#anecdotes
The real tragedy of life is when Light is feared.
Yet, it is a truth for most mediocre and perhaps philosophers;
There will always be solace in the darkness.
The Devil survived heartless tragedies and stories of the past he would perhaps rather forget,
Chained to rule on Hell as his demons struggle to suppress confusions and regrets and losses,
Distorted of his miseries manifested in his dark eyes,
He was once Light, sought after it, but never again.
We all desire darkness to succumb to;
When truths hit our eyes like a blinding light,
When our wounds have grown old but never healed,
When we lose a good part of ourselves over time, and we would rather not resort to Light and see it.
IA
Apr 23, 2020
Apr 23, 2020 at 12:21 PM UTC
The Devil wears a condescending Crown of Aristocracy.
Behind the beauty of the aristocracy he led,
and sometimes romantic and eventful lives he savored,
lies a darker story: a legacy of deception, violence and unrepentant greed.
An aristocrat whose ground are his virtues and talents and pain,
Pouring one mischievous ingredient after the other,
All for a play of exploitation and influence,
The Devil has passion, but barely a soul, thus an erroneous aristocracy he rules over.
He was beautiful and ******
Blemished in earthly pleasures and loss of his prodigious being,
The Devil lacked emotion and acted upon logic until he lost his heart,
His crown was adorned with half lamentation, half echoes of his past, out of dark menaces.
IA
Apr 23, 2020
Apr 23, 2020 at 12:20 PM UTC
Does a Devil ever calm down or it drowns in Iniquity as calm in the chaos?
A paradox it is, for a devil to pet its demons' wickedness,
Yet desires to find calm in the chaos, like heaven in hell.
Countless of unfathomed thoughts lay before me;
Would the Devil's predilection of calm be to reign in power,
or to be finally loved even after he unmask his unforgiving past?
Maybe the Devil tried to unriddle calm just like most humans do.
He would live in a doomed pit where regrets are frozen on loop,
Playing and wreaking havoc before deserving sinners,
To disguise its misery as death grip was self-destruction,
To forget love and vulnerability, was to forget calm and forget to have ever truly lived at all.
IA
Apr 23, 2020
Apr 23, 2020 at 12:19 PM UTC
The Devil himself has a silver lining, just like every cloud does.
He wanders lonely, irrevocably beautiful if not feared for its horns,
As he was cursed to feel, and carry one burden after the other.
His existence envelopes an entirety of chaos,
Forced to contain an immense load of torment,
with which he himself is clouded with paradoxes,
seeking means for balance before he pours it out with thunder.
Sometimes the Sunset skies shove him away,
Independent of its tinged hues and beauty,
Yet when his time comes, he travels through the dark skies,
Scattering the delicate moonlight for those who feel the same way as he does.
IA
Apr 23, 2020
Apr 23, 2020 at 12:17 PM UTC
Four centuries of cursed existence, the Devil awaits to burn itself to death and be reborn from its ashes.
A hundred-fold of memories and relentless lifetimes,
Nothing is too beautiful in immortality unless one takes a break of Death and resurrect itself.
Decades of power, punishment, and misery,
The Devil soars above humanity, luring them into vices
His own self-consciousness could feed the approach of Death,
while the Devil himself starves for something he is not.
The Devil wove a nest of memories and resined it before winter,
He was life on earth, for all the demons escaped hell for it
The Devil was then the predecessor whom a woman loved,
Yet he burned himself and the memories to ashes, in exchange to recreate himself.
IA
Apr 13, 2020
Apr 13, 2020 at 5:16 PM UTC
With months of sailing on a sea of deceit, the Temptress accompanied a Pirate down to an abyss of the dark.
A Temptress who became the temptress and lured itself to heal the wounded eye of a Pirate,
who lost its compass and itself because of love.
"We're sailing for gold and more gold, until we run out of memory chests to place them to," said the Pirate
Falling to its words and deceitful half-patched eye, "All pleasures last so long as we venture what is ahead of us and not look back."
The seagulls squawked, "Abandon the heartless pirate,
Its own heart has long been stolen and never retrieved,
Gold and more gold are to cover up the paths that does only lead
To the Pirate's unrequited love quest, a lasting and soothing resort,
It seeks to feel belong and loved, even made a vow to change henceforth,
It's an endless cruise, down to the abyss of dark
Adrift with a Pirate who had nothing to lose, and a Temptress in pain who may have wished to disembark."
IA
Apr 13, 2020
Apr 13, 2020 at 4:41 PM UTC
Befriend a devil, it would be the unlikely yet best cupcake in your pantry of memories.
Cupcakes are made from scratch, anything that comes in convenient
A devil may be, but they are made from power, vices, and flaws,
and they come in convenient too when you let your demons offer it with a cup of coffee.
A pantry of memories would be boring if you prefer it in monochrome,
Angels with pretentious halos, or Humans with humanity
but then they all left anyway, like how icings are scrumptious
but the cake batter lack one essential ingredient or two.
The devil's cupcake icing would be in dark hues, bittersweet but real
It would have probably lived itself in multiple attempts at life,
Drowning in vices, manipulating people, scarred of flaws, but then again real
Befriend and touch a devil's heart like you would judge the cupcake completely based on the cake itself..
If it is tamed, know that a devil wore power to mask its pains,
If it isn't, feel free to set aside such, along with the Heartless Creatures that grow horns for themselves.
IA
Apr 13, 2020
Apr 13, 2020 at 4:35 PM UTC
Everything we love slips like water.
Love is a fraud, anything that causes unpredictable distortions,
it takes no definite form nor extent, and it slips in our hands no matter how tight we hold onto it.
Like cold water against our bare hands:
it is soothing as if something we want to last the sensation of,
Like the beach waves washing over our feet:
it is euphoric and unforgettable as if we were both meant to find solace in the same places.
Like water that quenches our thirsty souls' dehydration:
it fills up the gaps in our bare beings with something better we never thought we could ever have before,
Like water as the universal solvent:
we either mix and complement each other, or dissolve the good parts left of us when we feel pain.
IA
Apr 13, 2020
Apr 13, 2020 at 4:12 PM UTC
There are two beasts that stood opposite from the other, with a line of silver powder before them.
Behind each, stood countless caressed demons,
Following and succumbing to nothing but to their Alpha alone.
The first has its own well-caged but running out of temper,
While the latter are tamed but enraged in pain from within
"Silver is a fancy thing that bounds us from chaos for the mediocre,"
An eye-catching glimmer came from the one who spoke.
"Boundary itself are constructs that only fuels chaos,
you burn and ache at silver because you think you would,
because you fear it, and so what you think...just happens."
With the last remark, the beast laid its bare skin and walked through the silver powder, "Silver is an armor, solely for those who can endure it."
IA
Apr 13, 2020
Apr 13, 2020 at 3:57 PM UTC
Wrath is an ugly, chaotic beast we often refuse to unleash
It wreaks havoc underneath the devilish horns,
No one could tame it, nor a muleta in the owner's hands
From the depths of ourselves, where it quietly resides in the darkness
It often feeds on the dismantled version of our emotions,
on the distortions love caused about to our hearts,
on the insecurities and bigotries of this cruel world
Wrath chooses who tames it, who soothes its chaos down
It could be the devil's love who brings him back to his senses,
or the undeniable satisfaction of having caused destruction and loss and irrevocable regrets,
We often refuse to unleash the beast, because it often does what cannot be undone.
IA
Apr 6, 2020
Apr 6, 2020 at 12:40 PM UTC
Grandmother had told me tales of the past,
Fairytales that we’ve all heard of,
The maidens in the scullery maid attire,
transforming to the princesses with the
embroidered and jeweled gowns; rivulets of silks and satins,
blue as the sea, greener than the highlands, more purple
then the dusky skylines, a true stamp
of royalty, poise, eloquence, and beauty.
And ensembles topped off with gold
encrusted and amethyst crowns.
Sure, the fairytales were what I lingered
onto during the years of my inexplicitly
innocent childhood, that I wished I still had.
I missed it, the tales, the anecdotes
that shaped my perception on love, hope, and faith,
far off from what I viewed in the looking mirror today.
I missed my grandmother’s hands, brittle and worn,
but kind and warm; I still thought about them
as I cleaned out the attic in which I’d forgotten existed.
And I grew up, my memories of it faded,
now covered in cobwebs and bristling wind
that sent a chill up my spine, but I found
much more than what my memory had allowed me to collect.
Amulets from what I assumed to be my grandmother’s youth
were stowed and tucked away in the alcove of a velvet shelf,
hidden by the splintered of decaying wood.
Next to the swell of the dresser, the door of the
furnishing remained ajar, revealing manila
colored increments of letters, some harbored
by the envelopes, some pierced out in the open.
The edges had crippled away,
flecks falling to the sandalwood bottom.
They were timeless, old, maybe not important,
to the wandering eyes of a stranger.
But to me - they held a mystery
that was waiting to be unraveled.
A story of my grandmother’s life she never shared with me,
just as private as she was open, perhaps I’d find in those envelopes
the same mindset I also had when I was young.
Perhaps she believed and dreamt of fairytales I had once done,
paraded around in the jewels and bangles hidden way,
basked in the ambiance of a sweet love
that was doomed to end in the decay of both parties.
Little figurines of silver and gold were placed under one
of the drawers parked away in the furnishing,
toys form her childhood, weighted by standard and price.
Her words I had adored as a child,
ate them up like sickly syrup and supported
them as if they were undiscovered treasure, but
now I finally got to “see” my grandmother’s
treasures deposited in her attic, the very place she
had hidden the most interesting stories that she
left for me to discover after she left.
Dec 12, 2018
Dec 12, 2018 at 9:26 PM UTC
Life can be strange, sometimes
One way or another
It makes no sense, yet it rhymes
There’s no way of telling
Where our lives are going
Well, then don’t stop trying
Jul 2, 2017
Jul 2, 2017 at 4:19 AM UTC
The lines on the face
Traces back to the past
So many narratives
And many more emotions
Have made an impact
Deep furrows on the face
Remembrance of life’s events
Sometimes tears flowed
Parallel to the lines of happiness
Etched on the face and forehead
A sanctuary of bygone eras
The face tells it all
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 11:12 AM UTC
So many imprints
Left behind by memories
Idle moments
Urges us to walk back
Down the path, almost faded
Time has not yet
Obliterated the territories
Inhabited, at different times in past
Now, barely manages to hold
Over time, will be completely erased
But, for now slide down, unwillingly
Revisiting the memories
Some happy and others heart wrenching
Insipid and sepia moments
Memories that the mind won’t let go
Sometimes they become a vortex
And you are siphoned off
To a known, yet now, fading events
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 9:27 AM UTC
You and your shadow
In a silent rendezvous
Trying to figure out
The differences
In the images portrayed
Part of you
Many crossroads between
Within you so many events
Wants attention
Thoughts, feelings, emotions
Yet, shadow unperturbed
Unaware
Still claims to be your reflection
Maybe of contradictions
Imitating every intricate moves
But the mind and heart
Has a different story to narrate
Let’s infuse life in the shadow
And ask, how it feels
Life of a shadow
Should be an interesting anecdote
Ask the lights nearby
What the rays have nurtured
Shadow shall speak
For itself
Or about the accumulated stories
You went through
Is it a silent observer?
Or, just absorbs the negative emotions
Let it speak for itself
Unravel the truth with its narrative
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 8:04 AM UTC
The humble diary
Holds the words
Usually not revealed
To the world
Lines, filled with
Deepest desires
Inexplicably, not uttered
But freely flows
Without inhibitions
Every drop of ink
Is the messenger
Carrying the messages
Encrypted for secrecy
A part of your world
Comes alive
Between the pages
Each day
Offered a blank page
New anecdote
Chronicled eagerly
Before the words
Fade away from memory
Jogging along the lines
Of the diary
The pen gives you a lease
To express
Some feelings and desires
Not audible to anyone
But finds safe haven
Between the pages
Of the humble diary
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 12:31 AM UTC
Take hold of the wind
The wanderlust heart
Wants to go places
A whirlwind tour
Open skies
The valleys
Between deepest forests
Holding yesteryear secrets
Take a whiff
Of beautiful flowers
Seducing the wind
To transport it to unknown lands
Away with the birds in skies
Listening to their tales
The oceans and rivers
Becomes ecstatic
At the presence of the wind
You are the wind now
Rich with so many travels
You have so many tales
And laden with precious aromas
From the Earth’s bouquet
Sneak in through
Your lover’s window
Gently caress her from the slumber
Now that you have tales to narrate
She will listen to you in wonder
Charm her day with surprise
For you had been with the wind
The wanderlust heart
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 7:55 AM UTC
Raconteur we all are
Narrating our anecdotes
Not many willing audience
You keep them close to your heart
Maybe one day someone will listen
Peering at your beautiful heart
A traveler with compassion
Willing to walk with you
Noting down every detail
Weaving a story of togetherness
Bonding over the stories
The raconteur
Will have finally met another
Sharing life’s anecdotes
Embracing every event
And celebrating together
Come what may
Dec 24, 2014
Dec 24, 2014 at 12:29 AM UTC
Is there happiness hidden behind your withered bones? You've always felt everything too deeply, maybe that's why your ribs are broken.
How many mirrors have you broken since he left you? Every day is another battle between who you were with his oxygen and who you are now without it.
I think the saddest thing I had to witness was you carving his name into stone skin so you could bleed out all of him that was left in your veins.
You fill voids with sunset pictures and recordings of his voice when we both know it's killing you more than it's keeping you alive.
How many days has it been since you overdosed on sentimental morphine?
How many times do we have to go through this until you realize he's not coming back?
He's never coming back.
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 4:56 PM UTC
*Each one of us writes an autobiography
Pages composed with anecdotes and memories
Pen dipped in the ink from our soul*
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 10:31 AM UTC
In the garden, which once bloomed
Is left with dry leaves and weeds
Unattended by any gardener
Shrubs and hedges grown out of proportion
Even the walls have been claimed by poison ivy
No visitor here, in this forlorn patch
Dried and desolated, bereft of all the juice
It can’t sustain beauty anymore
Reminiscing, its heyday, the bird’s paradise
Variety of flowers, thronged by bees
Sweetest of nectar have once been tasted
The wooden bench, discolored, and weary
Once part of the romantic words exchanged
Between lovers, and a place to rest
For the elderly couples, trying to revive old memories
Garden itself is now a part of memory
Listening to so many anecdotes, happy or gloomy
Yet, the garden, was paradise once
Welcoming everyone with open arms
Now past its prime, it’s in a dilapidated state
Not a soul to tend its broken heart
No one will be there, to mourn the loss of paradise
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 7:43 AM UTC