eternal loneliness

lonely poems waiting for another line, another hit from the master, if she was ever a master
lonely writer, doesn’t understand the veins of her own poetry
the roots she cut into several parts trying to make something out of nothing
out of everything
still trying to map out all the roads in the leaves of her entirety
lonely poet, doesn’t call me a poem, doesn’t call herself a poem
a piece of art she is
with all her complexities
her subtleties
and her inability to see the trail of dark, majestic stardust trailing behind her

whispers of water

The eyes of water have proved to me the eyes of life and of death, of creation and of destruction, of things we can see and of things we cannot. It flows within me, within you, within all of us. We are water.
Take off your earthly skin, let your soul take flight; your soul looks like water, feels like water.
What else has water seen? What else has water touched? What else has water devoured? What else has water destroyed and what has it created?
And in a way, are we not all these things? All these things water has seen, touched, devoured? All these things water destroyed and created? Are we all these things as we are water? Are we water?

a letter to my journal

My Dearest Diary,

I’ve written so many letters for the people I love, the people I would love to meet, the people who don’t even know me on you and I’ve come to realize I haven’t written one for you. Though I believe there are times when I express my gratitude for your existence, a letter is still different so I hope you regard this as that. A letter that isn’t waiting for a reply. Anyway, I’m blabbering here. It’s as if I don’t know what to say to you at all even if you probably know every word I have written or uttered to myself, alone in a room. You’ve known me for more than a year or so and you’ve let me express everything I couldn’t in my poetry, in my stories, in my art and in the conversations I have with others and with myself. I would like you to know that I’m often too careful of what I say to myself but with you here, I am free. I know you’ve witnessed me writing some of the harshest things I have said to no one but me and I’m sorry. I’m sorry if you felt that anger, that self-hatred, but thank you for letting me see who I am when I feel I’m not me. Those are the parts that I hide so well from the world and from myself. Those are the parts of me that I don’t understand, that I don’t fully accept. Those are the parts of me I deem as foreign, alien even. But they’re part of me. They’re who I am. And you let me write them, you let me express them, all these voices I have cupped my ears for. And I’ve realized, I have so much more to learn about myself, the fears I have, the insecurities, the unused energy reverberating inside of me. Positive values and negative traits, they’re all me. Parts of me. I am fragmented. But with you here, I feel whole. You contain all of who I am. Maybe not all, definitely not all, but you posses the parts of me even I can’t face. And you’re doing so unapologetically. So… thank you. With all my being, I thank you.



things i want you to know

i know there are times i’m too hard to love, to understand, even to forgive so i find it a miracle that you’re still here beside me. the voices inside of me might never learn how to quiet themselves forever, but they settle down whenever you’re near. we’re not perfect, together and apart, but we are us. you let me be, and you love me for me. and that is enough, more than enough, for me to finally listen to the voices and rise up from them, grow from and with them, face them instead of fleeing. i’m not running anymore, i want you to know that. i don’t want to run. i don’t want to run from myself anymore.

dear moon

Let me in, dear moon
Let me in
Let me make a temporary refuge inside one of your craters
          I’ll keep quiet, I promise
Let me stay here for a while
Let me stay here for longer than forever
          I’ll keep still, I promise
Let me stay here
Let me stay, dear moon
Let me stay

and the story says

The writer writes but never finishes what she’s writing. She goes from phone to paper to laptop to phone to paper over and over again, a cycle that does not seem to know how to end in “writing.” But it does know how to end in the realm of the internet, or in the world outside the window, or in the places around the house that still need to be cleaned despite the ant population dwindling down to a solid zero. And the writer comes back to writing, feeling guilty of the story she has left gasping for air. And in her despair, she writes a poem, and comes back to this, to me, still gasping for air, still breathless, still utterly lifeless. The writer reads my beginning, stops just right before I end, trailing the last few words. She scratches her head, defeated. She throws her arms in the air, I’m still waiting to be given another limb. She sighs, writes a couple of words, goes back to that endless cycle. And I am left—

sleeping in sleeplessness

and i sleep
and i sleep
and i sleep
i sleep as my monsters caress my shoulder, waiting for me to open my eyes
and meet theirs
waiting for me to hold their hands colder than the icebergs in my dreams
waiting for me to cling onto their thick skin i once thought would protect me
i’ve foolishly equated them with those capes superheroes wear
but capes tear, their skin don’t
and in my dreams, i can feel them looking for a way in
there is no way in
i can’t even get in myself most of the time
and i sleep
and i sleep
and i sleep
let me sleep
let me sleep
let me sleep