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Posts Tagged ‘box’

Don’t upset the mainstream, he’d say.

Art for art’s sake, I think out loud.

 

Unless I end up whoring

at the art house

with rusted springs

at cushioned seat poking

scooped up gossips.

Eavesdropping 

some private lives.

 

I let his copulation of idea

with tried and tested formula

stink like the stench of urine

of those who had chewed

and vomited yesterday’s

mulch of cinematic nostalgia.

 

And feces too. And fetuses

aborted prematurely

at the conference table.

That goddamn scriptwriter!

 

He wants a Truman show

for peeping Toms’ and Marilyns’

who think life can fit in a box. Squared

wrapped in a gift, 24/7 in public

with the world half sleeping

and half awake. Eyes wide shut.

 

Well, everybody wants to be

porn stars. And millionaires too.

Sixty seconds to fame. Or shame.

 

I twist fate and turn some coincidence.

Making them laugh. Making them cry.

People love some happy ending

but of course, I knew the bitter score.

I’ll reveal on a one-on-one interview.

 

Facts gyrate around a pole dance.

Truth hides in darkness, so dim the lights.

 

I clip a scene here and there,

sanitized some bits

like clean sequences of plot

I trim into fairytales-

reality cloaked in dreams.

 

Then, there’s the director’s cut.

I have hidden something

here in a draft, unpublished.

I create an imaginary character

of the self I would never be.

I plagiarize someone else’s life.

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Here, in the box are things that you left me.

It’s been years I kept them hidden under

my bed. Should I throw it away? A burden

 

that I should burn it aflame with the world

like this tongue of hatred growing each day.

Oh sadness, it lingers through days like rain.

 

I have learned to befriend loneliness. I am

a castaway and a stranger to my own skin.

Chained to asking myself of what, why or how-

 

I build myself a wall of defense in silence

shielding me from these ghosts of abandon

and fear. Believing I have moved on but no.

 

I ran away as fast as I could in circles

until the soles of my feet bleed in despair.

I hated you and I should tell you that, now.

 

The blue light to my cigarette starts another

round of stinging away this loneliness

floating in loops through the night’s surreal air.

 

The beads begin forming in my mugs of beer

unknowingly- which of those are my sweat or tears-

blurred in the sad memory that you left me.

 

Remind me of things in that box of dreams,

by the time I know it, smashed to the floor

again. Made me satisfied to learn emptiness.

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We have cried together, seeing

the pages of our lives torn into pieces.

And how we knitted to rebuild it,

and washed them like dirty linens

in the laundry. Just like a potter

we build and sculpt in us

a new mold of the world

we never knew existed.

 

We exchanged our boxes

of secrets and a set of keys.

 

We swore by the heart. And

made a vow that we would keep

them locked and tightly sealed.

That we would be keeping each

other’s stories, only to ourselves

and no one else. And for the longest

possible time, it  has come to a point,

a reckoning. The seal of promise

had been broken.

 

Unlocking my box and spilling

the foam of words into little teardrops-

they fall like brimstones and fire

from the night sky, now. And the moon

must have hidden its face turning

into red, in anger and in shame. Bleeding

in the agony of a broken promise.

An impending death to a friendship.

 

Still, I am keeping my silence, thinking deeply

if it is worth to hide your keys in my pocket?

If keeping your box tightly sealed, or at once,

let them out in the open, will exact revenge?

While my flesh quivered at the thought

of why would you dare crossing the line,

betraying my trust. While my bones splintered

at the thought that I would dearly want you

squirm in your own bloodbath, redeeming self.

 

But I decided not to. 

 

Letting the ghost of your betrayal haunt you down

into your grave. A tormented soul, wandering

the dark halls searching for some kind of atonement.

Asking forgiveness.

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A box of reverie

I open today,

when hearing

a familiar old song.

An empty gaze

through the empty hall

brought back-

sunny days

and the carousel.

 

And all

the happy couples,

filling spaces

with their dreams

It used to be-

some balloons

float there

among the clouds.

See, even doves fly

with freedom on its wings.

 

Like changing of seasons

drifting away-

a gentle river

changing course.

I became-

a  passersby

to the playground.

To the carousel.

On one bleak, cold

Sunday morning.

 

If I have been-

a little kinder,

saying hello

with a smile.

But mine is

a restless heart.

If I have been-

a little braver

sending a letter

saying goodbye.

Maybe I’ll get

one sad response.

 

People, they say-

comes around,

the second time.

But there are things

which can’t be undone.

But here, in my quiet-

fathoming loss,

filled with regrets.

There is a word

that just, simply

left unsaid.

Sorry.

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Counting the hours to another sojourn, I have kept myself busy fixing and sorting the contents of my ever-rattled rathole.  And I have applied the Gung-ho principle to throw away things that for me has no use or maybe it can land as another hands-me down  to expectants. I don’t need this and I don’t need that. Whew! I am thinking,  next time I will try to avoid purchasing things which are to become clutter in my life.  In this kind of lifestyle I am having, always moving and  on the go, I should then minimize the collecting of things which has a temporal value.

Sometimes, I felt that this habit of collecting things that gives fleeting sense of happiness has been a hindrance for me to sprint a little farther than I used to. The so-called attachment to things makes me cringe to the idea that I can’t take them out with me, no matter how I would like them and had them ingrained in my system.

Here are the rundowns of things; will I have to keep them even more? Books ranging from architecture to literature to aeronautical science.  Self-help booklets by Deepak Chopra to Rick Warren.  CD’s and casette tapes of my favorite artists like Norah Jones, Lighthouse Family, Fra Lippo Lippi, Sheryl Crow and Enigma.  Architectural instruments like triangular scales, compasses, and lots of pens and Staedtler pencils ranging from 6H to 6B.

Ah, the poster colors and paint brushes I have them passed on to grade schoolers. The review materials and voluminous books on architectural codes I had them passed on to friends who would take the Board Exam. The receipts, the bills, the photographs, the floppy disks, I had them for safekeep.

And even old clothings, shoes, jackets and pants, I had them passed on to my cousins.  The computer peripherals I had them passed on to my aunt, the webcam and the optical mouse. I am just wondering, what if I could also passed on this entire life? Just kidding. But I do wanted that some vital organs in my body will be  donated in the future. The eyes, the heart, the kidney etc.

I think that this year, I will have to approach life differently with a new perspective.  I will be wise to keep things that are more valuable. That has worth and gives more meaning and definition to life.  I still believe that not a single thing can be taken out, and that what makes it temporal.

After each of life’s episodal twists, we must learn to de-clutter and sort out things to give more room to your inner space.  In that way, we can expect not to have internal overload.  We can have more to enjoy and experience the true things that can make you real happy.

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