I learned to write poetry from scratch words
of what used to be broken shards,
broken pieces of a heart.
I was told that it tried to mend itself
from tormenting memories;
from unfulfilled promises;
from false hopes.
I remember how the skies sang to me.
“Hope wasn’t and was meant for the faint-hearted.”
That poetry was a song about melodies unsung.
That poetry was his lullaby for nightmares of old.
That poetry was my beloved young for new dreams.
I dreamed that he would let me embrace his broken pieces
to bring back hope in his eyes. But the skies kept singing
to me the same tune. That all that I have hoped for will
never be unless they come in words and flesh.
By and by, day after day.
The night would come moonless or with rainclouds.
Even in the pitter-patter of the raindrops on my bare shoulder
the song sounded familiar until it all made perfect sense.
I saw him bare with wounds from the war,
I saw the black circles in his eyes from sleepless nights,
I saw the alcohol stained tears I dried with my very own sleeves,
I saw the callouses in his hands and his knees;
I saw the universe that he filled with
the mountains that he moved,
the comets he engulfed in flames,
the planets he shook and the world he built.
They hailed from the earth and blessed by the sky.
His words fell like raindrops. His world felt like ashfalls.
I picked them up one by one like the bones we love
to break and build every single day.
I learned to write poetry from scratch.
Words that appear to come bare flesh and blood.
Emotions that grace from shadows and souls.
Not from broken pieces.
But eyes that sees itself as whole.
A whole that rose from the hope
that it solely hoped for.
Sana wag mo nang hangarin ang pagsikat. Hangarin mo lang gumaling bilang artista. Hindi kasikatan ang sukatan ng galingan. Hindi kung sino ang mga nakakahanay sa pagtatanghal ang sukatan sa kahusayan. Ang sukatan pa rin pagdating sa dulo ay ang pagpapamalas ng katotohanan at pagbibigay pugay sa talentong biniyaya ng Diyos.
I count each mistake you make while I watch my heart pound. I knew it wanted to learn how to love and stay; remain relentless amidst the storm it chose to fathom. But each passing day, I walk on tight rope and broken shards of glass… of promises made.
I believe in a thing called “faith”. But I also believe in a thing called “truth”. Thus I have faith in truth; and in truth, I trust. I hope and resign to… That as blurry as the dim day, my heart yearns for peace in the arms of truth… of which does not seem to exist in your presence and not even your words.
I sense them in your thoughts but hardly on flesh. And I worry that if I fall, will thoughts and words come catching me or will they bail just as soon as you saw me ablaze… in fear of burning, you disappear.
I wish I could paint pictures even with tired hands and crooked voice to tell you that I am more damaged than I thought I was. That I didn’t mean to search for my missing parts in your stories, or your embrace, or your offer to sustain me, or your tempting cups of coffee, or maybe tea or the nights we lay on the grass, or the way we question life and death itself, or the way you watch me die as I lie awake and you stitch your heart back up. Finding the right words, actions, thoughts… to manifest what love should be like. And at times when I need to cease the pounding the most, I reach out… and I find you empty. And I know I know deep down that it’s not, and never will be your fault.
Everyday, I wake up counting. Trying not to record the numbers but I… hear the sound of my heart pounding. I hear its desire to love and stay again. I hear its outcry that it yearns for a full stop, frozen in the middle of the storm it chose to fathom. And each passing day, I walk on tight rope or on broken shards of glass of promises made. One hand on my pounding heart, and the other on both ears. Screaming.
My angels mourn for what ails my heart.
On my behalf, they carry the weight of the world.
My heart; they shoot arrows and play percussion.
Reminding me of what’s left of it.
An imperfect specimen I can’t even name.
The remains could be given a pseudonym.
Permission to carve a pseudonym with your name.
On it went down and up and loose; I lose
You from the chains I devoured.
I told my angels to cease movement. It’s over.
The waves coming after my feet
Chasing what’s left of the heat
They come running after me
Even when it asked to be free
The arms spin like clockwork spears
Shredding time each passing year
Love came and left at dawn
I see it back; I see it gone
The fearless yell to me a warcry
The meek say to heal, you’d cry
Time and time, I watch it again
I don’t care how not even when
Angels and demons keep coming back
Like the rainfall and sunlight I lack
Wisdom yearning for the night to fall
Come sleep and come the curious call
Goodbye, I said to your big little pieces
Burn the rest of my hopeful wishes
Stay the night, the timelines say
Aboard your dreams, come sail away
This is the last time you put me to sleep. I will try hard to think of your kindness and patience forever etched in my dreams to avoid nightmares tonight. The light will cease to glow as I choose to obey your final commands. These shall be the night in which I will hear you tell me “Close your eyes” one last time. I don’t really want to think that it is the end but I want to think that tonight as I lay myself down, I will die. Death will come to me as soon as I drift to sleep in a seemingly perpetual numbness from the pain that you wrought to my heart; the pain the I wrought to myself when I let you in. Tomorrow, the angels will bid me welcome to a new life: one without you in it.
There is no such thing as a safe place
Under the screaming whispers of the rain
Cold daylight sets under my lids
The murmurs of the dead
They come crashing
Begging to be resurrected
Like ashes, like lego blocks
Begging to be picked up
Like shards of glass
I dreamed I was safe
Under those arms that said love
That begged patience
Making me thirsty in broad daylight
The sky was clear and blue
But the sun basked in flames.
What a pretty picture
Like a beautiful day
A warm kiss of coffee in the morning
Waking up still
With an open hand
For another cup of caffeine
Wake me up and up still
Here to be awakened
To a safe place which was not
Even close to a bed of sheets
Cool and clean against the heat
But the rain echoes in my ears
Whispering loud and clear why
Are you still here?