Groping Sadness

From being completely happy, to feeling completely miserable in a span of twelve hours.
He walked in a mall full of people, yet still felt that he was so alone.

Sometimes he just feels so overwhelmed with emotions, he cries.
He feels restless, add to it the the bags he is carrying under his eyes fitting his problems.

He used to always feel like he was in Cloud 9. Now, he only feels like he’s in a cloud of lies.
He wanted to kiss as many lips as he can to remove the stamp of her lips on his mouth.

But he still loves her.
He loves her so much he kept apologizing to the bathroom wall for taking the punches meant to somehow ease his problems.
Nevermind the pain on his hand, he just wanted to feel something else aside fom the groping sadness that enevelopes him.

He is tired and restless, but still hopeful.
He’s hopeful that maybe on his way to his destination, somewhere along the way he’d meet the person who’d help him carry his bags, and together they’ll climb the clouds.
Someone who is more than a temporary solution to his loneliness.
Someone waiting who is just as excited and has been looking at her watch constantly wondering what’s keeping him so long.
Someone to share the happy ending that never was.

Out of Sight, Never out of Mind

Out of sight, out of mind. Or so they say. But should it?

His sleight of hand was too poor for a magician, no wonder why love always escapes from his grasps.

He smiles at the moon’s audacity to selfishly have the sun’s light for herself even if just for a moment. 

He envies how the moon never forgets the sun despite their situation, when they hugged each other for a couple of seconds, the world paused and was left in awe.

Out of sight, but never out of mind. He promises her.

A Piece of Crumpled Paper

On a piece of crumpled paper,
the boy bled with ink,
with emotions as pure as doves,
to give the one he loves.

On a piece of crumpled paper,
he scribbled with his heart.
Emotions even soap couldn’t wash,
stained the surface of a paper that once was a trash.

He realized he is as crumpled
as the crumpled paper he bleeds on.
His life is full of rumples.
Every wrinkle a story of shipwreck gallantly survived

His life is a crumpled paper.
He’s proud of every wrinkle and rumple.
For we all are papers that are crumpled,
Success and failures define our rumples.

Her Smile is A Home

In a vast sea of smile, hers is all I see.
Her smile is part Mathematics, and part euphoria.
It’s the product of the purest pixie dust.
Her smile is both harmony and melody.

Her smile is the place where I find solitude when life’s challenges seem arduous.
It is  the place I run to when life’s colors fade into the darkest shade of blue.
It is  the hope of sunshine on unending rainy days.
It is a place I call home.

No is A Luxury

He has given her his all.
He did all that he could.
He didn’t get a “yes”, but he was fine with that.
You wanna know what makes him sad?
It’s that he didn’t even get a straight “no”.
Even an honest “no” is a luxury some people never get.

A Pretense of A Chance

A pretense of a chance.
A preface to a possibility.
A preamble to a maybe.
You reach out to the sky
to hopefully grab a piece of it.
A piece you can take home.
Hoping that this time it will be different.

You don’t have plans to give her the stars and the moon.
What you have is a plan to watch them with her.
To lie down on the grass with her.
To dream with her.
Piecing together a constellation out of the scars you both have.

Reasons I Write About Love and Brokenness

One of my friends asked me if I have a problem. She thinks I might have written about love and brokenness a little too many. “Why do you ask”, I asked her back.She said that she’s been reading my blog and everytime I bleed ink, I open a wound on a piece of paper that stings the reader like the sharpest arrowhead right through their very core. Well, she actually didn’t say it like that, ‘coz when she said it, she might have uttered a little too much undiluted cuss words. Like, 18 of them. In three sentences. I couldn’t even believe that was possible, until I heard them all directed at me. Specially, since they were directed at me. So for profanity’s sake, let’s stick to my poetic version.

I told her that the reason I write about love, and brokenness, and moving forward, and everything in between, is because people love reading something that they can relate to. They can breathe easily knowing that someone, somewhere, shares the excruciating pain they’re feeling. Some of them cannot express it through writing, but they’re glad that someone has the audacity to write it entrancingly for them.

Sometimes, I wrte about love, because people want to read something about love, despite knowing that love is a two-edged sword, that can either make you or brake you. The deeper the emotion you put into it, the sharper and longer the pain it will cause you. You’ll either end up falling in love, or falling apart.

When you write about love or brokenness, people try to make sense of every word you write. They give meaning to broken fragments that make total sense and no sense at all. You see, when you write about love and attach it to a simile or a metaphor that’s not closely related at all, people who are in love or are broken, they relate it to how they feel. They give meaning to every relation and relate it to the minutiae of their emotions. Your writing becomes an exhibit where people can come and go as they pleased. What you write becomes an art that people can give their own meaning to. It becomes a canvas, and people give their own interpretation depending on how they feel.

Now after saying all these, she said that I haven’t really answered her question. And I realized that I didn’t. So I told her instead, that the only problem I have is her leaving the country for good, and that I was hungry and sleepy. In which case I received another handful of cuss words and a warm hug.

Love, Despite and Not Because

“It had flaws, but what does that matter when it comes to matters of the heart? We love what we love. Reason does not enter into it. In many ways, unwise love is the truest love. Anyone can love a thing because. That’s as easy as putting a penny in your pocket. But to love something despite. To know the flaws and love them too. That is rare and pure and perfect.”
― Patrick Rothfuss, The Wise Man’s Fear

When you love because,
And the reason is gone,
What remains is pride and ego.
A stranger’s stare,
An awkward silence between two,
Bouncing through walls of carping criticisms.
All consanguinity gone.
A universe’s paradox.
An ugly face of blames and pointing of fingers.
A Pandora’s box of self loathing.
A Rubik’s Cube of what went wrong.
An unfinished sculpture of who’s to blame.

When you love someone,
Love them despite and not because.
Love them for who they are now,
Not for who they were,
Or who they’ll become.
Love the pile of insecurities,
And how perfectly imperfect they are.
‘Coz when you love despite,
You feel heaven’s effervescence,
The wanderlust of a gypsy soul.
Your heart a galaxy.
Pages yellowed with age,
The heart never forgets a familiar feeling.
Your heart syncs with theirs,
Creating a rhythm that even music itself envies.

Home

“Home is where your heart is”, the usual saying goes. It does not necessarily mean a place. Sometimes you could be anywhere. Just as long as you’re with the one you love, that’s home. When you’re wrapped around by the arms of the one you love the most, you’re home. You could be in a dirty slump or in a fancy hotel and you’d feel at home, because you know that you’re dearest is right by your side, through thick and thin, in sickness or in health. So if you find the right one for you, hold on to that person, because no matter where you are, you’re home.

The Boy Who Should’ve Known Better (Chapter 6)

Chapter 6: THE BOY

The boy was flustered even about his own identity. He wanted to cry but he couldn’t. It’s been several years since he last cried. He didn’t cry when his grandfather died. He didn’t cry when he and her previous girlfriend broke up. He didn’t cry when life was throwing him all the difficult challenges he could possibly imagine. He remained steadfast and strong, — at least on the outside, but inside he was devastated.He didn’t want people to see him cry. He had the dumb idea that crying signifies weakness. He didn’t want to be seen as weak.

But this time it was different. The boy wanted to cry.Like a trigger have just been pulled, all the suppressed emotions he had been holding inside wanted to break out of his chest when he got turned down by the person whom he wanted to someday spend the rest of his life with, without even a need to hear the words come out from her mouth. He wanted to shed his tears to release the bursting emotions he was feeling inside. The boy was in a total mess. He seemed to not understand even his own-self. And with the events that happened to him recently, and with the urgency to find himself again he grabbed a pen and a piece of paper, and turned to a friend he knows has never let him down and won’t judge him, poetry.

Dear eyes,
Stop staring at her, she won’t be yours no matter how long you stare.

Dear nose,
Stop sniffing her hair.
Her scents linger that it breaks my heart every time I’m not with her.

Dear mouth,
I know you’ve been longing to taste her kiss, to lock your lips with her, but