Pencil scratching words out
Silence
The sound of paper and lead connecting
Rustling
Frustration, not meaning what you write
Eraser comes out
The crumbler of words
Rubs across the unwanted
And now unsaid
Words that don’t let you speak your mind
Wipe the crumbled words away
Let them fly off the table
Land on the ground
Begin an adventure
That only crumbled words can
Rolling out into
Toiaywahds
Shifting
Changing
Fitting
Into what it means
What do I say
The crumbled words representing
Things you would never dare admit
imssoiuy
liveoouy
Unscrambling
Rearranging
Letting themselves free
I miss you
I love you
Brushing those haunting
Impacting, changing words away
Keeping yourself
Alone
Safe
lonely

It comes naturally
to write down my thoughts
Even in the worst situations,
When my mind is in knots

No one to share with
Except the pencil and paper
My notebooks and notepads
Stacked as high as a skyscraper

Writers are the loneliest of people
Or so, I’ve been told
I believe the lonelier one is,
the more pens one holds

I'm a pretty big pencil
And when the smaller pencils talk about me
I become dull
When I get dull I become depressed
I shave off some layers to get smaller
They still pick
I shave some more
I shave and shave until I'm smaller than them
I wish I was bigger but I can't be so I shave more
Now I am so small no one can see me
I am alone

Ang katotohana'y di ko batid kung paano ko susugatan itong papel
Kung aling sandata ba ang gagamitin, itong punyal ba o kaya'y baril
Mithi kong bawat panitik na bibitawa'y mapatakan ko ng sariling dugo
Dahil bawat papel na masusugata'y tiyak unti-unting hihilum sa puso kong bigo

Ang bawat isasalaysay ng taong malapit na sa kanyang dapit-hapon
Dadamhin alaala ng lumipas, na para lang itong naganap kahapon
Umaasang maaklat ninyo ang aral na nais ihatid
Pulutin ninyo ang ginto, ang bato'y iwanan sa sahig

Maraming salamat kung sakali mang makikilangoy kayo sa aking ilog
Kulay pula man ito'y lilikhain ko itong may kalakip na pag-irog
Mula sa susugatan kong papel magaganap ang lahat
Lapis na punyal at baril ko'y nakahanda nang gumawa ng aklat....



04-10-15

mysterious_aries

You ask me what a true poet is
Do you know what I think?
There´s more to a poet
Than their tears and their ink

There is hope on that paper
With dreams in each word
You love then you hate her
Some letters are blurred

There is passion, there´s comfort
A moment preserved in time
Piece of a heart, piece of a soul
Between every line
All of the thoughts that can´t be defined

There is confusion and tension
Happy and fearful days
Not just paper and pencil
But a whole life on that page

There´s sadness, there´s strength
You live and you die
A poet feels content
But then the ink starts to dry

________

I have a knife
It can sculpt death
Can slash a pulse
Can slit a neck

I have a knife
It can score an anger
Can bring life a real danger
Can cause cursed that stays forever

I have a knife
It can curve peace
Can tear an anger
Can split a fear

I have a knife
It can draw love
Can mark caress in the blood
Can blade hate into a hug

I have a knife
It has an eraser
It can write an emotion to feel
For my knife .... was a pencil...


Written: August 2, 2014 @ 9:00 am

Mysterious Aries

With the one pen and pencil
I can draw my way to a better life
Or rewrite my whole destiny
I can go on adventures
Or have a steamy romance
I can let go
I can be free.
Even though my
Freedom is short lived
I can create myself
Into a better human

I used to think
the heart was only a piece of
paper.
What else?
While you go through the motions,
he and him leave pencil marks.
Scrawls and doodles, just
hasty mutterings in the marginalia.
You know,
those little hearts with
those little initials
you find in little girls' maths books?
Your eyes don't stray from these scribbles,
ever, no, never,
but
you vow to yourself that one day there'll be
ink
scrawled across that paper.
Black or blue
heart-stamp.
Vivid.
And nothing else would matter anymore.

What the fairytale should really say is
once upon a day
he'll walk in and grab that sheet of
paper.
It'll disappear into his coat pocket forever.
And you won't even know it
until
that paper will crumple,
black and blue, black and blue,
out, out, out of his coat
that he's left behind in the closet.

A souvenir,
a lost cause.

That is your heart,
that is your heart.