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.

 

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.

Before August

The age of majority comes a ringin’
Messages; reminders that I’m not always
Always a kid dreaming, reeling the fantasies
I conjured at night in a safe haven

in my head.
There’s a room full of sparkles
and hope and fear, evolving.
They run and jump turning, around the
seemingly vast space of possibilities
cramped

Every night.
I watched them live and die and be
Born in a time where a journey like no other
Dawns before my very eyes.
And it’s painful to watch all the sparkles change.

They once have had wings
And eyes
And love
And poetry
And minds that uses its faculties
As creative and as chimerical as possible.
“Where have they gone?” I asked.
I questioned myself in a dream.

Now it’s the eve of July 31st.
I woke up this morning hearing a quiet response.
“They did exactly what they had to do,” it said.
“With or without your knowing,” it whispered.

“They grew up.”
I asked, “Like I did?”
“Not just yet.”
I’m left not feeling my face,
Not having a clue what to do next.
Until it said,

“They’re waiting for you.”

Something to laugh about.

One of these days I’ll have a new chore and that would be laughing as I stalk your Facebook timeline. I would be laughing at you and your new pet. “Aww. isn’t this just nice?” “Who knew he’d act like this?” “For someone who claims he’s an ‘epicurist’ when it should be called ‘epicurean,’ look how far he’s come to find this new girl…” Then again, “Aww, this is just nice.” To hell if I sound and seem bitter but I guess that would be me relishing my so-called happiness and contentment on the kind of life I have now.

Maybe it is difficult to work with my bodyclock switching on at 5:30 in the morning when I badly want to marry the bed for the rest of the day. Maybe I struggle making sure that I keep a lifestyle where I keep me feet on the ground by still doing the same things I do even before I even learned that I already have a job. Maybe it is hard for me to think about how I have to spend my hard earned money. Maybe I still find myself questioning why I took a job where I work 10 hours a day and get curious how I suddenly got to where I am now.

All these things and more swim in the pool of my thoughts wondering if I made the right choices in life. And then there’s you… Your eternal face etched deep in the core of my thoughts when it first learned what it’s like to be attracted.

“Adulting” made thinking about my future adventures a part of my system. The system never ate me. I devoured it whole. Because I thought it would be better to get the best of it than let it get the best of me; let alone get ahead of me. And that is something I try so hard to avoid.

Sure. You may ask why I exert so much effort avoiding that situation but the reason is clear. I would rather not make the same mistake I did before and look back… It’s a fucking time vortex in there. A rift in the fabric of my reality that is a fixed point in time and is a piece of my history that can never be undone. I have no other direction to look at other than forward and not back. At the same time, I have to make sure that none of the relics of you stand in my way as I tread through my journey. You bear no place in my heart anymore.

We had a chance. Twice. Perhaps it wasn’t even called a chance at all. It was a point in my life where it just had to pass and whenever I have to look back, I just have to keep singing the words “I’ve just seen a face” and cut it there. Because “I can forget” and no, “I have ‘not’ fallen” and no “you never kept calling me back again.” Everything else was all me; me and my mistakes and false hopes and dreams and me welcoming a calamity which I regret setting a place on my dinner table for.

Now, back to the part where I choose to laugh while stalking your Facebook timeline. As I read through your own train of thought -if it even deserves to be called one- I think that I’m happy I have claimed my freedom. I owned the key to the shackles I bound to myself and all I had to do was unchain myself and leave my own prison. I keep recalling that episode of my life and I’m left wondering. When will that new pet of yours realize that she is trapped in your dungeon of lustful desires and selfishness? If not that then I wonder, when will you learn that your selfishness and lustful desires will make you a sad man for the rest of your life? I do hope either of those limbos will end really soon.

And until that fateful day comes, I shall be laughing. At the back of my head. My laughter is too precious to be wasted on your story knowing I’ve come to make mine worth more than myths and fairytales.

For my love, my Pilot.

I wonder if there ever was a story behind your desire to fly. I reckon there was a day that your father taught you how to walk. And there came a day that he let you down. When your feet ceased trembling on the ground, his smile was as glorious as the sun that rose when you first gazed the world. And as his smile landed on your mother’s eyes, they knew what you were always meant to do.

I wonder why you wanted to befriend the smell of the grease on your hands embracing your skin like the women you once loved but never kept. I wonder if they tasted like drugs like their kisses, like the high that you desire; the high that love makes you. I wonder if it felt like countless shots of morphene, in solid faith believing that as long as you’re at home with the clouds the monsters that creep below will never hurt you.

I wonder why you wanted to memorize each screw of those engines. Perhaps there might have been a day that you knew how to put yourself together and there were days that you didn’t. Like knowing every inch of the stratosphere above the fabric of the earth but never understand, nor comprehend how to soar with them.

I wonder why you wanted to fly. How many times did the world let you fall? How many times have you been caught? How many times have you caught yourself realizing that none can fathom, none can overpower the magic that flying brings? Was walking, was falling never enough to make you believe that dwelling on the earth’s crust, savoring each step on the soil alone can bring you home? The place right where you belong. The heart where you truly reside.

Thrust. Lift. Drag. Weight. They said. The right variables for a safe flight. But they never secure us from the wrath of turbulence as we traverse the path away from the eye of the storm. Here it comes, love. The stratosphere is not safe now. The lightning catching up with our feet. The thunder clapping in our hands. Blazing like torches in the dim sky. A thick cloud of cold smoke smothering the light. Tell me. Do you still want to fly?

I wonder if there ever was a story behind your desire to fly. I wonder why you wanted to befriend the smell of the grease on your hands embracing your skin. I wonder why you wanted to memorize each screw of those engines. I wonder why you wanted to fly. Do you still want to fly? I’m frightened, love. I’m frightened like the whimpering cat that I was when you first met me. But if it is really is a lion heart that you possess… Brave enough to fight, the storm, the shadows, the darkness, the world. Love, do you still want to fly? Love, I’m scared but I’d like to see you try.

Some day.

And I was sitting on an office chair for a couple of hours straight until the boss entered the big pink room. He took a chair and sat in front of me. I turned to face him hoping to hear words to refresh the dull mind. Amidst the foreign tongues that sound a little there I was listening to the words of the boss. I didn’t even realize that he was already asking me about my future.

All the pink and white objects that surround me, even the little shades of black in the room all seemed to fade away as if they never exist. In a moment, moment I was stuck in a series of flashes of different realities which I first conceived to be merely dreams, hopes. But there I was, sitting; trying to think of a way to get through the conversation that is seemingly drowning me in my train of thoughts that doesn’t even have a decent direction.

“If you want to make your dreams come true so badly, why are you here?” These are the words. Not the very words that the boss uttered but the words that registered in my head. If anything, he had every right to question my presence in this office. And I had that power more than he did, he just happened to have had the upper hand. I sat there with eyes that lingered in space that even I cannot tell what exactly. If I were to tell, I believe it lingered in the flashes that I may have made true in some nights, some days.

I was there not noticing me swiveling on the chair. Every now and then I smile at the sensation of the refreshing words that he utter: words that remind me that my dreams still exist. They remind me that I still have the chance to see, feel and live them. Then again his question stands; hanging like a mistletoe on the Holidays. But I realize as I chew the metaphor, I have no one to kiss. I have the chance but there is no opportunity at the moment; no solidifying agent that would stretch my smile up to my ears.

I looked at my boss and I finally answered his question. I know I said different words but this is how they sounded to me, “I’m here because this is the place to be.” The place to be is now. And it’s the only place I could be and rather be because this is all I have. However, I didn’t argue by posing the question where else should I be… But I know I was right because it felt right. The right here, right now, is exactly where I should be. But what about the hopes and dreams, the flashes, the other realities that I keep blabbing about?

If I were to recall the very words I have been writing for minutes now, I guess it is safe to say that they are all quite blurry. Even I cannot tell what the future brings. Though I know I want to find them out so badly as early as I now, there is no way I can ever help it nor treat other than to just wait. Because that is all that there is to do. I probably sound like I’m slacking off but that’s all that there is. I do know that I must shoot for the moon and that even if I fail I would land on the stars.

The funny thing though is that even if I fail to land on the stars there are countless galaxies out there. There is a vast space that awaits when I take off. So yes, this is my now and I’m owning it. It does suck to live only in the moment but I guess this is the best way to make my life most special.

People weren’t kidding when they said that we must make sure that each second counts because it’s possible. Even if the some seconds, some minutes, some moments suck so bad, it doesn’t mean that they don’t count.

I saw my boss nod to me in agreement. He must have sensed that I knew what I was doing and whatever it was that I was blabbing about. The surge of temporary joy and contentment overpowered me. And I was still.

The best life that I could live starts in every second. Because that is exactly what constitutes the “now.” Though my dreams do not seem real now, I know I have hope. I know I have countless chances. In fact it’s not tomorrow that I keep praying for to come. “Someday.” That is all I could ask for. That’s what living in the now taught me: Someday will come.

The Analysis of Us

We. Me. The difference between those two are the consonants. And they bear the same sound. We never really want we to be perfect however we strive for “me” to be anything close to that. Because we could be close enough if me is. The arbitrariness of sound and language the same as the arbitrariness of how we fell in love. I guess that’s just how it works.

Ang tunay na kaibigan ko

Ang tunay na kaibigan ko:
Maraming alam.

Alam na ang pagtawa ko
Ay dulot ng mababaw na kaligayahan.
Dulot ng isang tasa ng matamis na kape.
Dulot ng masayang kwento sa gabi.
Dulot ng mga simpleng ngiti.
Dulot ng mga “kunwari”
Dulot ng pekeng sandali.

Alam na ang pag-iyak ko
Ay buhat ng mga problema
Buhat ng lungkot sa umaga.
Buhat ng magulong kama.
Buhat ng “may mahal siyang iba”
Buhat ng “wala akong pag-asa”
Buhat ng pagkabigo ni Mama.
Buhat ng ‘di ako mahal ni Kuya.
Buhat ng ‘di ko na kaya.

Alam na ang hudyat ng ‘tangina’
Ay gawa ng kinikilig ako.
Gawa ng kanyang paglaho.
Gawa ng mababang grado.
Gawa ng kawirdohan ng mundo.
Gawa ng dami ng trabaho.
Gawa ng init ng ulo.
Gawa ng dami ng pagbabago.

Ang tunay na kaibigan ko.
Maraming alam.

Alam na tanga ako.
Pero tanga rin siya.
Alam na gago ako.
Pero gago rin siya.
Alam na patibong ako
Kahit siya rin pala.
Alam na may sapi ako
Kahit minsan siya rin pala.
Alam na iba ako
Kahit lalo naman siya.

Ang tunay na kaibigan ko.
Maraming alam.

Parang ako.
Maalam magdrama.

My house looks a lot like this.

My house looks a lot like this.
The living room, the dining area
Both sit in one floor

Like twins.
Like the sun and moon
both hang in the sky at once.

Here I am.
The computer stays in the middle
On one side; turn  to both directions

Left and right, I can
see everything like I’m god.
Like the universe

Revolve around me.
I’m at the center. I’m
The sun where all

That consists this humble home
surround me. So much
descriptions; imagery.

But this is how it is.
We make normal sound
extraordinary as if it is.

While in fact it is,
We don’t feel what we say.
But this is home.

Like life.
Like us.
Like truth.

Yours truly, the fool

The snares of childhood come springing back like the storms I once tried to weather. I was an open book that recited itself word for word right in front of your eyes. From miles away, I was the so-called delicate flower that fearlessly opened, petal by petal not knowing each one that I shed could be burnt to ashes in an instant. We can say that right now, I’m no more than a weak little girl finding her way back home.

And I remember the thrill of not knowing you shared affection for me, What did I know other than the world never dared holding whispers and gossips from me? That the world bore despise of me. And I grew up to that. Even with the people whom I believe I loved were not saved from this curse. It was a curse that fate made itself and trapped inside my head.

Why did I even choose to be an open book when I am aware that anyone can practically burn every page of me? How brave of me to keep it that way in belief that no one would dare do such a crime. But I am a fool for stepping on gray areas, playing outside the field, in hope that one would sweep me off my feet and deliver me from uncertainty.

All I know are stories. All I know are legends. All I know is that I could be a legend made real. I could be a damsel in distress and a heroine if I wanted to. I am brave and bold enough to slay any creature if I have to. I could do so many things and be in so many places. No one need to dare me to traverse uncharted territory.

As long as I am what I am now, there is no need for fear.

Fearless and weak.

All that because I’m too bent. Too broken. Too scarred. Too wounded. Too tired to care.

And oh, behold, I’m a fool. Laugh at me now, if you will. But as fresh as the wounds I carry, the realization is clear as the morning I learned you left. I keep saving them without even trying. I was brought up to love the world and its scars. And with the scars I have gained during the wars, I learned that there is no use hiding them, not even myself. And certainly, there is no use hiding the fact that I too, need saving. I just don’t always admit it. Luckily, it is that time of the year.