Ode to a ghost

Ode to a ghost

You know I cannot help but think about you
But I do not think highly of you
For some reason you never cease to end up
in my head like my brain is some sort of dump
The stench of wanted and unwanted things

Linger altogether. I smell them, breathe them.
I remember waiting and walking to and fro along
that long alley of lights and machines and coffee
Abundant with strangers walking and pacing like I do
I wondered a little how come they don’t seem
to look like me. And low, I beheld you from afar.

I remember your challenged length and reach.
Nearly leveled were our eyes which didn’t make
watching you so difficult not even meeting your lips
and your eyes; which in fact, were dreamy
at the time; at that very little time

That we, my dear, had
Nights. We had a few weeks of only nights
Spent walking through different streets lit
Only by moon and lampposts and trains.
I remember thinking about you as if it ran on a clock.
A clock with countless arms that seemed to run
around both clock and counterclockwise
And I remember the need to swim in the words
we uttered on those nights because I was a fragile
heart, you said. You were a stopwatch taking your
pace and space and your mind in your own head.

I was confused because you held me like you
Wanted me to be a part of you and yet you shun me
and my advances to the dust. “Take our time,”
You said. A hundred days slowly passed which was mine.
Because you told me to take them anyway. I took
My time like I should and as it was mine like
My heart was and still is too, I took all of them with me.
And it’s funny how after another hundred more days
You asked me me to welcome you back in a place
I no longer live in or even visit. Funny, right? Funny, yes.

You know I cannot help but think about you
But I do not think highly of you
For some reason you never cease to end up
in my head
Like my brain is some sort of dump
The stench of wanted and unwanted things

Linger altogether. I smell them, breathe them.
I remember waiting and walking to and fro along
that long alley of lights and machines and coffee
Abundant with strangers walking and pacing like I do
I wondered a little how come they don’t seem
to look like me. And low, I beheld you from afar.

I remember your challenged length and reach.
Nearly leveled were our eyes which didn’t make
watching you so difficult not even meeting your lips
and your eyes; which in fact, are now just a mere
stench of the past. A neglected scent of a ghost.

These are my ideas

These are my ideas

I have a new idea. I think I could even fall in love with it, the way I did with you. The way I would hope for things that you only disappoint me with. Like beer, I chug and swallow but never appreciate the taste. The way my makeup wears down through the day. You can hardly even see any left. The way I thought I’d be fought for, cared for, only to be let down.

Here’s an idea. I’m going out tonight. Somewhere so far I’d regret being there in the first place. By the time I got there, I would eat regret for dinner and watch every single busy person, loved person, occupied person, too productive person pass me by the same way the world revolves around the sun. Like regret and anger mashed into one disgusting cannon ball that smashed my heart because it believed I could be the sun for awhile.

Here’s another idea. I am selfish. I own my life like I own my pillows, my comfort, my satisfaction. And if you dare sleep with them I will haunt you in your dreams and make you wish you did not get them. Like kissing my lips in lit cigars or shot glasses, inhaling my breath without any permission even when I gave them freely… But I will take it all back because I still wasn’t the sun. So that is me making you rue the very day you didn’t revolve around me right on schedule.

Here’s another idea. Dancing with someone else would be nice. Like bowing down to a new master following his command when really I’m the commander, I’m the boss because I’m the little girl playing with not so little toys. And we’re in a party, alone… Just us under the stars in a graveyard of lost loves and regrets. Wishing I wouldn’t have to think about new ideas because you were my favorite idea, like a playmate. Like a partner in a crime I’d forever commit.

I just. I suppose you weren’t the best.

You may think you are a dragon but you’re a lizard to me.

You may think you are a dragon but you’re a lizard to me.

Annoys and annoys me.
You’re presence is toxic.
The way you extend out your tongue
Exudes with fumes
And I fuel it until I become fire

Fire fuels me as I fuel the fire
I now am the fire.
Don’t crossover.
I will burn you.
And you will burn.
To the ground with grit;
To pieces. To ashes.
To particles of fuck
Like the fuck you are.

Summer in my eyes

Summer in my eyes

I have not cried in a long while. Countless reasons came by and I can hardly understand why my tear ducks hold back. Has the dam grew dry? My heart yearns to shower upon the external the mourning it holds, the grief.

How can this life be cruel and not let me cry? I’m only human. And I have always known myself to be emotional ergo my heart easily runs with pain and it storms right through my eyes. Two decades of existence and twenty summers of ever wet tear ducks suddenly run dry.

Have I told you that this does not necessarily mean that I feel strong? Do you know that I don’t feel strong? Do you understand how vulnerable I feel? How could I run out of tears to cry?

I have been cruel to myself and to the world. And the most human thing that I could do is the one thing that is brought away from me. To mourn.

I ask a simple question. I ask one thing. Let me cry for the reasons that I have now. I don’t know how else I could let the pain out. I can’t bear to keep feeling the pain. I can’t bear to release the pain in ways I don’t quite understand. In ways I would wound myself more, in ways I would destroy myself.

Fate be less cruel to me, please. Wash the drought off my tear ducks and let me cry again. Let me be the kind of human that I’ve always been… That if I cannot bring what was, let me have that one part of what used to be.

Thus we learn

Thus we learn

I learned to love myself, you said.
That with you, I learned I could be new.

Down to hell the stories went.
Down with the fire all possibilities.

Let us take it really slow, you said.
I wish I made you up inside my head.

That I told you what you are.
That I showed you what you could be.

Apart from the future that I could see.
Apart from the picture of you and me.

I somehow chained you to me, you said.
Perhaps those kisses were not dead.

Perhaps the memories have never fled.
But the now must come to an end.

Like the way I jumped off the train.
That moment hurt you, you said.

Three months would not need be long.
That is if I take arms and I be strong.

No one’s bound stay, at least not today.
At least you learned to love yourself.

Not many learn that lesson this way.
But you might learn to love me back, one day.

Love Cats.

Love Cats.

I’m going to put it this way. First, cats have nine lives. Second, you are what you love. And remember that you love cats. And you are worth more than cats. You’re worth more than your utter love for cats.

Everyday, you watch them wander and sleep around the house. Sometimes, you can’t even help wonder how come they stay so cute and adorable and still have nine lives. And here you are, an idiot who knows so much, does so much and still not get the reprieve you deserve. But you still love cats.

Sometimes, you just want to lay in your bed and wait for them to crawl and find a spot beside you. From there you take the time to relish the moment that you get to cuddle with that little monster. Oblivious from the reality, you share the vibe that your feline possess. And you wake up a “feline” the next day.

But you know, what? You are strong and independent—but still slightly an idiot. Nonetheless, you are smart enough to not be a lazy butt like that cat right there. You know more. You do more. And that is just the beginning of everything. There is so much more that is ahead.

“And you are worth more than cats. You’re worth more than your utter love for cats.”

That being said, no matter how stupid, should at least push you a little further to the limit and break the walls that bar you from your hopes, your dreams. Cats have nine lives. But you have so much more. Be strong. Cats are lazy butts– but cute. But you’re a rockstar– and still cute. Remember that.

Daddy and Other issues

Daddy and Other issues

There’s like a bazillion people in this world and not everyone’s got Fathers who look after their children. Not all children get to experience the joy of having a strong foundation that is manifested by a father by their side. Perhaps I am lucky but a part of me neglects that fact.

Of all people who were lucky to have a dad and of all young girls, I think that I’m more a scullery maid than a princess.

Perhaps it’s really the culture here in the country that I belong to that I am expected to be a wonder woman in keeping the house than a sophisticated young lady. At my age, girls are bound to be a wise housekeeper and cook. Everyday is a war between me and the house that takes a hurricane to manage. (Maybe this is me being a complainy bitch more than a writer). But yeah, it’s a struggle for a highly exposed (to technology, of course) young woman that I am.

Maybe I think this way because I grew up too early knowing all these everyday tasks even though I have yet to perfect them. I guess I did grow up pretty fast that I know I can manage knowing them but still, I find myself yearning for other things that I know I’d surely enjoy doing. Yeah, maybe that’s what’s going on,

I know I am capable of doing my housework. [Yay] BUT— I know I’m too much of an outgoing person to be cooped up in a place where I cannot really extend myself enough to be genuinely productive. If anything, productivity matters to me because I really like getting things done. I also like to think that I have my own system. And by that I mean a “messy system” quite similar to what we call “working mess.” Perchance we can all agree that as we are all different, we all possess various types of sense of organization as well. And I believe in that.

Now what makes this conflicted is that I am actually “weird.” Mind you, I’m not saying this like I’m a mainstream-ish hipster kind of weird but I am my own brand of weird which means I’m quite different from others, especially my exceptionally typical family of different species of humans.

I think I appear to be overly descriptive and exaggerated for wording that out. But I guess I could save myself from that judgment since I can justify that it’s true. We’re a whole bunch of different and I’m unfortunately fortunate to be a mish-mash of all those different in one human skeleton. [Hi!]

Here comes the real issue: I feel like I am misunderstood by the people I live with. It appears that my working mess does not seem to compliment my very own environment. And it is concerning to see how I don’t seem to feel satisfied because the people that I do these daily tasks for don’t appear happy with the work that I do. It does not feel adequately satisfying either. Everything just seems to be tolerable but never genuinely good enough; especially when I start to hear my father’s comments about exactly every little thing that he does and does not see about the work that I contribute in this household.

Perhaps you might find this issue being repeatedly posted in this blog. I can fairly declare that it actually is a daily struggle among other upbringings that I do have. Nevertheless, I think I’ll not shut up nor stop crying about this until I finally find answers why such events do occur in my extraordinarily odd life.