In the beginning there was god, nothing,
There was blackness, as an atom waited
To explode - Depending what you believe.
The oceans, seas, rivers were created
With the brush of a pen against the black thought.
The earth formed around the written verses
Of God, of nothing, of…
Wandering Chaotic Irrelevancies: The rising sun weighs heavily upon my heart because I know that you...
The rising sun
weighs heavily upon my heart
because I know
that you are gazing upon it too
yet still connected
and tethered to my heart
and it pulls
it pulls me toward you
tugging on my will and defenses
breaking me down
wearing me out
Dear Aspiring Poet
Do not be afraid to bleed
Do not fear tears
and all that will arise
when you simply
Let it flow
like tsunamis from your soul
let it crash upon the page
splash upon your heart
and evaporate from your being
Pull the stitches
from your wounds
and feel the ache
all over again
Within that pain is beauty
within that pain is freedom
within that pain
We should have known better, the least thing that you should expect from others is to understand the grievances and pains that are mounting inside you. Because for having a person to fully grasp the meaning is to actually going through it. Do you want to go through the sufferings? Nobody in a right mind would want that. Life is hard enough.
Curse the quiet
damn the moments
untarnished by distraction
hex the freedom of the wandering mind
unchained by responsibility
imprecate every second
that I’m allowed to realize
how much I miss you
and disparage my heart
for falling in love
with someone I can never have
The day pushed heavily upon my shoulders. Disappointment. Frustration. Exhaustion. Worry. When all was said and done, my car door shut against the wind and the day that bit just as deeply, all I wanted to do was talk to you. This hasn’t happened in such a long time that I can’t remember the last person I called just for a much needed smile. I needed you and I haven’t needed someone in awhile. And that terrifies me.
i draw out strokes
when i write — the pulse
of my religion and my angel
staring at breaths
beating back mountains shows
god would never pass sobriety tests
childhood was cocoons,
snowdrifts kissing second-story windows;
longing to share with you
i prefer ink
like skies melting
I am sorry. I did not know.
When I told you
I saw the soul of an angel
between your brush strokes, I was unaware
you had already painted yourself
into a dark corner.
I could never have imagined
your distaste for acrylic reflections.
Watching you work
I believed every image
But the poor and indigent, who barely earn enough to sustain life and who must bribe bureaucrats, clerks, and soldiers to leave them in peace, they do not sleep with the tranquility described by courtly poets who have never felt the loving hand of poverty. The poor are sad and pensive. Tonight, if they have prayed a little, they have made many requests, with pain in their eyes and tears in their hearts. They have no novenas, nor do they know the jaculatory prayers or the verses or the oremus the friars have composed to prevent them from developing their own ideas or their own emotions, nor do they understand them. They pray in the language of their misery. Their souls cry for themselves and for the dead whose love belonged to them. Their lips may offer up salutations, but all their minds can do is scream in complaint and screech in lamentation. You who blessed the poor, and you, shadows in torment, will the simple prayer of the poor make you happy, offered up before a badly engraved print by the light of a timsim? Or do you long for tapers placed before bloody images of Christ or small-mouthed virgins with glass eyes, or with a priest’s mechanical droning of the mass in latin? And you, your religion created for a suffering multitude, have you forgotten your mission of consoling the oppressed in their misery, and humbling the hubris of power, and now render promises only to the rich, those who can pay?
The Poor widow keeps watch over her children, who sleep beside her. She thinks about the dispensations she must buy for the eternal rest of her parents and late husband. “A peso,” she says, “a peso is a week of my children’s love, a week of laughter and happiness, a month’s savings, a dress for my daughter, who is becoming a woman…” “But putting out those fires is absolutely necessary,” says a voice she has heard preaching, “sacrifice is absolutely necessary.” Yes it is necessary! The Church doesn’t save beloved souls for free. It doesn’t distribute dispensations gratis. You have to buy them and. instead of sleeping at night, you work. Meanwhile, your daughter has to walk around half-naked. Deprive yourself! Heaven is expensive! It seems obvious that the poor don’t get into heaven.
- excerpt from ‘Noli Me Tángere’, 1887, chapter 16, ‘Sisa’
I’m not sentimental—I’m as romantic as you are. The idea, you know,
is that the sentimental person thinks things will last—the romantic
person has a desperate confidence that they won’t.
Face It, Six Words
Life isn’t always poetry and smiles
Love is always poetry and pain
Poetry isn’t always love and happiness
Happiness is always poetry and love
Sorrow isn’t always negative with poetry
Sorrow isn’t always poetry — love, smiles.
as a romantic,
i’ve spent my first thirty years believing
that the one i’d come to love the most
would fit snugly with me as if die-cast
in some emotive assembly line dream
as a lover,
i’ve painstakingly learned the lesson
that i have to file away all the excess
of my unceasing desires and needs
to fit a heart-shaped peg into a ring