My old friend, you've done it again.

You turn the lights out when I can finally see,
You stain my fingers with ink you use to write me letters so cruel,
You scream at me deafening words of hatred,
You let tears flow from my eyes without a sense of pity,
You point out my wrongs the way you like to pick the prettiest flowers,
You push me into the smouldering flames then you're in awe of the way I glow,
You slit me with a blade and watch the blood flow, you say it's as beautiful as waves dancing.  
And you do it, over and over again.

Believe me, I wish I could let you go.

I try to run away in the dead of night
To get rid of you, to forget you

You never seem to leave.
You follow me like shadows on asphalt,
You leave your traces in my favorite blouses,
You vandalize my bedroom walls,
You lurk in the corners I confine myself to,
You're in each window I pass by,
You hide under the sheets I sleep in,
Your sobs echo through my ears in the middle of the night,
You're in the mirrors I look away from,
You're in me.

You are me.

I walked through avenues
Finding a quiet place
As the weather disappointed
Rain gets me down sometimes.

And somewhere, you sat all alone
Coffee and ash trays and months old issues
Of the New York Times.
New York City, the mess you were hopelessly in love with.

I dropped loose change
You helped me pick up every coin
And I was taken by surprise.
I was wise,
Wise enough to know not to speak to strangers
But I couldn’t help and dive
Into the thrill of your danger.

All it took was a single glance
You reeled me in, and then there I was
Seated in front of you, my coffee becoming cold
As I listened to your strange, revolutionary thoughts

And I was young, devil-may-care
You were charming, disillusioned.
But the pieces of the puzzle of you and me
Slowly turned out to fit together
Once the hours passed and we watched the sun set for the first time.

Then this went on for days, an unspoken agreement
Like a connivance between secret lovers.
Each day we sat in that same, dim corner
You showed me your little journal, photos
Of the foreign lands you once wandered,
Even taught me I could dream big things for myself.

And again and again, we watched the clouds move and the stars swirl
Through foggy glass windows.
We never left that dying coffee shop
Because you and I lit it up
With the way we were so curious, so eager
To listen to each other.

Leaves turned golden, snowstorms came, and flowers bloomed
Yet there we spoke, on and on
Until we unmasked each other,
Painfully honest. Truthfully beautiful.

Darling, does anyone ever tell you how lovely you are?

Then one day, I came in a summer dress
The cafe seemed darker than ever
And I was left with the ghost of you
Hunched over your cup of coffee,
Waiting for me so you could tell your stories.

A teller of tales gone astray. A lonely spectator.

And now, you are but a story too.
The most beautiful kind.
Would you send me a post card sometime?

i cut my hair to my shoulders
and things began to change
i thought that i looked much better
but everything turned strange

if i had kept my hair so long
would things all be the same?
would my long locks have saved it all
or am i the one to blame?

I found you in the rising sun
As your light poured into the hollow cracks of who I was

I found you in the warmth of the fireside
As you slowly took away the aching chill of the cold

I found you in the birds that flew through the clouds
As your freedom took me on your wings and showed me new sights

I found you in the waves that slid through the shore and pulled back
As you made all the sorrow flow away so quietly

I found you in the trains that sped by so quickly
As times of happiness rushed by whenever you were around

I found you in the stars that twinkled above me
As you showed me that in darkness, there is still light to be seen

I find you in the most beautiful of places
And I hope that somehow, you find me too

the world turns quickly;
you and i are on different highways,
you are meant to be on silver screens
and i am meant to live normally, never to be seen

i could keep falling for your eyes,
i could keep admiring your pretty soul,
but this is the truth,
hidden in between the lines of my longing:
*i can't love you forever
but i'm going to love you for a long time

I look to you
And suddenly flowers grow in strange places—
Between alley ways, on top of jukeboxes, in my heart.
I could never forget the fragrance of your youth,
Seemingly arrogant without ever meaning to,
You spring out of confidence I would not blame you for having.

And you bloom so beautifully,
All the vines grow quickly just to be where you are,
And the sun comes out at dawn just to see you.

some barber once told me
i was too fat for my own good
and little me was heartbroken
his harsh words weren't understood

because i was okay when i looked in the mirror
and mom and dad loved me so
but when the barber blabbed on and on
i knew the chubby arms and legs had to go

and so i felt bad for years
until one day i suddenly thought:
i don't even go to that barber's barber shop!
i don't need to worry about the things i'm not!

to the brilliant minds of the warehouse
who embraced all oddities
in painted nails and tattoos,
whose hands worked wonders
and made masterpieces,
who loved the world
and spoke up
in technicolor and loud sounds...

you will always blaze brighter
than the fires that took you

i'll leave
                        pieces of
                                                           my
love                                                                               everywhere
                                                                ­                                                    like
                                                            peta­ls
            in                                                  ­                the                 wind
                            and                    i        ­                                                         hope
you              find                                        the­m                        and                
                  kn­ow                                   i                   wait                        
                                                    for you.

of all the lives i could have lived,
i am glad i happen
to be in the same lifetime as yours.

but again here comes the world,
with all its silly ironies—
its vastness that sets people apart
miles and miles;
our paths crossing
is quite out of the picture.

i know this.
you don't.
i think of you.
you don't.

but why do i keep waiting for you
as if i'd suddenly find you outside,
standing by my door
and waiting for me too?

You were the sun, I was a flower
I looked up to you to learn, you set me free to bud
You kept me warm through windy spring nights
You taught me to grow through golden leaves falling
After storms, you crept from behind the clouds to help me dry
When snow fell, I was buried beneath the ice and you brought me back again
But once the summer came, you blazed so bright I couldn’t see

The sweltering sun, my sweet sun
I took your light, your love, and I blossomed
Then I grew, only to realize you would always be far up there
I took too much and waited, wilted and grey in the end.

it's a pleasure to see
the way you move
when your bones can't settle
because running through them
is the pulse of music, the dance of life
it's a pleasure to watch you
lose yourself in what you love
to see you know the words to every song
and be so nonchalant
as if you don't hold all the magic in the world
it's a pleasure to see you be passionate
when the fire burns in your soul
and you are starry-eyed all of a sudden
as you speak about what you love,
and you climb every mountain
to do what you find comfort in
it's a pleasure to feel the way you love
your heart is open in every edge
and you would give it to anyone if you could

it's a pleasure to see you be
for you are a wonder in every sense

i could love the world
and all its places
i could kiss the skies
and nature's different faces

i could fall in love with people
and the little things they do
i would give my heart to anyone
and even strangers too

i could love the sounds of life
and the songs of the sea
i sing to the night's silence
and the beats of the city

but i am quite worried
aside from fondness and such,
that perhaps nobody
could love me as much.

this life tells me i have never known you before,
but your face is already an image i have seen,
your voice is a resounding song in my head,
your speech and your thoughts feel so familiar
as if i have already spent time talking to you
until the wee hours of the morning,
and our thoughts seem to connect and weave into fabric
as warm as the blankets that cover me at night.

it is strange, isn't it?
the way a stranger could feel so familiar?
i do not know why,
but i believe that we have met at some point in the past,
perhaps we already knew each other
when we were living previous lives
we cannot call ours at present.

but whether it is fate or coincidence,
i am glad our paths have crossed again.

at times, i wish i hadn't learned to love so much.

there is always a lingering weight in my chest;
my heart, already fragile enough,
fights to carry it through every waking moment.

hellos are my favorite things, but they're merely precursors
to the poison of goodbyes, to the sickness of loneliness
and the yearning to be elsewhere
in other places, with certain people.  

tears fall as quickly as grins go from ear to ear,
roaring laughter easily fades into deafening silence,
and this wishy-washy soul is one i could never get a hold of.

but what would i be without love,
without the burden of feeling?
what would i be without the days spent day dreaming,
the moments i run out of breath
from gushing about people and moments,
the nights spent crying all alone,
and being vulnerable to the world,
but feeling the best of it anyway?

i love, but i hurt.
i hurt, but i love.
and that is all that matters.

i wish my love was enough
to pay the sea so its waves
could take me to where you are
i wish my love was strong enough
to move mountains and planets
to make our universes align
i wish i could love you enough
to end the growing miles between us

i've always wondered:
how did a pretty soul like yours
grow in the confines of concrete walls?
are you sure you did not grow
under the kind light of the sun,
amidst fields in the breeze?
are you sure you did not grow
among the sea under blue skies?
are you sure you grew up
being mistreated for the way you looked?
are you sure you spent your youth,
working all too hard from dusk to dawn?
are you sure you were not trampled on
by the world and all its cheaters?

how could you, such a pretty soul,
have grown with all you have endured?

i want to know you enough
to know how you like your coffee
i want to see you enough
to watch your face light up at the little things
i want to hear you enough
to listen to the words you'd say when nobody's around
i  want to feel you enough
to know how it is to intertwine my fingers in yours
i want to be around you enough
to understand your being, so beautiful and complex

but as silly as it is,
although we're lifetimes apart,
i still seem to find you everywhere:
in sunsets, in flower beds, in the rain,
in the things i love
for you make me feel the same way they do—
yet this isn't quite enough.

seventeen should be the age of learning and falling in love
but here we have a boy
whose life was taken
whose call for help was loud with all the might
that the wild heart of a 17 year old could ever have
tama na po!
may test pa po ako bukas!
and these calls ended
in gunshots
in fabrication
in ignorance
as if there had never been anybody like him who dreamt of a tomorrow.

and it is hard to silence anybody who's seventeen and just about to thrive
but here they pinned his wings
shot him dead and cold
never stopping to think that they were not the authors of his story
that they had not one right to end what could have been a beautiful story right there and then,
only a decade and seven.

seventeen should be the age of learning and falling in love
but not anymore;
it is the year he called out for his life
only to have it taken by the hands of the merciless
of those who do not know better—
all his wild dreams ending in silence.

Alone.
By September until who knows when, that is how I will start and end my days.
Calm mornings will no longer begin with the sound of your chatter.
Dead silence will fill the air as I eat my dinner all alone.
Every empty chair will be a reminder that you are not home.
From spending almost every waking hour together, we will only exchange brief messages each day.
Growing up has led us to this—one of you in Manila and the other one in Tokyo.
I’ll feel stuck in the four corners of my little room while you’re both someplace else.
Just the thought of not having both of you around makes me feel like a deer caught in the headlights.
Kisses, embraces, and affectionate teasing only older sisters could ever give will become less frequent…
Loneliness is something I have never known.
Mom and Dad will still be here, but they will be busy too, and I would not want to bother them.
Nothing will fill in the spaces of the house the way they’re occupied while you’re here—
One of you painting in watercolor by the windowsill, the other one listening to music until the wee hours of the morning.
Please always tell me about your day while you’re away, no matter how ordinary or great it may be.
Q¬uiet the noises that will shout in the head of a younger sister who is all alone.
Rise and live the way you have always wanted, but don’t forget about me.
Shine to the world the way you shine in my eyes.
Think of me as I think of you.
Ultimately, all I will do will come down to waiting for you to come back home.
Vinyls we share will rarely spin, the books we borrow from one another will be left to dust on the shelves.
What was once a house filled to the brim with voices and love only sisters could have will feel spacious and empty.
Xylophone clanging and the strumming of the guitar from the childhood we shared will seem so distant, but I will do all I can to make it feel like you are not far away—
Your favorite song will come up on the radio on some nights and I will sing along as we would sing together:
*“Ziggy played guitar, jamming good with Weird and Gilly, and the spiders from Mars….”

he's a heartbreaker with the world at his fingertips,
he glows nonchalantly without trying,
he's devil-may-care, he laughs freely like cherubs
and his life is set out like a map,
the distance between us ever growing

and i am merely another flower in bloom
among a field of daisies,
i walk on pavements with my head down,
so adrift, a deer caught in the headlights,
and i'm always wishing i were somewhere else

but despite the differences of our universes, i wonder,
does he ever get lonely too?
does he still have time to stop and smell the flowers?
is there somebody he can talk to?
and does he think about what it is like
to live an ordinary life like mine?

perhaps on one cloudy day,
by chance, if the universe would allow,
an unlikely exchange could transpire—
he can hide from those flashing lights
and i can run from my worries,
and on a little bench where our disparate worlds will collide,
we can sit together
to simply talk and watch the world go by.

have you ever been brought to tears by a single rose?

i was once given a rose
and when it started to wilt
i cut the flower from the stem
and held it in my hand.

its petals were closing,
longing to hide in a bud,
and like a child searching gardens
i opened the bud, piece by piece,
to discover what it hid beneath the bloom.

i spread the petals and it seemed to never end,
the stamen heart hidden deep inside,
and i began to cry -
these petals were soft as silk,
the pink rose could've sang me with a lullaby,

and i could not believe
that in such a chaotic world, a noisy life
i could still afford to hold something so delicate, so soft
in my own calloused hands.

sometimes your eyes are like planets,
wide and round with wonder.
a look into them shows the worlds that orbit in your mind
and the stars that swirl in your chest.
you're forever as young
as seventeen revolutions around the sun,
but your wonder has already been enough
to send you to the stars.
you've flown lightyears
enough to listen to the echoes
of time and memory contained in space dust,
you've made these sounds your songs.
you've commanded shooting stars
and hung from them,
swinging from tail to tail to get to the moon
and believe me, from my windowsill,
i can see you've made it when your moonlight shines on me.
now that you are up there,
i hope you like the view,
at night, i'll always look outside
just to admire you.

Bit by bit the debris of my being will dilapidate
My arms of cement will be tied and pulled to pieces by ropes
My windows shall be crashed and shattered by the indestructible cranes
The walls that contained the stories I kept will be torn down ceaselessly
The pillars that once made me stand tall will crumble to pieces and dust
My tower will fall apart amongst all the people and placed I've come to love
The ground beneath me will give in as I sink into the hollow Earth to disappear.

And as this may appear as a catastrophe, it most certainly is not.
In fact, it is satisfaction -
Satisfaction for the people
Who ordered for the nuisance I was
To be taken down and demolished for their own reasons.

Kisses between conversations,
Red roses and dark chocolate,
Beautiful gowns and flashing lights,
Fierce, wild, reckless love,
This was their life.

Residing in the sleepless city,
Showered with money, fame, and splendour:
The golden boy and the magical girl.
They had it all, they did,
Youth and life to them was forever.

Yet on one silent morning
As the sun rose,
They staggered home, slightly drunk,
Coming from some grand party in Long Island.

They look outside to the sea of buildings.
She pointed out the newspaper vendor below,
He pointed out the lady sweeping the street,
They watched a little happy family stroll along the sidewalk.

Then together, they asked themselves silently:
*What now?

i once tried to catch a shooting star
i saw it from afar as it came closer,
i prepared to jump and catch it with all my might
and i was too late:
i held on to its tail
and i wasn't strong enough,
it slipped from my fingertips
like a dream that ends at dawn

and that's when i realized:
some dreams just aren't meant to be—
but that's no reason to stop me
from waiting for other shooting stars to pass by

here we are,
i've found the center of the universe—
it is when you are beside me and suddenly
all the planets in their orbits are disrupted,
they run in circles the way my mind does
whenever you come around.
the trees dance and sway
to the rhythm of your hands,
for you are their favorite musician.
suddenly all the world's gardens bloom
in my heart, there is a flowerbed on which
you are invited to rest—
come here, be with me.
the sun's warmth transfers itself
into the adjacent stars below
your forehead
upon which the moon plants a kiss every night,
because it loves you so.
and the wild seas would never dare
to bring tears of salt into your eyes,
the darkest storms would never dare to steal your light,
and here i am,
looking at you,
peering at you curiously,
feeling as if
i could travel every corner of the world.
now, will you please continue to map
the way to you for me?
let me know, and i will follow.

Naive boy of summer,
you are golden—
your hands have reached places
I could never begin to imagine,
the world is handed to you
so you toss it and turn it
without ever meaning to hurt anybody.
You’ve got kingdoms at your feet
and your name is sung like a tender praise,
a sweet taste in the mouths of boys and girl alike,
that is how you are loved so.

The world has hurt you,
and still the light in your eyes has never gone out—
a light that is enough to illuminate the darkest cities.
You live as if you have never been
wounded,
broken,
bruised.
You walk into a room
so nonchalantly, with a smile on your face
and suddenly there is a change of pulse;
a kind regard for everyone you come across shines through
that people would just love to be around you.
Without ever meaning to,
You have us wide-eyed,
in awe of who you are
and one could only dream to have their own time with you.

Yet here you are, in the night,
hanging by a thread,
you seek momentary bliss from a cigarette under the bridge
or from the bottom of a bottle;
in your beauty and stupor
you call this being alive.

And in your pain, in your adventure, in your life,
you have learned so well to love,
your heart has only grown so big
it takes all the joys and pain it can take...
but silly boy,
have you ever learned to love yourself?

this house we built out of love
has fallen under the weight
of needing each other
with the miles and oceans
that separate us.
our bones are breaking
and we are drowning
in the dirt
in the rubble of our memories,
the smoke chokes us
and we cannot breathe.

the weight in my chest
tell me that i simply want to be
where you are.

i'm sorry i look at you in disgust,
i'm sorry i hate you
even when you fight
so your bones don't break
under the burden of my being,
i'm sorry i'm always wishing
i were in some other body,
i'm sorry i neglect you
and think you're not enough,
i'm sorry i've bruised and scarred
what once used to be your pristine skin,
i'm sorry i tell you
you are not worthy and beautiful enough

i'm sorry i can't learn to love you
when you're all i'll ever have

it's all okay,
it's all alright,
finally.

things get weird,
it gets bad,
suddenly.

there's no reason why,
things get me down,
quickly.

i don't know,
i don't understand,
how this goes.

things get better,
then they fall apart for no reason,
and it all goes to ****.

I hear your lyre cries
I hear your grief and sorrow
I hear your love for me.

You refuse to listen as they tell you
That I am too far beneath the surface
Trapped in the clutches of death's flames.

My beautiful minstrel, no longer incandescent
Do you think Apollo would be proud of what you've come to?
You roam around with your lyre of gold,
Yet you have killed your flame for love lost.

I miss the way you enchanted all of Greece with your melodies
You now make the gods and goddesses weep in pity;
You make the flowers wilt and die of sadness,
You make even the sirens wail of broken heartedness as
they drive away the sailors who were once enchanted by them.

Do you see the beautiful might of the songs you sing?

O Orpheus, listen to me when I tell you to stop searching for me:
Do not enter the caves and traverse the darkness once more
A darkness you are not meant to be in,
Darkness you are too precious for.

I hear your lyre cries
I hear your grief and sorrow
I hear your love for me
And I am sorry I could not come back with you...

But listen now, my love
Although you long for me still
I am now the only thing in your world
That your music cannot bring back to life.

sit down and listen to the sounds of the world.

the gun shots and explosions echo through continents
and you hear the pleas of the hurt and murdered.
the night's music fades to white noise and screams in the ears of men who loved men,
the black woman is trapped in the passenger seat after watching her black lover get shot by a cop for a headlight,
a thousand muslims are hurt and killed in the midst of a holy celebration,
young boys and girls no longer laugh but cry in desperation.

people are killing in the name of faith, and color, and love they deem wrong,
the body count gets higher and higher
as the tears cried and the blood shed
form a well the world is drowning in.

the sweet smell of life turns to death and grieving,
and in times like these, we stand for the threatened, we heal the hurt and broken.

with your voice, tell stories of the murdered and their kind that show they're human too.
with your arms, fight for rights and understanding the oppressed deserve.
with your hands, help and guide the ones who are now afraid.
and with your heart, love radically
until love is enough to put the pieces of this world back together.

silly me, i've been watching sunsets all alone
silly me, i feel displacement in a place i'm supposed to call home
silly me, i don't take those happy pills every night
silly me, i feel empty inside
silly me, all i think about are people and places far away
silly me, i thought i was already alright
silly me, i lost the rhythm of life again

Get tired of me like it always goes.
Tired of me and my ways
Of pretending you truly care for
Me, me, the one who's too dull, too plain for anyone
Like a faded dream, a dead star.
It always happens, these words and stories don't matter to anyone.
Always just wishing for more, and all I'll never have
Goes past me as a reminder that I am not enough.

The flying colors struggle to break free
But they're caged in my body because my mind tells them that
They'll only be seen as black and white
In this world painted by other artists
With better shades, different hues
The most fierce of red and enchanting of blues

And what am I to them?

I'm merely faded greens, dying yellows
The color of flowers that die come winter
Colors used and blended a million times over.

Because I was once a color that was never quite right
And I changed myself, mixed myself up
I threw myself around palettes like I was worth nothing
And now I don't know what I am.

i. he is a dancer,
he moves with such grace
he's spent his youth
dancing in front of mirrors,
he knows the way his body moves
as much as he is sure of himself

ii. he is starlight
he has seen the cosmos
and through his smile
he shares the wonders of the world
i could never see for myself

iii. he is a gentleman
he regards everyone sincerely
chivalrous in his beauty,
he walks with kindness
and acts with heart

iv. he is a storyteller
after his past of good and bad,
he is what he says
words stream from his mind
like rain drops on windows
he speaks with purpose
without ever intending to hurt anyone
but only wanting to love

v. he is my lionheart,
he braves the flashing lights
he does not mind being himself
raw and out in the open
he carries his books around
and can be silly without a care

vi. he is a wonder
shining among the chaos of his world,
and even king midas could not
conjure a heart as golden as his.

I’m sorry you’re the sun, moon, and stars up so high
When I’m not a single sparkle in your night sky

I’m sorry I’d drown for you in an infinity of blue
When you’d watch me as if it was a spectacle so new

I’m sorry you blossom into my life like spring
When I ache because of the bitter cold your winter brings

I’m sorry you’re a masterpiece of things so bright
Because for you, I’d give up colours and see black and white

I’m sorry I let you take me with the song that you sing
When I’m haunted by the bittersweet tune that you bring

I’m sorry I wish I cared less the way you always do
And I’m sorry I can’t because of the curse that is you

sing to me the harmonies
of your resounding truth

teach me how to live with the light
of your heliocentric life

mend my messy human heart with
your strong yet gentle hands

show me how to fight like a god
with your bow of silver

strum me the way you play your golden lyre
on starlit evenings by the sea

let me kneel before you and worship you
in the ruins of your temple

and every morning
when your trot along the clouds on your chariot
to bring the sun across the sky
look down and find me,

and know that i will be waiting.

trained to protect
armed in heart
dressed in courage
camouflage clothes
brave hearts
murdered unjustly
brave hearts
who were put down
by the gunmen
brave hearts
caught in the web of conflict
when they were the fearless
who only wanted
to keep us safe

i've always had a hard time loving myself
i guess it started with the way adults used to tease me about my chubbiness
and how sensitive i was as a child

after all, i've always had traits i never liked
chubby arms and thighs, a button nose
a mole on my right cheek, a sensitive heart
a wishy washy soul
i can't even draw

then one day,
i thought about how my skin healed after i burnt it really bad from hot water
and how my body kept me warm in the Tokyo breeze late at night in the spring weather
and how i've used these very hands writing this to wipe all my tears

and how my heart, in all its fragility
still fights on and loves
despite all the pains i've felt

and so i realized:
*if this very body of mine can love my soul
and fight to keep me alive and alright,
then it is only right that i love it and accept it

do you ever wonder how many stars there are
do you try to count the hair on your head
will we ever know why people stop falling in love
what happened to amelia earhart
what lies in the bottom of the ocean
was atlantis ever real
is there life on the moon

perhaps we'll never know,
but i believe that if anyone could find the answers
it would most definitely be you.

these good days never end with a spark like they start
what was once resounding laughter fades into hushed tones
favorite crass comments said as jests are forgotten
endless conversations diminish to hazy thoughts left unsaid
different hands that fit together forget one another's touch
and these days disappear like the moon does at dawn

these good days never end with a spark - they dwindle slowly
but at least there is time for one to wave goodbye to them

It comes in waves
From the shore, your eyes look heavenward
The wind blows through the hollowness
The water comes in, creeping between your toes
As you don't know what is to come.

It comes in waves
At times, it is calm, cloudy skies and the breeze anew
Wisps of foam form the prettiest of shapes
The ocean is a calm mirror, reflecting the universe
It is silent, all is alright.

It comes in waves
The currents get stronger at times
The sunlight burns your skin so slightly
You move left and right, struggling to stand still
But it's enough to get by...

But the waters are unpredictable.

It comes in waves
Suddenly, huge tides arise
Colossal monsters of blue gliding towards you

You did not see them coming.

Your feet are buried beneath the dense sand
The day is darkness so sudden, no salvation in sight
You try to run, but instead you are fallen
Watching the tidal waves topple over you,
Consuming you,
Suffocating you,
Drowning you.

And there's no escaping.

how could all these masters
of art and vision
of poetry and of prose
of love and of passion
of life and of death
create so seamlessly,
create things that matter to others?
how could they have ideas
streaming from their minds,
and translated into beautiful things
that need not ask to be noticed?
i'd like to think it was because
they worked with heart
but why is it that even if my heart is screams
with all the things i want to share
i try to paint
i try to sketch
to write
to sing little songs
they never come out quite right
or matter to anyone else?
why is it that my heart
with all its storms and whirlwinds
never seems to be enough
to create something beautiful?

i feel the size of my heart
growing bigger and bigger
yet i feel still feel so small
in this sea of people
in this world
with trees as tall as buildings
and people as lovely as the rain

how did you do it?

how did you catch her eye
when she was too shy to even lift her head
to look at the world around her?

how did you get to know her,
how did you get to learn of the little things about her,
when she barely speaks of herself?

how did you break into her little heart,
when she built walls around it
because she never felt pretty enough?

how did you change her mind
to stop believing that life is not meant
to be lived in your own,
when she had always been content with being alone?

how did you get her,
a lonely, solitary soul
only in love with books and dances,
to fall in love with you
as you did with her?

it's strange—
on some nights,
i lie down on my bed
in the evening heat only Manila could give,
i feel like my soul drifts from
this body i could never love,
it decides to leave and venture off elsewhere
because i'm always just wishing i were somewhere else

then suddenly, i feel the weight of my bones again
i'm back in my bedroom,
and my body is sinking into the mattress
because when i realize i'm still where i am,
i want to disappear instead

he's got slits for eyes,
they wander about, in search for something
to satiate his bustling curiosity.

he's got a thirst for life,
he is attracted to painted alleyways,
he listens keenly to anyone who speaks in the hopes of gathering a story to tell.

he's constantly moving around, speaking in tongues,
his breath smells like summer, his eyelids are heavy ,
his hands are ink stained and he is desperate to create.

and i'm not one to draw or paint; but to me,
there is artistry in the swing of his hands,
there is poetry in his stride, his kindness, in his mousy speech,
there is a story in his sunlit bedroom, his drafts and scribbles,
the type of spectacle worth capturing in a photograph.

his art is merely a reflection
of the beauty contained in his being.