poetic license

icarus flight

2010-08-07T00:10:00.000+08:00

where is it you fly off to

away from this garden

you tend - sowing seeds in your

untamed way - with the breeze

where is it you go

when sun-streaked wings carry you

off - and i, flightless i,

am left trailing in your field of colors

on uncertainty and abandon

2010-06-09T21:03:00.000+08:00

only tonight i allow my mind to wander
and seek the sight of you
sitting on the roots of a tree
grown high and fat with life circles from waiting

tonight the wind whispers through the open window
and the cool air through the curtains
is a three stringed instrument
speaking of pining that clings to the bones

if the night is as still as this
is it not so for you as well?
if the night is as still as this
shall i not give leave for my mind, then, to wander?

if i find a way to that familiar tree
will i find you waiting?
the night is still but in the distance a fire rages
there is no shame and the mind struggles to seek an answer

The Lost

2010-04-14T04:56:00.000+08:00

i found this on tumblr. it just connected, somehow. after all this time, maybe there are things yet to be overcome.

The Lost

Your skin grazes mine
Skin on skin
It is remarkable
At that moment
Only at that point
The instant I break free
I feel the part of my soul
That responded
To your touch
Recoil
Happiness cannot be right
If it comes at too high a price

staring the sun down

2010-03-07T09:23:00.000+08:00

staring the sun down

tell the truth all of the time but it is not necessary to tell all of it at that one time.

she steps out and immediately shades her eyes against the glaring sun. terrific day for a walk, she muses, if you don't buy into skin cancer and all of that. she takes the first tentative step onto the sidewalk and more purposefully takes the next. yes, it was most decidedly a terrific day for a walk.

the shade offered by the leaves of aged trees beside the path helped to diffuse the otherwise biting heat. it would be a leisurely walk, she had decided before venturing out, the type of walk that left you with too many thoughts and too little resolutions. it would be the type of walk necessary after the heaviness of an unexpected memory.

***

it was nothing simple when it started. and when, exactly, any of it started was unclear even to her.

"do you enjoy it that melancholy?", indicating the disc she was sampling

"excuse me?", she had feigned surprise while removing the headset.

"Sara Bareilles."

"i'm sorry but did you want to use the set?", it was better not to show interest, she figured.

"i only really know one song of hers. and it's quite melancholy," a half-smile kept playing on his lips, "i'm sorry but i was watching you and was wondering, would you like to grab something to eat with me?"

the invitation to grab something to eat turned to dinner and extended to a few drinks in a quiet bar afterwards. she was rarely so impulsive but on a day when you're listening to Sara Bareilles in a music store, you might just be in the mood to be swept off your feet.

from the start he told her he liked her. after dinner it was clear he wasn't the type of guy who often approached women in music stores. after drinks she showed him the ring. it was never simple, even at the start.

he was blase about everything. he would dismiss her protests with a topic change or a sly remark about something she had done. he loved to play the game that way - a game she found fascinating at the beginning and impossible to leave at the end. they fell in love, others would say - they, of course, would never name it with a word so worldly. they fell in love and neither of them would admit it. why end the game? why not just keep playing until the end comes and declares the winner?

***

i was not waiting for you, there at that music store. i was waiting for love. i was waiting for love to return to me. i wanted it to arrive in the same way i welcomed it the last time. i waited for love to come in the form of the man i promised to marry. but it was you who spoke. i was waiting for love. and it was you who came.

***

she walked back into the comforts of her room. the sweat made her shirt cling close to her back. somehow, the walk was not as good a cathartic as she thought it would be. she closes her eyes and draws in a deep breath. the creases between her brow smoothen as she reaches towards the player and presses play.

"Something always brings me back to you.

It never takes too long

No matter what I say or do

I still feel you here til the moment I'm gone..."

she doesn't open her eyes. it is better to keep them closed at this moment. the memory of a face is so much more vivid without the colors of reality.

"...Set me free, leave me be

I don't wanna fall another moment into your gravity..."

he left before the end came. she was married before the game could be declared over.

"...Though I can't seem to let you go

The one thing that I still know

Is that you're keeping me down

You're keeping me down..."

perhaps, she thinks now, i'm the one who lost.

waking up from the rags

2010-01-23T04:31:00.000+08:00

she croons a soft lullaby
to her eight year old daughter
they lie separately now
asleep, in kind, in a bed of dark water

he lies in half-wakefulness
remorseless for the murder
they lie separately now
him and his too forgiving mother

the streets clamor with celebration
but what of the departed?
the streets clamor with celebration
unaware the emperor's naked

she pillages on
shameless of her plunder
they watch carefully now
forgetting they once exalted her

he grasps at straws
claiming "it's just a piece of paper"
they watch carefully now
hoping this time they'll remember

the streets clamor with celebration
but what of the departed?
the streets clamor with celebration
unaware the emperor's naked

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vote wisely.

unbroken (prayers for Haiti)

2010-01-20T03:35:00.000+08:00

the air is dense with the memory of the lost
maybe in time, this too will define us

a child walking out to fall into hands bloodied from clawing at debris

a mother left underneath or perhaps already with the pile rotting on the streets

a lover finding his love, unresponsive but alive nonetheless
let the crushing pain echo out- it is a good sign that she isn't dead

a man pushing on. adrenaline comes when the cries become fainter.
what does it matter when death haunts even those above the rubble?

what does it mean to be saved?
is it to be awakened, brought out to learn hell is more palpable than was taught us?

it is to be assured that holding out a few days in the desperation
and to be found can mean hope to others fighting to survive

it means the flooding of life back to those waiting and still struggling.
hold out a little bit longer. help is on the way.

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i've been following the news about Haiti and everyone who's suffering there. my heart bleeds for the families of those who are still underneath the rubble. and i can't help but feel a silent desperation at the thought of those who are suffering on the streets for lack of food and shelter. i hardly know them but i still believe and hold out hope that those 3 filipinos will be found and reunited with their families. i echo Farie's sentiments when she said, let's pray. someone needs to believe that miracles can happen in this terrible disaster. and in a way, miracles have.

a girl was found by her father and boyfriend and everyone told them that they should throw her body along with the pile of corpses on the streets. she was unresponsive, and her eyes were corpse-like: open wide, unseeing. they persisted and brought her to the doctors. even there they were told that the girl's body should be thrown out. (there are so many who need help and so few there to give it that this reaction was understandable) only one medic found enough energy in him to bend down and check the girl's pulse. she was alive.

a 2 year old girl was pulled out of the rubble. they heard her crying and when they lifted the debris, she walked right out towards her rescuers. people were still found alive after almost a week after they were buried alive. rescue was said to be futile after 3-4 days without water.
miracles happen. if you're reading this, please pray for the people in Haiti. not just for those who are still lost. also for those who have no food and shelter. resources are so scarce that even those who survived the earthquake face the reality of death at the hands of starvation and disease. riots are breaking out. hope is slowly fading. surely we all have time to offer even just one prayer.

losing Sundays

2010-01-17T16:28:00.000+08:00

i dreamt of you. and i wonder if it means something. and if it does, is it a good meaning?
i dreamt of you. and i can't shake off the excess, the after-effects of an unaccomplished memory.

but a dream is never anything more. and in dreams, characters are often what we need them be.
in my dream, you were what i needed you to be.

i dreamt of you. and i wondered if you dream. and if you do, is it sometimes of me?
i dreamt of you. and it is mildly exhilirating but mostly less dramatic than the fact that it was you.

but a dream is never anything more. and even though it was you, i made you more.
in my dream, you were what i needed you to be.

i write therefore i am

2010-01-13T18:58:00.000+08:00

lately, my sister's gotten me into the habit of entering Book Sale stores and searching the racks for "good finds" at crazy cheap prices. sometimes, braving the dust mites is actually worth the risk. she once bought a zora neale hurston book in good condition for only P30 or something like that. and i bought The Horse Whisperer for P50 and it was hard bound too.

a book i bought over the Christmas break contained the words of an author i was hardly famiiar with. The Train Now Departing. that's the title of the book. it's not much for plot but the author's introspective characters got me reflecting on myself as well.

there's this one part where the character reflects on a book she's reading (in much the same way i am doing now) and she "wondered about myster writers were they all, in part, despicable? Probably....Perfectly nice people in the main, but there was that one cringing place in their souls that provoked them toward this sort of writing."

if what one writes speaks of the self, what does my writing say? what do my words say i am?

the questions floor me. and when i look at my writing, i can't help but wonder if all that my words show is a gaping hole where love used to be and which i try vainly to fill with justifications and eloquence. am i, then, simply a reaction to the forces that have come and gone in my life? the inquiry is valid enough but the implications of an answer have such destructive potential that i cringe from it and decide instead to wait for the heavy abyss to perhaps engulf these emotions as well.

in books, there are endings. not always happy but things end all the same. resolution is part of a good writer's objectives. in life, sometimes one has no choice but to leave things hanging.

first sight

2010-01-10T10:01:00.000+08:00

electricity enters through the tip of my middle finger
slowing perceptibly near the inside of my wrist
tracing back outward along eager skin
creating static on soft hair to touch my elbow
rising still, the current scintillates, ever so sure
winding gently up across my shoulder
to touch lightly, purposefully the base of my neck
it is as if a kiss has shivered upward along a single path
that wreaks havoc on my entire body

it is such a private moment that it stretches on
causing my breath to catch and release in slow shudders

you smiled and the world responded with such a physical force,
i could not have escaped. allowing for choice, i would not have wanted to.

penitent

2010-01-09T20:41:00.000+08:00

spare me now the trappings of your well-planned soliloquy
practiced perhaps in the hopes of plying what comes as attention
or perhaps even begrudging affection from this wasted lot

it is not that your presence is unwanted nor is it that you, yourself, are
not worthy of want. this is an inevitable reaction to time bidding defiance
disallowing my reprieve, holding back a claim to peace and forgiveness

a sorrier plight surely exists not far from here and one sorrier still just adjacent
i wait not for the harangue spoken in a voice stealing from my own lips,
the issuance of which might reveal stolidity enough to break you.

i wait for you to walk on of your own choosing.
soon it will be clear enough. you supplicate only to shadows.

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i wrote this as an offshoot of the emotions in a book i've been reading. only after a few of the lines had been written did i realize i was writing about myself.

funny thing about poetry is that it bites back.

breaking the silence

2009-12-12T12:10:00.000+08:00

it's been a while since i've written anything. i don't know if that's because of a lack of inspiration or because of a lack of any interesting subject matters in my life. a friend (nats) however has been mentioning my present writing drought and has asked me to start writing again. i don't feel like it.i don't have anything to write about. but then again, i remembered something i learned a few years back. to write, one does not need inspiration. one simply needs the time and the medium. so here goes nothing. back to the drawing board.

breaking the silence

my arms reach for her. in the small space that she occupies in my hippocampus, that is where i often dwell. my arms reach for her as my eyes shift to unfocus on the distance. in my mind i have already reached her. in my heart, i never even let go.

i long for her with a fever that burns. it is a physical sensation that splits me in two. some nights i wrap my arms around myself to keep from coming apart. other nights, i find myself taking comfort from just letting it happen.

staring at the pavement

2009-10-17T13:40:00.000+08:00

how great would the distance have to be in order to separate two people and keep them apart so effectively that they remain strangers? leagues? miles? metres? feet? how far would i have to be for you to stop searching?

it takes 506, 506 steps, from your door to mine. it only took 506 steps for you to forget.

Waiting on the Seventh Coalition

2009-10-09T05:39:00.000+08:00

"Never in this weather," she said. Jaw set. Eyes steeled. Emphasis on NEVER. It was something she did often. Not the remark but rather the brushing off of a request the approval of which I would have gone through chest-high flood waters for. I shrug, "Okay." Add a small wink to the disyllabic reply, a hint of a smile, little nuances that fail to cushion the impact of an all-too-quick rejection.

Do you want to grab dinner? Hang out? Movie? Coffee? A small slice of cake? Donut? Just five minutes? Seconds? Four? "I've eaten." "I'm with friends." "Seen it." "Not in the mood." "Had one already." "Busy." "Can't." "Sorry."

I take it, all of it, knowing full well the names reserved for people like me. It is a daunting task, scaling the fortress you've put around yourself, but I forge on nonetheless. It is a futile war, one I know I must fight despite foreseeable failure. Your favor, cold queen, does not shine where my weight-worn shoes tread. Still, I march towards my Waterloo.

"Never in this weather," she said. "Okay," I reply. The battle will resume when the grounds have dried from the night's rain.

composed

2009-10-07T13:46:00.000+08:00

these rooms are quiet now with sheets that are unslept in.
noises steal in from the streets. the air within these four walls are stock-still.

time is marked by the third hand. tick. tick. tick. tick.
purgatory must give more solace than this. tick. tick. tick.

it's harder than i thought and the heart screams for you to come back.
come back.

let small blessings come as the children of reason and distraction.
i made my choice and the rooms will remain silent.

asdgag

2009-10-06T21:14:00.000+08:00

a;ksdljgpaei

stuck in the crevices of connotation

2009-10-06T11:43:00.000+08:00

how does one,pray tell,confess
the inner confines of the soul?

the forms are hardly ever defined
and expression is all but sufficient

oh that you could understand, feel
the unbearable inferno at this core

that articulation could linger
in the nooks afforded by innovation

that expression could be inspired
beyond the guise of convention

that love and fear, joy and doubt be fulfilled
in the crevices of connotation

all that would remain would be a solitary fading ember
if the fires of this hell were cooled by a long-yearned for utterance

rusty pen

2009-10-06T11:33:00.000+08:00

old words, used moments wrack me
it is a disquiet that will not cease

torn images, yellowed pages resurface
and sordid guilt grips tighter from within

broken touch, shattered pleas resume unwanted
the undertow is strong and it will not be quelled

one memory persists despite the struggle to overcome:
you, seeing you, loving you, knowing happiness.

bearing the weight

2009-03-30T11:05:00.000+08:00

the dust settles
but the sun beats down unrelenting
there is never anything worse
than waiting
in the middle of summer

sweat clings
like a fitted jacket to the skin
there must be something better
than waiting
in the middle of summer

the mind wanders
and the soul finally struggles free
there are some things worth
waiting for
in the middle of summer

traffic

2009-03-29T13:07:00.000+08:00

a finger scratches a spot on the head

confusion: missed points

who am i in a race against?

anxiety: the point is still missed

time is jotted down according to non-random circumstance

apprehension: points that will not connect

it is rush hour and motion is all that matters

despair: and it all flies past

acquiescence

2009-03-12T13:30:00.000+08:00

you held my hand and across the meridian the sun grew dimmer
giving this threadbare nook added luminance

i dreamt of you and worlds within worlds, worlds outside our own,
responded

you spoke of love and awoke inside me the force of a gale
in the distance, a tree shook at the impact

i dreamt of you and worlds within worlds, worlds of our making,
blossomed

tongue-tied

2009-02-28T12:45:00.000+08:00

the throat turns dry and moisture
collects in the palms of shaking hands
wordlessness. empty thought fills the
silence created by an incapability
to profess.

uncertainty. a perception of unattainability.
cracked lips turn on corners
turn down, not heavenward
with the understanding that battles are not won
by cowards

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mas okay yata kung ang title ay...TORPE...:p

i wait as you follow luna

2009-02-16T08:50:00.000+08:00

you crash over me like breakwater at high tide
it is never pleasant to be soaked
to the skin with my socks still on

but comfort is relinquished in your presence
i am silenced to acceptance
and accede to the onslaught of the spray

i will stand and let the barrage wash over me
i will stand and let the water take its toll
i will stand and watch when you finally recede

13

2009-02-14T07:03:00.000+08:00

you, there, wrapped in your gilt-framed cocoon
did you ever wonder what it cost
to stay locked inside that half-empty tomb?

you, there, blowing rings into the air
did you ever wonder what it meant
to sit laid back and unaware?

knock open
knock your
knock eyes

i'm waiting here to break you out
out
no more

tense

2009-02-05T18:15:00.003+08:00

i cut myself on the sharpness
of your forgetting
it is such a clear unremembrance
that the skin of my gaping wound
wraps around the lost memory
in the hopes of protecting it
only to surrender once again
to the void you've forced on history

thoughtful

2009-02-05T18:07:00.002+08:00

it is not enough to write or to write well
a thorn scratches at my heart of hearts
unrelenting until perfect prose
captures the source of the offending rose

at goodbye

2009-01-31T14:45:00.001+08:00

And your heart bleeds whole translucent
drops of love that can't be saved
that continues but will not hold.

It is unbearable and your lips move
releasing a cry that began
before time was noted.

from the depths of a suffocating self-abyss
the pain is not relevant
only mind-breaking loneliness exists.

The night holds questions
only a broken heart understands.

--------------------------------------------
*written for nats

proofread

2009-01-29T19:01:00.002+08:00

it all boils down to one more word

one last line (let's hope it's a memorable one)

a last ditch effort

an added embelishment to an already drawn-out excuse

"the dog ate it, miss"

and "a three-legged dog, miss"

"i gave it my best"

and "i can still be better"

"give me one more chance"

and "it will never happen again"

"but i love you"

and "but you said you love me too"

always something extra to prolong that strand of hope

a little detail, a hint of a promise

nothing to change the truth of the outcome.

it's over.

death dwells in her thoughts

2009-01-19T19:02:00.002+08:00

her life stands, bears witness
to the whispers of aging voices
like the wind rustling through browned leavse
time touches her slowly,
tracing each curl before settling
as cold felt in her knocking joints

she moves at first unsure then into a dervish
giving up only when the sun denies her
the hope of new light
she takes the shape of every woman, each woman
forgone by chance and skipped by fate
her life stands, bears witness.
her own witnessed by none.

lullaby

2008-11-29T13:42:00.003+08:00

she was asleep
the linen would protect her
remember the lock on the door,
the alarm (always set)?
sleep.
if you hear the pebbles knocking on the pane,
sleep.
if movement disturbs the gravel
outside, underneath the window,
sleep.
when the lock fails
and the alarm remains silent,
sleep.
when darkness streams in
through the door forcing itself inside you,
sleep.
if you wake, the night will break.
sleep and let the linen protect you.

stained

2008-11-15T12:49:00.002+08:00

it's something that you never think will happen to you or someone you know. i found out only minutes ago and my only thought was to write. i cannot cry or scream. i cannot feel anger. i just feel an overwhelming need to write. as if writing will turn it into something it is not.

it is just a story. a story that is distant. make-believe. a story that will end. please God let us wake up from this. i fumble for words of comfort. words that will never reach her soul. maybe if i wrote better i could write for her. write beautiful words that would tell her about a future she can still have. words that would take away the finality of what she had to go through.

what do i tell her now? how will i face her knowing that smile is no longer the same? she is pure. she is pure and innocent. it is not she who has been stained.

love

2008-11-14T13:23:00.002+08:00

Loving you is jumping off a rock
72 feet high
into white waters.

in-between

2008-11-05T01:25:00.005+08:00

How many times have I written your name?

Again and again I have written your name.

Write over and over just that, your name.

As if to tell my heart who it is that has been lost.

As if to tell myself what it is that I will never have.

I pen the letters one by one, calling for you.

I mark them down and sense that I am waiting.

How many times have I written your name?

Oh the countless times that I have written that name.

cynic

2008-08-30T19:08:00.002+08:00

the lie is that love exists
in rose-colored auras and
heady perfumes

love does not exist
it is created
it was born into non-being

born from eyes singing a song
of inacceptance
and perhaps, if you allow, regret

it was with your leaving
that you proclaimed love unable,
an elusive myth in a world of hard truths

poetry - my stress reliever

2008-06-30T17:43:00.000+08:00

the stars didn't move tonight
the night is still

the warmth (traces of your once near body)
staves off the darkness

it isn't so lonely after all
not when the mind has stopped to dwell on it

in the distance, i feel something stirring
perhaps, despite the silence, my heart will find its way back

composed

2008-06-21T02:44:00.000+08:00

if i close my eyes and look away,
the after image
of your face
will still remain vivid in my mind.

if i choose not to stay
my heart
will give me time to forget.

maybe all it takes is one moment
of indecision
and then of perfect finality
that there is nothing more to do
but leave things unspoken.

when poetry is left unpolished

2008-06-05T20:06:00.001+08:00

it was late last night when you stood near the doorway
(my dreams are rarely so vivid.)
and took in the washed-out walls and stained window frames.

your fingers traced the broken silver of the doorknob
and pretended to pick the rusted lock with your nail.
(it would have been comical had you not been so stern.)

(there was something both endearing and cruel in the remembrance.)
they were only moments from my sleep and yet
each movement caused the world to rock in frozen longing.

(you enter my dreams and i can only watch
as you strum the chords of a lost song
i will never find when the sun streams through the curtains)

snip

2008-06-05T19:47:00.000+08:00

her hand poises, ready with the scissors
"the thing about hair, you see,
is that once you cut it off,
it's gone forever."

"yes, yes. i understand. shorter.
i want it shorter. cut away", i say
looking straight ahead and breathing in deep
"i'm sure."

*snip*
damn. i swear i marked it a bit longer.
"well?" she queries (triumph in her tone?)
"perfect," i reply.

the thing about hair, she should know, is that it grows back.

dahil summer

2008-05-05T10:39:00.000+08:00

Love

Pablo Neruda

Because of you, in gardens of blossoming flowers I ache from the
perfumes of spring.
I have forgotten your face, I no longer remember your hands;
how did your lips feel on mine?
Because of you, I love the white statues drowsing in the parks,
the white statues that have neither voice nor sight.
I have forgotten your voice, your happy voice; I have forgotten
your eyes.
Like a flower to its perfume, I am bound to my vague memory of
you. I live with pain that is like a wound; if you touch me, you will
do me irreparable harm.
Your caresses enfold me, like climbing vines on melancholy walls.
I have forgotten your love, yet I seem to glimpse you in every
window.
Because of you, the heady perfumes of summer pain me; because
of you, I again seek out the signs that precipitate desires: shooting
stars, falling objects.

a box

2008-04-30T05:05:00.000+08:00

a box holds my heart
whether it was of brown paper or gold lining seems
irrelevant.
a box holds my heart

a box holds my heart
and it is that which is carried
away
by hands always different in the manner of handling

my heart hides
but it is not given defense against
pain
stealing in through hinges and crevices crafted by clever men

my heart hides
but it can not stave of the hungry
cold
of an empty bed or an open door that once knew life in a different form

a box holds my heart
in the hopes that love would cease to
visit
in the guise of friendly tones and a caress of misled beginnings

sacreligious

2008-04-25T08:37:00.003+08:00

it begins with a candle - lit and spiraling down into nonbeing
banking on the promise of rebirth upon the next schedule of creation
when the universe will move slowly and imperceptibly
to reposition itself for the reincarnation of a single essence

the candle is lit and a prayer is said
the focal point of motion has been chosen - it is man
man revolves and the spin is attributed to the earth
the true center is irrelevant, the standards have been set

the wick burns and the candle descends
the ritual has peaked and the spirit has long expired
it is anticipated - rebirth, recreation, reincarnation
but first the candle must allow itself to burn

shedding skin

2008-04-24T10:55:00.000+08:00

a laugh and then perhaps something else
it takes a while before something else can truly be felt
after you, it took a while

i stand but maybe later there will be no more
sometimes time is all it takes before realization creeps in
there are no more corners to sink down into

we laugh and i stand -- rigid: both our actions
it will only come in the morning, the acceptance, hindsight
of both our backs turned, receding

the theme of life is really departure

2008-04-23T14:51:00.000+08:00

It's strange how everything always seems to be disappearing just when you had finally gotten the hang of things, of people. In high school, I couldn't wait for everything to be over. I wanted it to end. I loved the people around me and the routine I'd fallen into but I knew I was over it. There was a point when I just got over all of it.

Why is it so different now? It took me five years to finish a four year course not out of the inability to accomplish the academic requirements but because of an incapacity, on my part, to want to accomplish them. I was too busy doing other things. I traded one group of friends for another and then another. I wanted to experience everything, so I did. Not attending classes for two months, feigned illnesses at the infirmiry, failing miserably, finding things I was never supposed to be good at, falling in love with people I would never have met if I had lived college life otherwise.

It's crazy. Life is crazy. Just when you get the hang of people, they leave. Just when people get the hang of me, I need to leave as well. Nothing is permanent. But sometimes you can love people so much that you do your best to make them stay on despite the fact that there's barely anything there to keep you together. Barely.

continued thought

2008-04-21T07:59:00.000+08:00

You are distant now
and I've let go of hope - of the hope of ever touching you
- of even the hope of just seeing you and knowing,
(knowing that it is you)

You're a dream
life with you is something I create in my loneliness
a child I've given birth to in the guilty secrets of my mind
a sacred rite I submit to within the sullied remains of my heart

It is so strong
Love. Or need. Or what this longing is called outside of my dreams.
It persists across the distance.
It persists across the impossibility of being with you.

*for those who have no chance of understanding the words of the previous post*
*mostly for those who drop by blogspot*

pangarap

2008-04-21T07:51:00.000+08:00

sa mga panaginip ko, hinahanap mo ako

sa paggising ko, nararamdaman kong hinahanap din kita
ako na ang naghahanap sa iyo

lagi tayong naghahanapan, tayong dalawa
nagtataguan

nasanay na tuloy ako sa ganito

baka pag nakita na kita, hindi ko na matandaan
kung paano huminto
kung paano itigil ang pagtatago at paghahanap

dahil malungkot ang kwentong 'to
malungkot at masakit

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
wala lang. words just come sometimes and they don't necessarily mean anything. sometimes i just write them down to remind myself that thoughts like these one entered my consciousness.

untold myths and legends

2008-02-09T17:03:00.000+08:00

She was unaware. She could not know the power she had then. How could she? How could she with that laughter? How could she with her flushed cheeks and tenderness? She could not know. I would never have had the arrogance to tell her.

You were beautiful. How could you have known that in that instant, I was captivated, enamored, shipwrecked on the rocks guarding your siren soul, twin to nymphs and wind faeries?

It was because of that brief meeting of our eyes that life has gone on without merit. Seconds to hours. And yes, these hours will turn into years. What I would give to see her again. Even if at the side of another. Even if to see her smile in the arms of another. She has stolen my dignity and my days have been spent pining with passion for a look, for even just a second glance of love that she spun so easily into her lore.

love...never gets old...losing it doesn't either. dwelling on Stephen Crane

2008-02-09T03:47:00.000+08:00

[Ah, God, the way your little finger moved]
Stephen Crane

Ah, God, the way your little finger moved
As you thrust a bare arm backward
And made play with your hair
And a comb a silly gilt comb
Ah, God—that I should suffer
Because of the way a little finger moved.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I heard thee laugh
Stephen Crane

I heard thee laugh

And in this merriment
I defined the measure of my pain;
I knew that I was alone,
Alone with love,
Poor shivering love,
And he, little sprite,
Came to watch with me,
And at midnight
We were like two creatures by a dead camp-fire.

ten past midnight

2008-01-30T10:52:00.000+08:00

Your words have power just like my own

Time finds my lips carved out of yours

Entwined in tangled blankets and laughter

Your voice can no longer matter

We start out lanky and fumbling

But something else takes over and it overtakes

I feel small buried in your shoulder

Your arms around me feel like the world,

Like the world can no longer find me,

I’ve become small and your arms can cover the ocean

We start out lanky and fumbling

But something takes over and it overtakes

It takes more than silence to calm me

Maybe next time around your kiss will soothe

Tonight it can only lead to overwhelming

Bliss. Smile it away, and I’ll do the same

Love starts out oh so lanky and fumbling

But it takes over and it overtakes

dreams

2008-01-13T09:04:00.000+08:00

the night is quiet, everyone else is asleep. she sits still, calm as i balance myself on the arm of the same chair. "we've talked before," i muse, "but why does it seem so different?" disclosure is made so much easier when made behind the mask of distance and networks of telecommunication giants. she sighs and slumps back, closing her eyes hoping perhaps that i won't recognize the anticipation in her stance.

slumber, during the camp-outs, usually comes early after all the strenuous activities. but tonight, with the sky full of dark clouds and the air pierced by the stillness, four spirits found rest elusive. we sat quietlyl together in silence. the other two took out a guitar and strummed melodies nearby.

"how are you ?", i ask, staring straight out, finally finding the balance in my make-shift seat.
"not so hot Dean."
"yeah, i wasn't really asking. wanna talk about it?", i smile, craning my neck around to catch her eye.
"no."
"okay," i settle down, planting my feet on the ground in preparation for the tirade that was sure to follow.

"he thinks you're trying to steal me from him. STEAL. direct quote. exact word. copied and pasted off his stupid ego and macho crap. . .
. . . it's true. i have tons of other guy friends and he decides to pick on you. he picks on someone i barely even hang out with in person. someone who's actually considred to be more of his friend than mine. blithering idiot."
"Sam, if i had planned on stealing you from him, i would've done it a long time ago."

"Dean? what?"
"listen, you should really talk to him. i mean, he has to realize that treating you like that is gonna kill your relationship. . .
. . .here. give me your hand. if you grip sand in a fist, like this, it trickles down through the cracks until almost nothing is left. see?
but if you hold it still, keep it open flat up, you lose nothing. you have all the sand you started with. and you can add even more, if you wanted."

she stares and i follow her gaze past the space, past the sand and all it stood for, to the image of our hands touching. she jerks her hand back, dusting it off, searching for something opposite me, anything.
"where are Jake and Sue?"
"over at the cottage playing the guitar."
"let's go over there."
"okay Sam."

"hey Dean, can i sleep on your lap? Jake won't let me use his for a pillow", says Sue in welcome.
"She's too heavy," Jake shrugs continuing to pluck a classic.
"sure Sue. come 'ere"
Sam watches Sue's head on my lap and then looks at me with eyes as mysterious as the night. i smile and she smiles back. nodding over to my lap, i offer her a spot opposite Sue. she smiles and shakes her head.

i continue to look at her, not smiling anymore, feeling everything i wasn't supposed to. i nod, beckoning her. she knows. i know she knows. her eyes search mine for the answers i can't give her. she shakes her head again, refusing the lap and leans her head against my shoulder. her breathing is light as if she were barely there. i keep from looking over at her for fear of finding her gone. she is light and all that is part of her is softness.

i take the courage to finally turn my head and look at her. she sleeps with her mouth open. her eyes move back and forth beneath her eyelids. she doesn't snore. her hair falls across her shoulders, across my shoulders. these are the tiny mementos i can keep. these are all that i can keep of her. when she wakes up in the morning, i won't be beside her. i know that she knows now. i love her. i love her enough to leave in the morning.

blase

2008-01-03T05:13:00.000+08:00

The weather didn't help. She blanks into the screen a while longer and wonders what next to do. The prompt flickers. On. Off. On. Off. The backlight pains her eyes and the almost imperceptible hum of the drive creates a pulsating throb in her forehead. What to do next? There was bound to be something better. Better than just sitting, staring, remembering.

"yes?", a window pops up unexpectedly.

what the hell?
She thinks and replies unsurely, "?"

"you were about to type something in?"

damn pidgin messenger plug-ins.
"oh. nothing. 'that's one ugly head shot' wasn't worth the trouble of saying", almost convincing herself with the sentence. Almost with herself. But hopefully completely with him.

"haha. *winks* come on, Stace, i know you better than that."

"pig" Stacy types in, trying to remember what had driven her to think she could talk to him again in the first place.

"how have you been?"

much better. happy. happier. happiest. without you, thank God. in love. he's perfect if you ever ask by the way. nothing like you. okay, maybe a little bit similar. a pain in the ass. funny. impossible. different. he treats me better. like somehow i matter. i'm absolutely happy. most of the time, anyway.
"okay. you?"

":)", Kevin keys in.

"what's that supposed to mean?"

"it means i miss you."

"oh . . . right. . .?" i miss you? i miss you. i miss you! say it again. that just doesn't sound right. i miss you. he misses me, he says, like that's enough. is that enough?

"it's been too long"

":)"

"haha. touche"

":)"

"How's Rod?"

way to go Kevin. you pig. you arrogant motherless swine. "what?"

"nothing. forget it."

"i got to go Kev. life and reality beckon."

"okay. . . Stace. . ."

She drags the cursor across the screen to the next window. Stealth settings. Appear permanently offline to Kevin. Her fingers hover for a second. They feel heavy. Not just her fingers but her entire body. As if she had just woken up from a fitful sleep and the covers had become drenched with sweat.

Delete. "Are you sure you want to delete the selected contact from your list?" the window begs. Yes. No. Yes. Why is there never an option that says "maybe"?

January rain begins slowly like tiny memories falling from the mind, travelling across the pane, daunting, shattering on the sill.

Her gaze strays back to the previous window. "Kevin is typing a new message", it warns.

"Are you sure you want to delete the selected contact from your list?" Yes. Click.

disillusioned

2008-01-02T14:30:00.000+08:00

because life was supposed to be easy...er
easier
like taking a stroll, taking a trip, taking a friggin' journey
but it's not

sit back, relax
the tension strains my bones to breaking
enjoy the ride
who can when it turns out to be a race

shooting past the scenery, forgetting the names
straight up
one, two, three, four, five million pieces
making it count. counting instead

it's about time i hit the brakes
stick it to the man
rage against the machine
cash in that first-class ticket

delayed flights aren't so bad after all

fireworks

2008-01-01T08:21:00.000+08:00

falling stars. descending slowly, deliberately.
waiting for someone to catch them, for rescue
a knight perhaps, or just someone brave enough
to break the enchantment before they touch water

pixie dust or fairy powder all too soon released
from the hands of an escaping nymph of lore
streaking through the sky, upwards
destined for neverland or somewhere just as forgotten, lost

unnamed glitter-sprinkled arthropods, skittering, trailing down
the length of a deep onyx curtain
highlighting fringes, pleats, at times entire lengths
at times creating a mesmerizing veil of their own

past lovers, shooting up in a moment of ecstasy
broken down, torn apart, brought slowly back to earth
unaware of love having lost its flavor
as it scatters around them, beautiful for that instant but soon gone

droplets of fire and color in which we dance
regressing back to childhood, holding hands
clapping in joy and shouting at the promise of rebirth
a rain of new hope of forgetting, rebuilding and being together

- = happy new year everyone = -

(un) fettered

2007-12-06T09:33:00.000+08:00

it is too small for me, this thing you call life.
i have tried blending in only to find myself
confined, claustrophobic, suffocated into non-being

i find myself breaking into sweat, forming fluid-filled thoughts
of doubt and compromise, of drowning into conformity
fabricated existence, desperation crawling out of every orifice

breathing in. breathing out. stretching every breath to make it last.
to make it last. to make it count. count for what?
everything they write of, sing for, and bleed into, eludes me

i see you at night

2007-12-04T06:33:00.000+08:00

i see you at night,
the curve of your back
and hear the weight of your cold-harried, well-worn step

i see you at night,
staring from the corner of your eye
furrowed brows creating undecipherable valleys between chocolate-colored romance

i see you at night,
endless waterfalls of curls and waves
covering thought and reaching out through unbreachable space

i see you at night,
standing still, moving all the same
creating turmoil in the wake of a missed opportunity to meet, to speak, to love

Who would've known we'd get silver? Junior Delphic Games

2007-11-15T14:15:00.000+08:00

The Delphic Games is an international competition for the arts. It's relatively young, 10 years old, but aims to end up becoming the art equivalent of the Olympics. We joined the competition as representatives of the Philippines for the free percussions category. (Jaimar, Chai, Ate Klara, Myx, Kuya Jayson, Rhea, Regh, Me, and Frey)

Our performance doesn't stick out to clearly in my mind. A 13.5 minute piece we crammed for in a week doesn't really get you emotionally attached. But we sure didn't think we were going to win anything. We went against 4 Korean teams who were clearly joining the competition to win. (We were happy just being part of the whole event) It seemed our well-worn gamelan instruments paled in comparison to their big and shiny drums. But we gave it our best and hoped it would be enough to make Sir Edru proud. (Yun lang naman talaga goal namin eh. Pasayahin si sir at wag pahiyain ang KG)

The audience said we did great. Although the only ones I heard clapping were the Koreans. There were a few giggles when we did the Tongatong dance, Yogad. It's funny they thought we were Vietnamese or something and some of the locals were surprised that we had Gangsas in our ensemble.

We went out that night after watching the unbelievably lame Time&Transformation concert. We went to Oh My Gulay only to find out it was closed and decided to head to some pub where the drinks were expensive and the music was so-so. We got drunk on laughter and were lucky not to get kicked out for all the noise we made.

The next day, we were asked to do a repeat performance but Sir decided to have us do our usual KG repertoire instead. (Thank God.) The audience was much more appreciative this time. Things went pretty well except for the fact that I lost my bulalakaw in mid-dance. Ah yes, the things I do just because I love performing. The show must go on right?

That night, we watched the concert the Koreans prepared. It changed the way I see Koreans. I mean, yes they're invading the country by hordes but all the culture they have, the history of their art, the way they continue to love it and pass it on is just so inspiring that I can't help but have a new vantage point from which to view them now. After, we went to Oh My Gulay only to be disappointed once again so we went on an ukay-spree instead. (P50 duffel bag vs P150 duffel, P100 fur-lined boots, animal toe socks, and "ukay" redefinition)

Special mention of The 50's Diner where frey brought us is in order. My goodness! That place was food heaven. Servings were giant-sized and incredibly cheap. I'll upload the pics later on.

Our last day in Baguio was probably the best one we had in the competition. We headed the first part of the interaction between delegates. City High students came in droves asking questions and begging not to be left with a Korean delegate. We talked to the Samulnori Band members and despite the language barrier were able to make friends with them, exchanging email adds and going around the hall with them. It's funny they remembered us from the free percs competition because they were amazed about us putting on make-up backstage.

Kuya Jayson was the star of the show when almost everybody started congregating around his drums. People were jumping on stage and the high school students started exchanging songs and chants with the Koreans. Sung kept explaining the songs to Regn and me, "Traditional Korean Song" "Soccer...Cup...Cheer?". I was disappointed with the Filipinos, however, who just kept singing Wowowee songs. *sighs*

That night, the awarding took place. The performances were amazing. We had no idea we were going to get 2nd place (we had inside information that the Korean judge was extremely unfair and biased against us). It still hasn't sunk in. We got 2nd in an international competition. I look at the medal now and can't seem to muster much emotion about it.

I went there to experience something that I wouldn't have the chance to experience elsewhere. The prize seems irrelevant now. All I'm really happy about are the moments I had with my friends and the people I got to meet there. What an experience.

who knows if the moon's

2007-10-21T19:00:00.000+08:00

words have become scarce in the wake of indolence. allow me to borrow, then, those of ee cummings in the hopes that tomorrow the world will once again give me a reason to write. enjoy.

who knows if the moon's

who knows if the moon's
a balloon, coming out of a keen city
in the sky--filled with pretty people?
(and if you and i should

get into it,if they
should take me and take you into their balloon,
why then
we'd go up higher with all the pretty people

than houses and steeples and clouds:
go sailing
away and away sailing into a keen
city which nobody's ever visited,where

always
it's
Spring)and everyone's
in love and flowers pick themselves

buhay buhay

2007-10-17T05:53:00.000+08:00

I've come to realize that writing in this blog is only appealing when there's something else I should be doing like, for example, studying for an exam. It's ironic really. Now that I have nothing to do, I do nothing.

So here I am, forcing myself to write just so the hinges don't get rusty. There's something there. Something that wants to be unearthed and exposed to the world that is literature but I have yet to find the energy and motivation to dig it up.

Ah. To be young and lazy. 'Tis bliss.

unslaked

2007-09-28T22:04:00.000+08:00

The urge to move you, pushes air out of my lungs.
I want to make you feel.

Passion.
Guilt.
Love.

The urge to touch you, forces lids to tightly shut.
I want to have you understand.

Commitment.
Compromise.
Love.

The urge to keep you, strains my fingers to trembling.
I want to let you see.

Pain.
Trust.
Love.

The urge to love you is too strong.

If wanting, spent and refilled, were our basis, you would be borne on clouds
to my feet, left there to bathe in caresses and breathless whispers

Of love
Unbidden,
Ignored.

of strange encounters and lost possibilities

2007-09-28T21:42:00.000+08:00

it was the light that night,
the light dancing steady in your eyes.

it was the weight of your stare;
palpable on my shoulders as i continued to move.

it was the slowing of my blood
as i turned on my back, catching my breath.

it was the heat and cold mixing;
and i fought, composing myself to remain calm under your gaze.

it was an intensity, unmatched.
i couldn't bring myself to meet the questions stirring behind your mask.

homage to the great poet

2007-09-19T07:34:00.000+08:00

Pablo Neruda, one of the greatest poets to have held pen to paper. I just wanted to share this with whoever might take the time to read this blog. enjoy. I hope you end up loving him, Neruda, as much as I do. ^__^

I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You

I do not love you except because I love you;
I go from loving to not loving you,
From waiting to not waiting for you
My heart moves from cold to fire.

I love you only because it's you the one I love;
I hate you deeply, and hating you
Bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you
Is that I do not see you but love you blindly.

Maybe January light will consume
My heart with its cruel
Ray, stealing my key to true calm.

In this part of the story I am the one who
Dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you,
Because I love you, Love, in fire and blood.

i miss you guys

2007-09-13T15:50:00.000+08:00

how does it happen exactly, the parting of friends? it seems so long ago when i was part of your life. and yet, when i think of you, nothing has changed. i remember. and yes, maybe it's an imperfect memory. details blurred. dates mixed and tangled. the telling is always different. but maybe that's what makes it so priceless. treasured stories of each other we keep hidden in shoe boxes, in books that accumulate with dust, in pages we turn over and over again. an attempt to recapture moments. different for each of us. we take away only what we found beautiful and worthwhile. sometimes, it's a small thing. but with us, it was always entire days of images flashing through the mind.

remember we promised to always be there for each other? remember those crazy ideas of opening a shop together? something for everyone right? (which for us meant food) but how could we possibly be good at that when we were too busy enjoying ourselves? and so the plan bloomed, involving the paths we chose to take. nurses and a doctor for a hospital, and a lawyer for all the screw-ups we were bound to make.

but dreams like ours have a funny way of remaining just that, dreams. i don't know anymore what you do during your free time. i don't know what drove you insane today. or what crazy new inside joke you have. we have different lives and different people have come to fill the roles we used to have with each other. a new laugh. a new set of arms to fall into.

i miss you guys.

still

2007-09-07T22:00:00.000+08:00

a jumble of fingers:entwined, hands:crossing, arms:draped
a mixture of body against warm body:mingling in the heat

no lines, rather contours. hips:merging, legs:interlaced
breath dwelling only narrowly in crevices left between

a mirroring of slow steady movements:shifting of weight
a dance of mirrored forms nestling snugly into place

i lie content, barely aware of your presence alongside mine
boundaries:blended:blurred:one

something new

2007-09-02T08:19:00.000+08:00

it felt good to finally do something new. i hadn't realized that life had become monotonous. don't get me wrong, having a routine isn't bad. but somehow it felt extremely good to do something fresh.

it was fun, doing soccer drills in the rain. it was even more fun to actually play soccer for the first time in my life. i knew only a handful of the people who were there but oddly enough, i was comfortable. i'd never been filthier in my whole life and yet it was completely refreshing. it was just what i needed, i suppose.

i wouldn't trade my first passion for anything in the world but i guess we all need a break, even from the things we love to do most. yesterday was a good day. it was good to be that person who sucked and had no idea what to do. it was gratifying to know that simply kicking the ball (even to the opponent) earned you a pat on the back and a few words of praise. it was fun. i'd forgotten what fun was. pure and simple fun from which you could walk away without feeling drained and completely out of it.

i went home wearing something i owned, something i borrowed, something disposable (thanks laya), and not wearing something that i should've been wearing. :) i looked a mess and i'm sure i wasn't completely mud-free yet but i didn't care. and it felt good not to care.

a short way from you, a few steps just across

2007-08-17T05:23:00.000+08:00

in a tiny hole near the core of my world there resides a heart,
hidden yet still beating.

beneath a comfortable shade a short way from where you live,
i scratched the surface of the earth with the scuff of my toe,
a little bit every day, until the ground caved in.

a few steps from the front of your door,
so near you would have seen with a peek from your window,
i battled with the devil. a war you could only imagine. leaving
the marks of a grave i never intended to make, to wait for you.

across from your comfort, i struggled with love.
unaware, you passed by me (a short way from me, a few steps just across)
until conquered, i placed my heart in a grave created by the scuff of my toe.
you will never know of my longing or of the nights i spent in a shade near you.
you will never know, my heart, my life has gravitated alongside yours but never with.

in a tiny hole beneath the place you call home,
i have placed my defeated heart. hidden, yes, but still waiting.

when i said i loved you

2007-08-09T22:29:00.000+08:00

when i said i loved you, i didn't mean to say that i like you.
it was an offering, an outright approval
of certain personal favorites that only i could have possibly had about you.
it was an assent, an acceptance
of the infinite number of things that might go wrong
and the wee bit that already had.

when i said i needed you, it was not to mean for always.
not to perfect me, or mold me into someone only you would think as better.
not to appose myself to your rather stiff frame for fear of becoming nothing away from it.
it was a basic need i spoke of, a primal urge, one that when quenched may be ignored.
it was, in actuality, myself i pertained to. you have kept with you replicas of myself.
it is that which i need.

when i said i love you, i never should have said only you.
but in saying i needed you, did you not see my purpose?
it was to say i would love you most of all.

shallow breaths

2007-07-26T22:36:00.000+08:00

move only if you must.
stay a while longer. linger
for love will not create for us.
we remain as we were.

eternity will not come
despite our promises.
hold me and i will cling,
living in your now.

hold me and i will cling.
stir only if you must.
the world continues to turn
but we, we will remain still.

-

2007-07-26T22:18:00.000+08:00

a slow wilting into stillness
art giving way to form
no, ravaged.
yes, ravaged by a graceless need
to belong
to stand out
to glory in a trifecta
of precision, accuracy, uniformity.
masterful.
glorious.
it is
neither.

you aren't that different from me

2007-04-01T18:40:00.000+08:00

you aren't that different from me.
when your hands reach down to touch mine,
they have substance, weight, and a texture
almost exactly like my own.

when you speak and my eyes remain still,
beneath lids tainted with the pigments of the earth,
i find denotation and sound aren't changed
despite our stark contrast in shade.

you aren't that different from me.
my world isn't a canvas dictated by color,
by slants, by intonation, and height.
you aren't that different from me but there is difference still;

i perceive depth despite.

living along the margins

2007-03-27T21:09:00.000+08:00

My soul lies awake tonight as if it has never known rest.
It lies awake at the memory of your name.

The recesses of my mind echo with but one sound.
Your name echoes in the recesses of my mind.

I am allowed no rest, no sleep.
You have taken, with you, my rest, my sleep.

At the sacrilege of voicing thought, the stars burn out.
Your name allows no utterance and thus I remain mute.

I live haunted and bound wide-eyed.
Your name haunts me and I live not if not to be bound.

I am reborn with the knowledge of your name.
With knowledge only of your name, I am still-born.

still frames

2007-03-25T17:12:00.001+08:00

your hands draw forth mechanic whirring
with short outbursts of electromagnetic radiation
streaming from flights of infinitesimal beelzebubs
wrapped in metal casings

i am amused, enthused, brought to laughter
imploring to remain within the ritualistic frameworks
of you paying homage to me or a likeness thereof
mirroring two-dimensional affectations on chemically-coated paper

i exist through captivity, imprisoned in dark rooms:
refuge to stolen souls sucking breath out of otherwise healthy men.
i exist through you. in a vacuum created from sensitised metal
requisitioning cognition and thought, incapable yet still smiling

broken families, no matter what anyone does, always feel broken

2007-03-12T09:54:00.001+08:00

how long does it take to forget? what does it take to finally be able to say we've moved on? i see your message on the screen, bridging the seas and vast tracts of land separating us. and even through the distance, i feel my body tense with uncertainty. what do i say? how do i convince myself that i feel hardly anything at this possibility of contact? i cringe at the thought that you are real. i shudder at the realization that it was only i who denied your existence.

but what would you have me do? i am torn. i am broken. i am lost and you have been shattered. shattered into the tiniest fragments that memory has allowed. shattered and scattered across time, across space that i will not occupy. i've forgotten you. i don't remember how it felt to have once been complete. i plead for the mercy of forgetting you. i beg for reprieve from a litany of words threatening to make me long for what has long been dead. when will you let me go? when will you allow me to forget you?

it has been too long and yet you've brought it all back with just one word.

missing you, i wonder how you look now,
wonder if you still do that little habit with your fingers

i remember you as if it was only yesterday
and realize it is only in yesterday that i have the courage to remember.

when sunrise is still a dream

2007-02-27T01:43:00.000+08:00

The night hosts a sea of darkness as we hide in the pause of our prolonged purgatory. Resting place of the weary. Haunting grounds of waiting souls.

"Are you cold?", you ask, straining to sit closer.

"Not at all," I whisper knowing no sound will bridge the barren space around you.

(It must have been so hard for you. We were so unhappy. )
Tears course down your soft cheeks. What can I do but hold you?

"I'm happy. I've always been so happy."

And the night watches, cradling my lies, forgiving me my inconsistencies.

why mornings are so cruel

2007-02-14T16:49:00.000+08:00

day 1

He woke up. Frying pans. Plates. Egg. Rice. It has begun. And he watched the steam, rising from his still warm coffee, brew war.

"Did I get the eggs right?"
A nod of acknowledgement with the clatter of spoon and fork.

day 2

The whisper of a name yanks him from a cocoon of dreamlessness. Palpitations. Voiceless cursing. Humidity of new day. And only a dim awareness of droplets of sweat persisting, forming, nagging and winning.

"Hush now. You've just been dreaming."

A hand running through bedraggled hair with the resounding drop of a head on the pillow.

day 3

There is nothing but his eyes flutter open. Sleep chased away. Weight. And there is nothing more painful than having to peel off covers wrapped around, stuck tight to the skin.

“It’s there today.”

Not even a stare with the rustle of the broadsheet’s pages to the obituaries.

day 4

He is awake and watches dawn shatter through the blinds, conquering the empty room. Troubled breathing. Dark circles under bloodshot eyes. And he waits.

“Are you ready?”

A black pin placed over his heart with the assent of silence.

day 5

He woke up. Frying pans. Plates. Egg. Rice. It will continue. And he watched the steam rising from his still warm coffee brew war.

first meetings

2007-02-02T13:32:00.000+08:00

In the beginning, there was only the spark of something, barely an inkling of familiarity, and only a sense of a rather awkward hesitation. There never arose a need to act. For action would, in its typically vulgar manner, destroy the anticipation cleverly hidden in our brief and tight-lipped encounters.

Polite conversation. A brief nod. Perhaps a small smile every now and again. A clever story about common friends if luck allowed. Supressed glances. The fanning of cheeks that have become much too affected. Pleasantries. An indescribable attraction to describing the weather. And the widening gap that lingers in between.

Because at the very start of everything, there is only the turning over of possibilities in the presence of famished silence.

content

2007-01-24T20:56:00.000+08:00

Maybe it's something as simple as eating ice cream on a bench together. With the still night sky not being particularly clear and a patient moon not seeming at all that extraordinary. A plain evening with all its routines and customary bothers. No soft music or dimmed candlelights. No traces of roses or promises of a stolen kiss. No furtive glances or increased heart rates. Nothing at all. Just ice cream and being together.

2007-01-08T01:22:00.000+08:00

I've spent the better part of a month aching to post here and now that I finally have the chance to do it, I have nothing to say. *sighs* So much for that.

----------Belated Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!----------

midnight

2006-12-06T01:08:00.001+08:00

the radiance hidden in the locks of your hair

tumble across your shoulders,

spill over and across your silent frame,

rise with the steady cadence of your breathing.

in awkward leaps, my heart traverses the barrenness

separating my being from your own,

stretching across the contours of your figure,

moving in rapture with the new knowledge of your touch

at the beck of sinuous magic entwined in this wordless worship,

this homage to the sacred temple of your soul,

the unseen boundaries veiling my purpose waver

and i lie, once more, in perfect surrender at the center of your existence

2006-11-29T13:52:00.000+08:00

When there is simply

the primal urge

to write,

the desire

without the forms it is wont to come in,

words become

inadequate

and the medium that they travel in

becomes nothing more than a

v____a__________s______________t

UNCONQUERABLE

emptiness.

a tribute to lost love

2006-11-14T14:16:00.000+08:00

There was a beginning, not so long ago. But as is wont to happen in stories of love begun, lost, found, and lost again, there is nothing left except the confines of the ending. There is nothing to dwell upon but the finality of the void. And all that is there to recount is the sound of an unreachable sea in the walls of an empty (and alas, it is oh so empty) shell.

Our memories were buried in a nameless grave. And it was the dead, amongst which the casket resided, who bore witness to the regrets. And although we promised not to, the earth atop the site shows that the vestiges of our past had been exhumed and examined. More than once, the handiwork of such a terrible task was not my own. But the violent flow of secrets hidden deep in the earth's core is irrelevant. Who she is, who she was, continues to haunt me in the depths of my desperate soul.

She was the warmth. That much I remember. Of the two seasons I have had in my life. She was the warmth. She was MY warmth. Perhaps that is the only way to describe her. Perhaps this is the way I wish to forget. Through the slow and laboured process of losing the picture of her face and her smile. Through the deliberate unlearning of her touch.

With the reminiscing of our story, the frost of winter has now come at the threshold of my sanctuary. And with its violation upon my essence, I seek the heat of a heart that has long been lost to me. What do the reasons matter? The dates? The times? The names? The mind is not so great that it can hold on to such trifles as these when it is overwhelmed by the one irretrievable fact: She is gone. There is nothing now but a world of twilight and ice.

_ _ _ _ _

2006-11-09T09:10:00.001+08:00

. Was it so long ago
when you last held my hand,
stroked my hair,
said my name out loud?

.. Were you so lost to me, not noticing,
when I last searched for you
in a crowd,
in my heart,
in all that I have allowed to define me?

... Was it so painful
That i can't find my way back
to you who does not want me?
and i tread on in an outpouring of "if only's"

This isn't a work of poetry. They're just thoughts. Pipe dreams. Words for someone who will never read them. And if he happens to find his way here, someone who will never understand just how close he got.

drained

2006-10-08T04:14:00.000+08:00

it is nothing

but a burgeoning doubting

in my mind

but a question asked

in secret into

familiar valleys of a

drowned and comfortless pillow

but a tirade of rage

and bitter finger-pointing

to myself and no one,

almost no one, else

but an itch

i have scratched

too many times over

until a wound has formed

until an infection has spread across

the sinews and threads

of the suffocating why

that is my Calvary

silence.

only the silence

of feigned ignorance

and duty-bound forgiveness

can make it right.

only my silence.

it is nothing.

something that's entirely too long

2006-08-26T20:10:00.000+08:00

I wrote this paper for a class. It was supposed to be about me but everytime I read it, I don't recognize any part of it. I can't identify with anything about it. Maybe it's not about me. Maybe it is. I'm not really sure. I never did get to submit it for my class. And for the sole sake of having it fulfill whatever purpose it was supposed to have, I leave it here where, perhaps, it might hold even the tiniest truth.

As I stare at the half-sheet of paper in front of me which tells me that I must write about my problems, my fears, and my doubts, I find that I need to pause. To be honest, I have been putting off writing this paper for a few days now. And I know it’s because I hate to inspect myself. I hate to look back and say “This is my life. This is me.” Because no matter how I try to leave the grisly details out of my writing, I find that the shadows of the past will always creep back into my consciousness. But I guess now is as good a time as any to write it. I have done it a million times before, I can do it again no matter what emotions it stirs up.

What is it I fear? I fear for myself. I fear for my family. I fear for all the people who will end up like us. My mom and my dad separated last September. And although I understand my mother’s reasons perfectly, I can not help but feel the bitterness encroach upon what was once my sanctuary. I hate that they destroy each other now as if they had never known love for the other. As if they had not formed with that love, four children. As if they had not nourished with that love, a home that lasted for 26 years. As if they had not withstood with that love, the quarrels and the abuse and the pain that they both felt. I hate with the entirety of my heart the fact that they don’t even loath each other, that no spark of emotion is left except guilt and fear. Guilt. Fear. Detached emotions. Undoubtedly very strong emotions, but detached nonetheless. I wish to blame it upon one of them. I wish to blame it upon both of them. And as old as I am, I find that what the movies and what the books said were all true. You end up blaming yourself.

If only I had been stronger. If only I had done something. But I could never have done anything, in much the same way that I can do nothing now.

And all of a sudden, I find myself crying for no reason. I run to him asking him to listen, wondering if anyone else will see that I have been destroyed. I find that I can no longer deal with the stress of school. I can not concentrate. And where I was once unmotivated, I am now completely aloof. I ask for more attention than those around me can give and I cling to every ounce of courage I have just to keep from falling apart. During the few times that I find myself alone, such as when I write this now, I find myself crying from a physical pain that wrenches my chest apart. And when I probe my mind for the reason, I find none. I don’t know. I forget. And I find that all I want is to forget. I can’t forgive my parents. I can’t forgive the circumstances. I can’t forgive myself. And so I forget. I run into the laughter that will drown out the bitterness.

What I am afraid of is that one day the things I keep bolted up inside myself will wage war upon me and that I will not be strong enough to overcome the onslaught. And so I cry. And I pray. And He forgives them for me. And He forgives me. And once again I am brought to a place of refuge. And my soul which has become scarlet turns white as first snow.

But I am weak. And at times when I find myself thinking too much about the things that have happened, I lose my footing and I slip back into the brokenness that is my past. I am not driven by the same things that drive those around me. What I dream of, what I wish for, is not what they dream of and not what they wish for.

I wish to one day wake up and find that my parents are back together. I want my dad to change. I want my mom to love him again. I have nothing I want for myself. I have nothing beyond this moment except for the hope of being happy again. What I want is to be happy. What I want is to be able to have all the people I have in one room.

I want to be able to have all the people I have ever loved and who have ever touched my life in one room. Together. Happy.

But I cannot and so I try lose all the emotions I have hidden in my heart through my writing, through my dance, through my music.

They told me I was blessed to have to suffer at an early age because in the wheel of life it meant better days were coming. They told me that when I was in sixth grade, when my brother left home and my dad still hurt my mom. Better days have not yet come. And although I know that many others go through what I do, that many others have survived through much worse, I fear that I might not.

I want to be happy. I want to be at peace. I want to finally be able to look back and say without qualms or hesitation, “This is me. This is my life.”

2006-04-25T10:14:00.000+08:00

it's been a while since i last posted. and in that time, a lot of things have happened. i owe a lot to all of you who have left your kind words of support. thank you. thank you. thank you. i don't usually post like this, not so direct and never so vulnerable, but then again, always this sentimental.

thank you. to all of you. blue rogue. soulless. max. cj. and all the others who read this blog.

riddles

2006-03-24T19:47:00.000+08:00

For the first time in what seems like ages, I woke up today and the pain wasn't there.

I've been having trouble waking up lately. It's because of all the ghosts that haunt me while I'm asleep. They cradle me in their lifeless arms and stroke my hair back with such vicious force that patches of it are ripped off. They do it as if to say I will never be free. And when my feet are cold from the frost that flows from every fiber of their existence, they begin to chant in a voiceless whisper. Kalusa Indir Lahid. Their bodies, at first gentle and wispy beside me, become heavy. Kalusa Indir Lahid. They throw my body to and fro, faster and faster, as their murmuring turns to shrill cries of glee. Kalusa Indir Lahid. The unknown that once stroked my hair turns and with his touch slowly tightens my locks around my neck. Kalusa Indir Lahid. I am frantic but my eyes remain shut. Kalusa Indir Lahid. I choke but consciousness remains distant. Kalusa Indir Lahid. They bind my arms and I thrash from the pain of the stories they continue to whisper. Kalusa Indir Lahid. I submit.

And finally, mercy of mercies, I awake and they disappear, leaving only a faint chill on my arms. And at that moment of blessed silence, I remember the pain of the tales they weave, the memories they desecrate with their laughter and nothing is left as their misery engulfs me. Nothing is left as my mind screams from the burden of knowing. I am reduced to emptiness as my soul cringes from the day I must face without the comfort of the hopes they had uttered so violently in my sleep. It was all a dream. You were just a dream. And now the world rushes to claim me in its version of reality.

But for the first time this morning, I woke up and the pain wasn't there.

May your nights be safe from curses and may your dreams be free of me as I pray mine would finally be free of you.

farewell

2006-03-12T02:54:00.000+08:00

the clouds conspire with the stars
as they brood over the doings of mankind;
speaking of devils they've hidden under the earth;
talking of the changing of the leaves;
laughing about Luna's vanity;
and whispering,

whispering of the tiny figure in the middle of the field
crying out to the void around her;
sobbing out in a language that created all that is;
begging desperately for courage as she
chokes on the bitter tears that only the dimmest hope can give.

i'm not sure yet. but i think this may be my last post for a very long while. there are some things that are too important and too sacred to sell for a couple of poems or maybe a few good stories. this time, i'll let it wash over me. this time, the words will have to wait. this time, i'll say it: out loud, to his face, with tears streaming down, and nothing holding me back. it's about time i learn what it means to be strong. thank you for telling her that. "si car ang pinakaimportanteng tao sa buong mundo." maybe next time i post, he'll understand what it means. hope never ends where love never fails.

In a world of eight billion people, it is unforgivable that so many feel so alone.

2006-03-05T17:03:00.000+08:00

I like to think that I haven’t been posting because I’ve been to busy. I’ve been too busy with school. I’ve been to busy with joining rallies. I’ve been to busy with friends. I’ve been too busy with life in general. But right here, in the core of everything that drives me, I know that I’ve been lying to myself.

I can’t post. I can’t write. I’m not strong enough to be alone will that my heart has dammed up inside it.
At night, I find I can no longer sleep. I dread the time just before slumber overtakes me. Because it is then that I am overcome by the emotions I tried so hard to fend off. I am defenceless. I am weak. And I let loose a rain of tears that do not console. I allow the sobbing to wrack my body knowing it will ease nothing.

What is there for me to look forward to when everything I have ever believed to be important is failing me? They will never make-up. Nothing will heal the scars that they have inflicted upon each other. My family will never again be whole. And you, the last beacon of hope, have grown distant. It won’t be long before you tell me the true reason for your indifference. It won’t be long before I tell you that I have known all along.

One by one, they will move on to what joys they have already seen in the horizon. And I will be left here, nursing the wounds that all of them have, without shame or hesitation, given me. I will be left here drowning in the noise I will create for myself. I will be left here, dreading the solitude that will come and the anguish that is its partner.

“‘Til the wheels fall off”, remember we copied that off that lousy movie? What now when the wheels have all gone off?

humor me

2006-02-12T21:06:00.000+08:00

i make sure to check my messages alone
preparing myself for an onslaught
of updates on the rules of a god
you both failed to abide by.

in the anticipation, i feel a familiar ache.
i escape into darkness as i wait for what is already before me,
closing my eyes, leaning back, massaging my temples
to ease a migraine eighteen years in the making.

and when realisation creates an itch to deep to scratch,
scanning the contents, i feel myself tremble.
tremble with the irony of what we’ve become.
tremble with the mirth of your hypocrisy.

and when i can control it no more, i release
the laughter that can no longer be contained.
I laugh so hard that tears run down.
I laugh so hard that tears run down in torrents.

grim

2006-02-11T20:42:00.000+08:00

the memory of all that was ever good
remains intact, unbroken, unopened
within the noise and fortresses
of this empty form

and here it will stay
unwanted
until it is ready to pass into oblivion
until i am ready to let go

tangled

2006-01-23T21:31:00.000+08:00

" If i were the rain
that binds together the earth and the sky
who in all eternity will never mingle,
could i bind two hearts together?"
- Inoue, Bleach episode 9

when the road ends
and there is no more room
or breath
left
for me to chase after
fallen dreams,
i'll walk back
for the echoes
and painful shadows
of what i alone
will be left to remember.

2006-01-04T21:59:00.000+08:00

that broken families are a mistake
that love lasts and lives forever

that he will not leave
that she will not make him

that i won't be stuck
in between

that it is logical
that it is never justifiable

that hitting me will change me
that kissing me will change me

that time will make it better
that wounds will eventually heal

that i am afraid
that i will end up like my parents

that no one will notice
when i already have

amen

stunned

2006-01-04T21:49:00.000+08:00

until all that was left
was the buzzing in the ears

trepidation

2005-12-12T22:39:00.000+08:00

the pain surrounding us
radiates a monotonous hum

as the darkness creeps,
probing for our tense forms,

as the silence encompasses
the length of this

insignificant space
we are wont to occupy,

as your hands draw forth
the reverberations of my torment
and terror

The Brutal Truth

2005-12-07T12:31:00.000+08:00

You start out with an itch, an annoying sensation at the back of your mind poking at you, urging you to write. You think up all these great concepts for ghost stories, love stories, how-my-life-is and what-I-ate-for-breakfast-today stories. You end up frustrated because everyone else is writing about that and it would take up too much energy to come up with a piece that would be considered unique. So you decide to write about something that nobody really writes about (although there’s a perfectly good reason why nobody writes about it). You decide to write about being a dormer.
The stage is set, you only need to start. You fumble for words but everything’s been used. Who hasn’t talked about the dirty toilets, the bad cooking, the musty odours or the half-baked rules? Who hasn’t written about being annoyed by the cats that spawn out offspring in hordes or the rather ambiguous way to answer the paging system: “coming!”? Who hasn’t ended their essay on a rainbow-and-butterflies note that despite all of the really negative aspects, dorm life is made worthwhile by the love, friendship and all the other phoney flowery words that supposedly spring from bonds between dormers? You decide that you are still too young to have your writing career end on such a sad article. You do not write about the above-mentioned things.
By this time, you are now so tired of thinking and your brain is finally so fried that you give up and decide to write the honest truth. Your masterpiece turns out to be a single sentence: “There is nothing uniquely amazing about being a dormer only that for a brief moment in your life you are allowed to feel the amazing rush of becoming independent (and all that this entails) in a place where three hundred other people are having the same experience.” No one understands your final piece and you end up in the same place you started, a blank blob of nothingness in an endless sea of faces.

-untitled-

2005-11-21T14:46:00.000+08:00

I saw a butterfly today.
As I waited for life to start,
I watched it dance across the space
allotted by time.
It piroutted above the milling heads
of important individuals,
parading its exquisite hues.
Slowly, it floated up towards me and whispered,
"I try so hard for them to notice
even knowing they will all to soon forget."

hanging

2005-11-20T15:39:00.000+08:00

What then
when all the words
have been written
and all that is left
is life
moving on
without you?

just a thought...

2005-11-20T15:36:00.000+08:00

We create so many ghouls and monsters in the hopes that when we project the horrifying truth about our humanity onto them, we might by some miracle become beautiful.

mine

2005-10-15T04:50:00.000+08:00

in this darkened corner
i hold the two pieces
of a long-forgotten puzzle

as the shadows lengthen
and the echoing
moans of a broken soul deepen

blameless

2005-10-15T04:35:00.000+08:00

where was i when the sides
were chosen
when the laws and the

endless
bickering
chose the arbiter

for this
our last
tussle

i feel now as if

I

am to blame
for only i
wished it upon US

i won't be posting for a while (probably 2 weeks) because my 1st semester has officially ended and i have to go home for the break. *this note is for all the sweet people who are kind enough to visit my site. thank you*

the ninth

2005-10-08T02:11:00.000+08:00

she stands barebreasted
in the rain
with her softness
and infirmities
naked
to the wetness
carressing her intimately
with tiny fingers
and broken nails

the night
black and beckoning
abides
on the temples of her luminance
lathering
the shoulders of her longing
tracing
the curves of all
that is woman inside her

she dances with eight muses
bending to the silence
and submitting
to voiceless agony
as a stream of raindrops
cover her in anonymity
forming puddles of doubt
beneath her feet

as she turns
arching her back
throwing her head
flailing wide her arms
the rust sets in

-blank-

2005-10-02T19:33:00.000+08:00

i can't seem to find anything to write about. just when my life is getting interesting and things are starting to seem just about ready to explode into a big kaboom of angst and hurt, i find myself in this slump most often called "writer's block".

i am a big mess of ironies.

even if in vain

2005-09-22T21:20:00.000+08:00

I search for your silhouette at night
when the lights are dimmed
and the corridors
that witness your whispers
are lifeless

I seek your warmth
as the wind traverses across rooms
reaching with scrawny
fingers
for sleeping prey

I wait in eager anticipation
for the return
of the faint trace
of your breath
upon my being