Organelles, cells, tissues, organs shape my body
My soul, my brain, my heart, my identity
A living mass and a concept ineluctably associated
Without necessarily working adequately together
To build something close to a character
That is, by some, tolerated, by a few, appreciated
Never reaching any sort of unanimity
Leaving the volume of possible interpretations as plenty

Context strictly guides aspects of my behavior
Adding an extra ‘s’ to my idiosyncrasy that primarily seems out of place
When being singular is often what wins the race
Launched by our most ancient ancestor

Am I one or plural?
Do I have one personality or several?
Am I what I think or what I do?
What others see or what I expose?
An ignorant mind with a decent prose
Or a curious man who has no clue?

Asking a question is to get closer to an answer
That might emerge in a distant future
In the meantime, I try to be and do good
To put my loved ones in the best possible mood
Sometimes I succeed, sometimes I fail
But my stubborn intention will always prevail

i’m still heartbroken,
lost without the person i turned to when my world was upside down.
but you proved that you stopped caring,
just like everyone else before you.
i know i am difficult,
a mess that’s so broken you kept getting cut on the pieces.
you promised me you would be there through thick and thin,
but now here i am becoming a narcissist writing about the pain you’ve caused.

The house she grew up in
Is written in her heart
A decaying castle in EDSA
Separated from others
By the torrents of the road

The orange glow of its afternoons
Is the glow of her mind and body
Its rooms replicated in the way she talks
She moves and makes friends

Like the triune God
Which emanates from who?
Theodora or the house?

A pearl encased in a grotesque shell.
An unknown beauty.

With nothing to see and nowhere to be,
With no one to be and nowhere to go:
Empty, like the meaning of the spring dew
Dissipating, hundreds of pieces, scattered
Individual voids waiting upon a cue
To become what they embody, fettered.
A field of unquiet quietness, occasionally
interrupted by a single, awful tone.
What existence is this exigence?
Unknowable, unspeakable, unending:
Pain is what it is.

The dew knows not why it's stepped on,
Ending its momentary nature
Only to crop up tomorrow and be none
The foot becoming again its berater.
And so it goes until the summer,
with the cruel months behind it.
The skull becomes and beckons
Back into nihil.
But there's too many things to see, places to be
Too much to be and too many places to go
For to be one is to be many and the dew tires.

Who knows the way of love & what it holds
It's kinda filled with confusion
Convinced by words, we fall in wholeheartedly
Betrayed by personality, we fall out with a broken soul