a sentiment hiding in the dark
cold as ice, a small wicked flame resting on its center
there's a dire need for the flame that refuses to fade
my hand reaches for the tangible, it dusts away to the abstract
grasping and holding the darkness of the minute,
blind and directionless, pursuing for that fighting spirit that i cannot see
is the flame still burning?
is the absence of the wicked flame that speaks to the cold?
i cannot answer
what i want to search
i cannot reach
but i shall find it
i do not know what it entails, but i know what it feels
to find a glimpse that completes your soul but is yet
to be answered by your heart alone.

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.

i sail my boat and withdrew my head on the open skies - cloud november of the beating sky - yearning for the next adventure

dreams float away with your skies overhead and the wind touching your skin forever blessing you from the unpurified

i rest my head and my feet as the boat sails for the dawn of the blinding sun. i hope when i wake up these birds are still chirping above my sleep and my mind at ease.

i'll let miracles float into the open seas so by december, I shall not perish but be one with the ocean.

a screen of talking heads
is my only friend

saves me from graces and embarrassment if you will
isolated from all the physicality and strains
of touches and public relations
important meetings and coffees on a sunny day
an obsession if you will, for my friend will never complain
against its will, allures me to seek and swim through its
narrow stretches of darker digital door, spirits abandon
gliding across murky storages and transparent baggages

lifting spirits and chasing cheap highs on low votes
shoes on sale, price tags scratching, screaming numbers
that crunch and crushes, decisions fragments validity
addiction from the punishment, enjoyment from the pains of
indulging, dipping toes to virtual shopping centers,
lively, empty, broken on a promise
Food that delivers, meat that can be eaten, gifts are ready to open
and people that cannot walk, keyboard replaces legs, making waves
paving way on to the next, madly driven beyond comprehension
clicking and pulling, scrolling bars and battery bars. percentage low.

despise it! destroy it! you cannot. A screen is all we have.
screen is all we can.
detach from reality, programmed to serve, slave from the labor
chained to the pleasures. its monotone, monochrome, but never boring.
screens can save lives
not in the way you think.
cures my desire for something human.
sad it may be

cure that actually prevents
loneliness is non-existent.
a screen of talking heads
is i guess my only friend.

i am unclean
i am an abomination to the eyes of the giants

i am filth
swimming in the garbage folds of creased walls and decaying blocks of matter

and endlessly crawling from the shadows of my belittling enemies

yes i am a cockroach

and i will swarm you with my teeth
and grace you with my seed
i will trace my glorious fingers and haunt you in your sleep
your rotting diamond, i will reap
and beautifully walk in the darkness with my feet

i can walk these earths alone and embrace the dark corners of this universe
walk along the soil
planted by your curse
and leave these worthless moguls
as i watch them struggle
with my limitless fugle

i love to take a ****

failed to shoot miserably often times
left stain marks on the seat, previously spotless and clean

the only legacy for my next generation

ur art is the words of the hopeful
basking and bathing in pools of eternal meaningless sundries
thrashing and skulking nailing hammers and throwing axes all over ur skull least of all importances- enter the subconscious, ur mind speak, and ur mouth steep- mountains of hanging ropes and jaded hopes

ur ****** mind convoluted, cracking open that is-

and ripped that fountain of colors and burst that bleeding artistry out like an ultimate tranquil fondue dripping on that empty sockets

might be someday be someone swimming on it.

let's watch stars explode together
and find meaning back and forth
as constellation cries crystals
like glitters in the night
glistening and beaming bright eyes
that prisms back to mine
so
let's throw it back together
and celebrate this feeling
of life without meaning
by looking up the sky
and commit stargazing

ride the waves of the reach in an apocalypse summer

battered down drinking machines and roomy sunny old water bottles

pocketed in isolation and visited by the nuance fallen angels by the deep blue sea

stubborn denizens of the ghost town, coconut trees falling and chanting freedom from the fleshy grasp of the new

trapped in the void by the penal colony

a holiday of a refreshing clinical detention and self-celebration loathing the pouring lights against the window silk, forever embracing the dread of its future, burning clouds seeping through the rooftop shreds

in true irony fashion, an island of a man begets his salvation.

Vile. Directionless. Footsteps-driven.

Street light. Concrete. Clouds in pavement.

Wet. Damp. Soaked. Heavy engagement.

Transparent = (not a) cellophane.

Is the raincoat masking the pain or the pane?

Coffee. Cigarettes. Music = Touche.

Crying. Window. Wistful = Cliche.

Weather = Cool. Barometer = Full. Feeling = Fool.