im emo,
dripping with angst.
writhing at the sight of you.
heaving chest.

im indie,
holding myself up.
trying too hard to be seen.
strumming the strings of my life.

im metal,
i have no shame.
i feel no pain.
screaming your NAME.

im classical,
light, and airy.
its beautiful, even if long forgotten.
lyricless skips, and bounds, and strolls.

im rock,
solid.
a constant, at any rate.
nothing sets me off like a some electric dynamite.

The edge of my eternity begins with you.

My love, I lulled you with lyricless lullabies, sheltered you in a sheet of stars, yet, in your sleep you still speak her name. "Inferno," was it? You always were a pyromaniac.

I furnished you flames to tame winter's teeth, and yet, you still use them to burn me. How can you pour that boiling blackness in my bloodstream and dare to call it love?

You leave coal-like clouds swirling stormily in my lungs and the taste of smoke to scorch my tongue. Still, my throat is raw and red from coughing up ash and blood, still you call this torture love, and, I believed you.

Tell me, do my mulberry scars entice you? Those marks mingling with my skin of moss and morning glory; you put those there. You made a hell of my skin to rid me of the blue-green, beryl-shaded "blemishes" that provide the very breath you waste, only to build a factory to pump more poison into my lungs. I can taste the tar on my tongue.

My love, as you tear at my being with your careless claws you seem to forget the fact that you need me, but to me, you are meaningless.

Where I was once a sanctuary of life and beauty, you have made me a battlefield- a cemetery of living corpses craving to leave behind bombs and bloodshed, to cure their heart wrenching homesickness and to fall asleep in their lover's arms.

Why must their precious rubies mingle with the ashes of detonation? Why do you **** each other when I have provided you with my harmonic grounds as a home? Why do you raise your children to believe that dying is an art and death is an escape?

My love, I cannot understand why your knees are pained and purple from praying to the angels when you dance so divinely with the demons that you have created. You deserve each other.

Don't you see that you are burning me alive? Can't you smell my cooking flesh or see the charcoal clouds smothering the sky? How can your seeing eyes be so blind?

My love, my death is yours, and if I shall burn you shall blaze beside my broiling bones.

Oh, darling, my focus is unbroken
until I hear your call
Those few words you'd spoken
In the twenty twelve fall
Spin in my head slightly broken

Boy, I'll never forget you
But I ought to move along
You're welcome on this trip too
Sing with me my lyricless song
We'll search for the greatest view

Trust me, and the church of blue and green
Run through the ultimate adversity
and the ultimate strength will be seen
I'll follow you; invoke my curiosity
even through you're only eighteen

Oh, darling, my focus is unbroken
until I hear our song
an off-pitch love token
soon- it won't be long
before the truth is spoken

And I'll have to get out now
wait, slowly focus returns
as it will I vow
as the pills tip back and the incense burns
Take a bow

The focus is back and your love is gone

Why not look through the glass instead of looking at the raindrops on the window?
I wondered.
It rained yesterday.
I was on the passenger seat of a jeepney looking at the raindrops on the window, on my way home.
It is not usually like this. I don't usually think of the rain as a bane to my existence or as an obstruction to my path.
I think of it as a beautiful lyricless song that one would usually play on repeat, the words would unconsciously form inside your mind, your heart making a lyrics of its own.
Because the heart usually knows something that the brain knows nothing of.
But yesterday was different.
I looked at the rearview mirror and saw the passengers at the back.
One was holding a phone, talking in a hushed voice,  another passenger was looking at me intently through the mirror, and the others were looking outside- perhaps, eager to go home or reliving their day just as I was.
Perhaps, it was because of my day.
How it went.
How I went to school and felt empty.
How everything felt meaningless the moment I heard that the person who used to be my friend didn't extend the same courtesy I would have given her by saying directly to my face what she wanted to say instead of going behind my back.
Coward.
But I, a fool.
Perhaps it was that.
Or maybe it was when I shared my problems to someone
And asked him to show me the brighter side of the picture
But he showed me how I was the dark picture, instead.
I, a fool.
Perhaps it was that.
Or perhaps it was when I decided to write a novel
But when I held the pen
It felt unfamiliar
Beneath my fingers.
Perhaps it was that.
Or the days that I have punished myself by remembering him.
Perhaps it was that.
Perhaps it was not the rain.
Perhaps it was the way I looked at the raindrops on the window instead of looking through the glass.