i'm no angel;
sometimes i lick off love
in the edges of a knife.

i'm no angel;
when midnight strikes,
i've got demons awakened inside me.

i'm no angel;
i have vices and flaws and darkness,
a chaos only i, can romanticize.

i'm no angel;
because i realized the violence in love,
the predicament of my demons,
and the chaos in my soul, deeply carved.

IA

with a sophisticated touch,
a burning wildfire heart,
a chaotic mind unmatched,
she is a strong woman, an art.

and when they ask,
"when strong women are down,
to whom or when do they unmask?"
i'd say they'll weep but never be their own let down.

IA

all my demons have awakened
from such long, deep slumber
like rampant creatures with wounds to mend,
and so i caressed their madness out of grief
inside my soul's dimly lit chamber.

IA

how must i feel when the older i get,
"life is a suffering," is a belief harder to forget,
is this because i've looked in the eyes of death
and found such restful freedom
yet to turn everything i was, i am, and will be
into a mosaic, a picturesque, a fading silhouette.

IA

find yourself in the seams of my musings;
a tale of young love, a tale of sweet tragedy,
a warm hug of belonging, a cold release of parting,
such restless heart wanders, high hopes as remedy.

IA

thousands of colors drip
as memories traverse deep;

i ventured the corner where we used to meet,
in my head, you were more than just black and white
a creature with a beautiful soul, always within sight,
yet the inevitable ending urged me for this lonely visit.

the silence drowned me and i wanted to hear a heartbeat
from where the light glows and your shadow goes,
the battle between how my heart feels and what my mind knows;
i sat down, knowing it requires a mightier feat.

IA

sometimes i still mourn & long
for the language we made for ourselves
but can no longer be spoken.

sincerely, ileana.

i know a tragic poetry;

two souls met and burned together
for each other and for the world,
fate blew the flame and then
they parted as strangers.

IA

i know my grief was born
when i stood before a thousand deaths
of who the people i loved used to be;

i made a home to tuck myself in
within the depths of their souls,
i have memorized the corners of their being;
their stories, their scars, and their dreams.

now all that i have known and loved
lay peacefully under the caskets
in the graveyard of who we used to be,
almost like a shedded skin most prefer to forget.

i walked in this graveyard for months—
weeping in the flowers i leave before them,
until a slender hand laid on my shoulder,
"it's about time." she said softly.

"leave me flowers before you go." i replied.

IA

𝒊𝒕'𝒔 𝒃𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒔𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒖𝒕𝒆𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝑰 𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒎𝒚 𝒘𝒂𝒚
𝒊𝒕 𝒅𝒐𝒆𝒔𝒏'𝒕 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒎𝒚 𝒘𝒉𝒐𝒍𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒍𝒅 𝒉𝒂𝒔 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒅.

she wrote a myriad of poetry
like blood from the wounds
pouring down onto a deep, mystical art

she wrote a myriad of poetry
like she kept her soul in tune
with a thousand words and unfathomed thoughts

she wrote a myriad of poetry
like they were all for the moon;
a midnight composition that often ends in three dots

she wrote a myriad of poetry
like a seamstress who tries to have her heart sewn
from all the inevitable loss and endings that tore her apart.


nonetheless, with tired eyes and hands,
the poet writes, hoping someone would understand.

IA

chaos kissed my soul,
whispering "play with words,
tear apart the whole,
then break your heart,
with your own hands
on the hilt of the sword."

IA ☕

humans are molded with two ears
to hear a story's two sides, to judge without fears
to cut another for the sake of bigotry and injustice;
perhaps to hell do they reside, a conscience without peace.

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

no string is worth cutting
if you could thread through the knot carefully
without dismantling both endings.

IA

my pen was made
to bleed the words of grief;

"there's something so beautiful
and profound in grief
when you start to see it
for what it truly is."

past the barriers
and stretching distance,
i caressed my aching soul;
this grief of mine grew out of love

for grief, in what it truly is,
is a love that endures
and suffers willingly.

IA

sometimes when reality
makes you sad,
the good memories of your past
is enough to make you happy.

IA

sometimes you have to learn
how to fall in love with the unknown.

IA

bedroom curtains drape before the sunrise,
as i long for catharsis and hope, not beautiful lies,
staring from the same corner with tired eyes;
some old wounds demands a grieving visit as time flies.

IA

we're down to the sixth month of twenty-twenty
closing previous chapters, chasing new camaraderie
the chasm and contagious line of diversion keeps worsening
it's alright to wish for new beginnings or a regression to the mean.

have some fearless faith, today is a fresh, blank slate
dare to carve wishes with hope to what is unexpected by fate.

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

poem lines run through my head;
unstructured, barely coherent, contemplative,
they were the words & thoughts left unsaid
this heart bleeds wasted poetries like a thriving captive.

IA

I think it's beautiful to be constantly reminded
that orchestras are composed of diverse instruments
embracing individuality to create a harmony undead,
by the conductor's hands, a music lives, unfolding beautiful sentiments.

IA ☕

where solitude and solace unite,
the painful past is viewed at my hind sight,
for which the present heals, the future becomes more bright
stay here for a while, it's alright to mourn and heal in the night.

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