Waking up

Waking up

I remember waking up thinking that
I wanted the world to freeze right
when my arms locked you in.

That I happily enslave myself as
my hands morphed into chains
to keep you, to make you stay.

I beckoned the night to let me lay
believing it didn’t leave for a while
longer and far longer than what

seems like a perpetual waiting
begging for things to be still, frozen.
I thought if I had kept my eyes shut

I would remember the thought to be
wonderful; yet now I lay in bed in
restless contemplation. I wait here.

I wait for the time to stop yet again
even for a moment to stay put
to believe that such is genuine bliss.

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He wanted me to fight

He wanted me to fight

He wanted me to fight because he said that what we had was something worth fighting for. He said that I was enough like it was your favorite chorus from a song. He said it like a hard sigh of relief. And beneath all the fear, he said it like a cry in the open to tell the ancient heroes of old that what they died for were real.

He wanted me to fight because he said that what we had was something worth fighting for. Something perhaps worthwhile after the storm. Something that I could call home. Something that I can hold on to. Like a wish, like a warm hug or a glass of water, a shade in the rain, heaven on earth, a star in the sky worth wishing for because faith was all I needed for them to come true.

He wanted me to fight because he said that what we had was something worth fighting for. And he said it like he has slayed all the monsters creeping underneath my bed. He said it like God stood by my side telling me that He won’t leave and I can touch him. He said it like the wind, I barely see particles but I know it’s there brushing, caressing my face like the melody of my favorite song. He said it like the first time he held my hand. Clueless, why would he choose to hold my hand when he knew clearly that he wanted to be alone.

He wanted me to fight because he said that what we had was something worth fighting for. He said it like he did not want to be left alone. He said it like he was screaming to the void that he will never be alone. He said like being alone was an unforgivable sin. He said it like I made him feel that he would never have to be. Not anymore.

He wanted me to fight because he said that what we had was something worth fighting for. He said it like I was compelled to stand there. Breathe and nod. Like all there is left is to say ‘yes.’ Like everything, the tears and the fears would come to pass like time, like breath. And for once, love was never a feeling or a person. It was and forever will be a call to arms.

Fairylights

Fairylights

I like how fairylights embellish the trees.
They glow like fireflies in the night.
Cliche as it seems, they linger,
Dazzling nymphs alive in the dark.
I trail past them each evening.
And I find myself one with them.
My arms are the lovely branches
My breath reeks of leaves
I am enveloped by the lights.
And I am beautiful.
I actually like it. Sometimes, I don’t.
These endlessly sparkling garlands
choke me as the light heats up
indefinitely and I fade as it glows on.
I become the poetry as I keep
my eyes shut, standing still, pacing slowly
like the sparkling trees down the street.
as time passes like the wind;
It smells like coffee and cigars.
Like young love, like emptiness and dread.
The igniting lights choke me
I fade and I am nothing but the tree bark
Save for the fairylights as I remember
I am beautiful and I am dying.
I like that I slowly fade
Knowing the night would not last long
I wait for the wind to stop blowing
I wait for my existence to cease despite
Standing there still down the street.
I wonder how long these nymphs live
How do they stay alive with pain in their necks?
How long do their leaves stay green?
How long before they fade into ashes?
How long till I stop asking and return to
Admiring the majestic lights as the night
Fades into a close and the morning rises.
Perchance the beauty of these trees is a lie.
While the fragrance of the wild city
Keep themselves near, I stand still pacing.
I argue with myself and stay alive for the day.
Waiting for another debate to bother
myself with when the night says ‘hello again’

 

 

 

Sa oras na mahanap ko ang perpekto kong sarili

Sa oras na mahanap ko ang perpekto kong sarili

Sa oras na mahanap ko ang perpekto kong sarili,
sasabihan kita.

I-chachat kita. I-tetext kita. I-popost ko pa.
Sa lahat ng social media na meron ako
Matatagpuan mo siya,

Ang perpekto kong sarili ay naghihintay
Nagbabadya sa paglipad at pag-angat
mula sa lusak na pinanggalingan niya.

Sa oras na mahanap ko ang perpekto kong sarili,
hindi ako mag-aatubiling itago siya.

Hindi siya magmumukmok sa sulok kung
saan ko siya madalas iwan, kung
saan ko siya madalas hinahayaan
nagkukubling mag-isa sa dilim,
nalulunod sa mga lihim,

Nagbabasa ng mga utak na magaling
Magpanggap na wari’y totoo siyang
Naghihintay at humihinga kung saan siya naroroon.

Alam kong inaabangan mo siya dahil
Alam kong pagod ka na, bagot na bagot ka na kaya;
Alam kong ayaw mo na sa aki’t
Siya ang nakikita mong pag-asa kaya;

Sa oras na mahanap ko ang perpekto kong sarili,
sasabihan kita.

Ipagsisigawan ko pang nangyari ang imposibleng
matagal mo nang ninanais makita.
Malalaman nang buong mundo pwede palang
mapunan ang lahat ng aking pagkukulang
Hindi na mauulit ang kahapong araw-araw na lang
na ginawa ng Diyos ay namamalas mo; malas mo
dahil malas ko; tarantado akong
nagpupumilit bumangon; nagpupumilit lumaban

At sa awa ng Diyos, Kanya namang hinahayaan;
hindi pinababayaan kahit hindi na maintindihan;
kahit dahan-dahan, hindi nawawalan;
hindi nawawala sa kawalan

ng pag-asang maging buo kaya

Sa oras na mahanap ko ang perpekto kong sarili,
sasabihan kita.
Hindi ka mauubusan ng imbitasyon.
Una ka sa listahan. Ang panauhing pandangal;
Una ka sa upuan. Mag-isa ka sa isang buong hanay;
matiyaga kang magmatiyag ng kagila-gilalas na
pagpapamalas ng perpektong sarili ko.

Dito sa entablado. Dito sa kwadrado. Makikita mo ako.
Papasok, lalakad at rarampa tulad ng tipo mong modelo.

Sa oras na mahanap ko ang perpekto kong sarili,
sasabihan kita. Mag-abang ka, tambangan mo siya.

Gaya ng lagi mong ginagawa, wasakin mo tapos
Panoorin mong buuin ko siya ulit.
Gaya noong nakaraang linggo.
Abangan mo siyang ulit maging perpekto.
Maging buo; mapapagod at magpapahinga.
Matutulog at magpapaganda,
Maliligo at poporma.
Papasok, lalakad at rarampa tulad ng tipo mong modelo.
Tulad nung inaasam mong perpektong sarili ko.

Paulit-ulit hanggang sa matira ang namumugtong sugat,
mga nagnanaknak na hinaing na kailanman
hindi mapupunan ang mga pagkukulang
na kahit anong dahilang maisipan
ng walang kwentang tulad kong nagtatago
ng perpektong sarili ko sa sulok

Ng aking imahinasyon, ng aking takot
dahil kahit kailan hindi niya mabibigyang galak
ang tao; hindi niya mapapasaya ang tulad mo.

Sa oras na mahanap ko ang perpekto kong sarili,
sasabihan kita.

I-chachat kita. I-tetext kita. I-popost ko pa.
Sa lahat ng social media na meron ako
Matatagpuan mo siya,

Ang perpekto kong sarili ay naghihintay
Nagbabadya sa paglipad at pag-angat
mula sa lusak na pinanggalingan niya.
Panoorin mo lang siyang maglahong parang bula.
Dahil kahit kailan hindi siya magpapakita.

Epiphany

Epiphany

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.

 

Paalala

Paalala

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.

Life and times of a pounding heart

Life and times of a pounding heart

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.