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Posts Tagged ‘thought’

If songs would be puzzle pieces

to a childhood I thought was lost,

then I turn on the radio to hear

the steady stream of memories

flashing back. The lyrics would

tell you how I cling to the rhythms

getting through the rough days

veering deeper into a hiding place

I sought against tough times.

And a tear I shed reminiscing

it’s only yesterday when I tried

to erase the footprints of the past.

Never to remember the episode

of those sad melodies that I strum

on my guitar. Weeping.

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Like a string of pearls

snapped from the thread,

they rolled by to disappear

by the whiffs of a scent

opening up a stranger

to talk and be herself.

 

Sometimes you met someone

at a time you barely expected,

when suddenly somewhere

your world appears in color

finally. Stars begin to fill

the night sky with dreams.

 

Happy with a thought

that there’s never been a day

when you know you’re not afraid

anymore. She could be there

by your side. Your hand in hers.

Saying everything’s going to be

alright. Almost unlikely.

 

But fear is a great thief.

It plunders you out of years

slipping you by of chances.

Could’ve been. Love.

Should’ve been like that.

Undecided to pursue any longer.

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It get tangled in a way that it tightens

around my feet. The threads gripping

possessively over the need to cover

the parts that are constantly moving.

You say, I’d better be protected at all times.

And yes, I had been so, for years

and I can’t bear the thought that I would

in my deathbed  never wandered away afoot.

 

Today, it get tangled even more.

How I might need somebody’s hand

to untangle the orderly mess I am in.

How I might desperately need

to run away from the familiar things

 

I need to loosen up. Shaking off

from the strappy refuge I am

wearing each day- such monotony

that cloaks in itself comfort

which in fact doubles as a cage.

Freeing the feet that needs the feel

of earth, at last.

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These wasteful hours

in the museum hall

exhibiting the exploits,

critics alike

are flocking over,

in desperate attempt

unlocking

digesting

the meaning of a mystery

to which is none.

Blabber-mouthing platitudes

and bloated praises.

The body of work.

 

You will see how

this culture of patronage

drains the penniless,

being subjects

fallen prey-

caged

framed

to a prisoned canvas

of posing nude.

 

In a night enveloped

by a faked light.

Revealing,

showing

some fleshly delight

while acting out

a cheap scene ripped 

from the page

of a slut magazine.

 

An art nouveau.

A magnum opus

on which they praise

the painter,

and not the one

whose eyes

are staring back

from the canvas

like a muted witness-

mocking,

despising

the cultured whims

of the bourgeoisie.

 

They call it art.

And you shudder

at a thought, when

you know it is

a meaningless,

empty accolade.

Worth a few

hundred bucks

reclining,

staring

blankly to a space-

being still

and have nothing

to hide.

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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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Either way, we will neglect

this guesswork.

Swimming in the stream

of people encapsulated

in their self-made walls.

Jammed in traffic

of clues and hints,

lip synching the same

old line of self-defense.

A justification

followed by explanations.

Why do we choose to stay

the same?

 

For you, love is

a crossword puzzle

deciphering codes

stitching words.

If words would say rightly

the true meaning from the heart.

Then, we don’t need

a second chance

to feel as if the world around us

stood still. It will only leave

a language that we

both understood eversince,

that day we met

for the first time.

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There was a time in our lives

when we thought of the raincloud

as omen, spoiling the day

for us to play in the open.

 

The rain fills the street canals like rivers.

And if it has stopped, then hurriedly,

we rip pages from our notepads

to make us- paper boats.

 

We were so young then.

 

We are fond of races. We will race to see.

Whose boat comes first crossing the finish line?

 

If our paper boats were like voyages

of our little dreams. Would it be?

I didn’t cross the finish line first.

As mine have wilted wet, moving slow.

 

I have to be content coming in

as number two, a  second placer.

You always come away as the victor

in almost every races we used to play.

 

We are not so young anymore.

 

The tough gets going and it’s me

who have stayed behind, year after year

bobbing at sea. Sailing the ocean because

I didn’t win. Crossing first the finish line.

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