the night is dark and cold,
only the neon moon exists up above,
it was heavy, a goodbye was told
my heart cracks up and bleeds with love
I pray to heavens for these smithereens,
I am young and I don't long for what could have been's,
I may hit rock bottom but I will preen
these smithereens of an old soul,
so that when the right man who is unforeseen,
arrives to hold my preened heart made whole.

IA

this is a poem of treasured nostalgia;
when Fate wrote what we were supposed to be,
there was rain pouring down hard
two young souls slow dancing in the dark,
his eyes was a mesmerizing art,
his arms were my home, his hand was my guide,
gently tugging me along with my heart
held upon by his other hand,
I held on tightly, enthralled
and yet I breathe exhausted.
I could only last for so long until I ask for my heart back,
all the love for myself drains, running my soul into a drag race
"Where are we heading?" I asked, we're all heading to finish line
"What then if we do?" I asked, and I answered before he could,
we both loved, both break, both hurt, and both end by then,
the scenery blurs,
the time slows down
my breathing begins to even,
our hands so tightly clasped loosened,
I took my heart with grief, anxiety, and fear
even before I could know what the finish line could be.

IA

we live in a phase to be written down in history,
where people needed humanity;
the eyes to see,
the ears to listen,
the mind to think,
the lips to encourage,
the hand to kindly give,
and the heart to burst with love.
where people take lesser things for granted;
a soul tap with nature,
a coffee with a good friend,
an affection from a loved one,
a moment that easily passes by if not lived.

bittersweet neoteric epiphanies,
gliding through my skin like a cold sheet of memories,
as fond as it is for my isolated soul,
they felt so new, so raw, that I hope on the aftermath
pride and prejudice steps aside for humanity to make us whole.

IA

never spit and dance
on the graveyard of a sheep,
who knows if it is an old clothing
of a wolf on watch.

IA

the rain pours outside
as I watch by my window,
stuck in chaos' calm.

IA

it is never too human to love,
for it is beyond human to let love
conquer the unconquerable things.

IA

beautiful, fleeting beginnings
collide two restless souls
to strip naked before each other,
****** manifests imperfection,
they were clothed with love
and when the time pass and it wears off,
two naked souls pick up its own clothes,
and unknowingly return to strangers.

IA

peace exists only until
you destroy its walls,
your words bled its ears,
you suffocate it with love,
you dim the light of hope,
you wreak havoc in its home,
and left like a prideful coward,
just when the beast in slumber awakens.

IA

whoever prescribed love
as a medication for wounds,
did not know unfulfilled quantity
needs an antidote difficult to find.

IA

it aches when a void remains unfilled,
but not more than having it filled temporarily,
and left again as to how it used to.

like a puzzle piece creates a picture,
but the Universe says, "something better's coming"
and it was a carousel that never ends.

let the heart holes be left untouched,
and we produce technicolor tears,
of hues that attempt to convey a motion picture
of chaotic human emotion.

IA

what I used to love,
but now wince at the mere sound,
mere sight, and mere thought of it.

IA

my nails dug through my skin,
clutching humanity,
saving myself from scarcity,
the deeper, the better and I started bleeding.

put on a sleek black dress,
in romanticized grief, I don't long to impress,
black is death, black is elegance,
I long to feel solace and trance.

might I be visiting a dead loved one,
yet my own name was etched on the tombstone,
my soul weeps for what a river nor ocean
of human tears could have poured out and done.

IA

it is a curse to remember,
and feel nostalgic
of a forgotten era,
when memories and reality
are complete opposites.

IA

all it took was one song
for the ground to open up
and swallow me viciously
into a memory lane of love.

IA

my heart weighs
with both heaviness and emptiness,
trying to beat to its regular rhythm,
to find clarity and reason

filled with the urge to write,
catalyzed by the chaos of emotion,
I lay sleepless with my thoughts,
in an attempt to fill in the silent voids.

IA

people possess three things in life:
a shield, a heart, and a dagger

a shield for the logic,
a heart for the soul,
a dagger forged by the strength of emotion,
unbeknownst to many about its origin.

people used these three things,
a dagger to protect oneself from this cruel world,
a heart to beat its rhythm of existence,
and a shield to ward off the weapon from wounding and distorting a heart.

why do we need a dagger?
it takes two to tango,
it takes chaos to begin chaos.

people wander relentlessly,
breathing, and existing and loving,
until a dagger pierces through,
leaving an open wound,
and a weapon sharpened.

little do we know,
the closer the proximity,
the more ideal love gets,
the lesser we see it coming,
the lesser we forget,
a shield is used to protect a soft, beating creature.

from an open wound,
and sharp weapon,
the cycle of chaos arise,
few people heal,
multifolds stab another heart,
"perhaps there will always be another heart to break."

one polished its shield very well;
the logic and knowledge
choked a heart to non-existence,
there was nothing left to stab,
there was nothing left to feel.

one stood with a wooden shield,
a state of balance within,
of calm and chaos and fear
to wound and lose its heart,
and be forced to survive with a dagger.

the pandemic goes on,
perhaps only until the daggers cease to exist,
soft creatures cannot battle with a heartless one,
it can only tame a while, until it becomes distorted and heartless too.

the pandemic weakens
when a wounded heart heals,
not because of the shield,
not because of time itself,
but because it's a wonder: some hearts can never be irreparably broken.

IA

A quaintrelle's heart is precious,
Even more so when it pursues
Not a man to love her, but her own growth.

Passion was its heartbeat,
Enclosed in a rib cage made of forged knives
so that a real man should struggle before it.

For a woman who knows her worth and beauty,
knows well that no one could be irreparably broken
Even when she ironically used forged knives to protect her scars.

IA

They don't exist unless you let them to.

No farewells, no closure, nothing to ease the pain when it all fell apart
I stood idly in the nowhere, the numbness engulfing me
A thousand pieces collapse within, but a glamour of a whole
is what all the eyes clothed with judgment and pain see.

I have healed, but my demons don't want me to...
They scream your name and all the injustice and regrets and losses
Befriend them, Co-exist with them, until you fully Tame them
but there's a reason why beasts are caged.

Take away its old identity,
Give it time and restriction if that is for the greater good,
But in no time, they would wreak havoc and seek chaos,
Before your eyes and before your heart.

Driven with madness and pain,
it would shed blood but not of its own,
With its whole, soul-less black eyes, it would look upon you
and say,"I would never have done this if I never lost you this way."

IA

"would the universe fight for our paradoxical hearts?"
You say our hearts could be bulletproof,
You say we're matches lit up, we'll never burn out,
You say we're an abstract art in a canvas painted through,
You say this forever journey of love is the best route,
Yet the paradox exists-- we can never be one.

I wrote about the freefall, your eyes, your smile--
the entirety of your beauty
Looking past but through your heart and soul,
Forging deep blue fear and rosewood love--
Love is a sweet poison until you realize formulating an antidote is difficult,
If the paradox of fear twins up with hatred, why do we love?

Two hearts beating,
with the effort of trying to be at the same rhythm,
Missing a whole note, taking a quarter rest
when the slicing pain of sweet poison takes on--
of fear, of misunderstanding, of jealousy, of the sad hypothetical truth that I may never be able to love,
And when the rhythm falls out of tune, the pianist stops playing.

It's a paradox of self-medicating oneself through love,
And yet fearing the downfalls, the heartbreak,
The absolute uncertainty that our hearts, might yet be penetrating bullets from the other
We're matches lit up, blown by the wind of cruel fate,
"we're all born to love, and cursed to feel", it whispered, burning out the flame between us,
We're an abstract art meant to be understood by the best of artists, even yet like Picasso
But we're only colors dripping out of a canvas, with shades of memories left behind,
It's a paradox I loved you when I don't even know what love is,
It's a paradox you were my universe, when it felt like a mesmerizing black hole--
exhibiting a gravitational acceleration that nothing, nor I would have wanted to escape it
It's a paradox we believed this was the best route,
When we've reached this tragic end, only to realize we're meant to come home to ourselves.

IA