Featured

Smart Aleck in the Crowd

I see the knights marching down, a coagulum of French muscles from ancestors hunting the hawk.

They told me they were fiery, of flames igniting their chests. It was love, as they’ve been told. The damosels were clothed of layers from satin stitches, while beneath are modesty of the skin weaved by Athena. All of them had possessions of beauty.

But men were at it again. They offered hammocks of serene rivers on a countryside. Few whistles and even eyeing. Some waved their hands painted with calluses from a seven to five grind. And guess what? Only few bucks were brought home. Yet chins are headed upward, shoulders raised into pride, as mockery wrapped with compliments flow from the gist of their praises. No petticoat lips told them it was a threat. Others were Rapunzels, laying down their hair for knights who couldn’t climb. Should they be blamed for trickery at the end of fine lines? I bet they shouldn’t.

The villagers would level a forefinger not on the elders, but to innocence dainted with calling. Truth be told, they reprimanded a demoiselle more, and those wisenheimer less.

Another wakening, the neighborhood isn’t ready for this talk.

Fond of Dreams

—Watch me bathe in sunlight;
O far as the yellows run deep.
Guide the valleys, the mountains
Guide them and fear not my pleas.

I’ll lit up the woods;
and hail the poison mushrooms.
You’ll see it bloom, my darling.
You’ll sway with vines,
and burn with warmth caving in.

Unwritten

these mouths, always a cave of shiver,
of molten rocks made of hypocrisy,

the irony—
and pardoxical twists,
upward on the lips.

no one’s been happy like that.

and i guess it stabs me upfront,
the warmth of sunrise
i never saw coming.
not even once.

he told me of cups he sipped,
8ams made for calm after the storms
but i never drank any coffee;
lately, the teas are bitter,
milk’s spilling over,
and cereals keep on floating,
until they drown under the bowl.

tell me, how do i eat with apathy?
how do i sleep with sheeps i ate,

while never even counting their heads?

—dem caste, unwritten

Flap Above

Now see me sufffer,
into shipwrecks, falling,
sinking beneath the corals molested,
sinking beneath to what you call life.

The metaphors have no way out here.

They just kiss the currents,
so torrid they break,
so rapid they never knew
what water felt like,
and they empty me—
the null is being thrown,
to vast and wide bermudas
no one knew about.

Horizon is too far,
too wicked for clamoring tails,
down into abyss of sea disputes,
that even the eagles,
never knew wars beyond their feathers.

They never knew what it felt like
to drown in free fall.

So beaks up, tornado music,
and no line breaks for a poem;
the world will spin
into their tapes,
into their voices,
like mine was a haunted tone.
Like mine didn’t matter.

And like it had always been,
as if I never spoke at all.

—Dem Caste, Flap Above

It’s been a while since I last posted here! How are you doing lately? I hope everyone’s doing good. Stay safe and keep on reading!

Bed Bugs

The nights are back again. And no, I don’t mean by clocks turning six and clouds painting grey. The nights have pots within me.

Growing stems, and crawling vines. They were chasing my head to stay awake. I know how it felt before; I even got over it. But each twilight is different from yesterday and each breaking hurts like I never knew them. When they come and go, it’s always a different form. My friends know about their names too yet we don’t talk about it. We laugh until it’s due. And sometimes I wish more laughter was hidden. I wish they can see the fallen mornings I had.

And so when you see me plaster bright grins, do me a favor and be a peregrine. Wander through my eyes and seek for the weeping. Search for the colonies of salt water; already dry around my cheeks. Maybe there, we’ll meet halfway.

Maybe there, you can see through me.

Little Crimes

I’m a sinner, dying.
I’m a lover, fading.

Blankets where I used to sleep
slowly erasing its scent of home.
All metals and woods broken,
pillows weren’t soft in my bone.

I’m a sinner, dying.
I’m a lover, fading.

Classics are not of thrill tonight,
they bore me when he sings.
Sound of his voice was a lullaby,
now a plea of our empty rings.

I’m a sinner, dying.
I’m a lover, fading.

Cement Fading

I built fortresses and thick bricks,

a decade-long before its last surrender,

waiting for a lifetime

expanding towards north,

until every breath lose its own sigh.

Wiseacre I was,

after I’ve roamed the grass fields

with only my bare eyes,

knowing I know a thing

yet they never told me you’ll hide

below my pillar box,

patience swaying as letters are sent.

You told me of promises,

said lay down your hair and even your palms,

as I gave in like it’s heaven on mud—

I loved like the curbs won’t tumble me

and perhaps that’s when I fell.

The fissure between my lips still sang

of your poems today,

as you tear down my walls

just to ~~break~~ my heart.

He’s a Wildflower

Words are manipulative. It seeks to be found not just in dictionaries we often buy for English class. The demands are higher, as if it wants your eyes to intercourse with vocabulary. Oftentimes, it leads to a path of all synonymous lines just so we can end up with our final write-ups. Just so we can find the exact letters combined as one.

Words make us crave to learn them, to find the adjectives that would fit our joy, and those that would describe our pain.

Nothing feels fulfilling to be understood, and to express using all collection of learnings. It helps articulate those that we feel, and those we cannot. And yet words, they also help us hide. They conceal what someone would like to convey somewhere in dishonest and discreet confessions. Confusing, ironic, paradoxical, fallacious, two-faced. You name it. It can keep secrets until the right time will come to reveal your heart. And it also helped me open and close myself all at once.

But there are instances where they take over. What I mean by that, they disappear. Weeks after weeks, writing will feed me like any other meals have done. It will fill my soul that it makes it ache for not doing so. And just like that, it will leave me breathless. Wordless.

Bleeding do stop appearing if it’s internal, I guess.

Lover of arts and those who merely love are sometimes left with no words. Any language wouldn’t suffice for parts of ourselves. We’re too unique to be written. Or plainly messed up to be a masterpiece. And maybe it could be both, abstract yet concrete.

People can be too much to be turned out as a poem, a painting, a photograph; an art.

Sometimes, people are too much for any literary piece we can come up with— maybe that’s why ~~I barely write about you.~~

Colony and Ceaseless Pipe

Your arms– they used to be
a sanctuary
to my ill-fated voyage;
even your shoulders
gave poignance of comfort.

My highways were unvarnished,
always empty;
closer to deathbeds
of a teenage war zone.
Now I’ll say,
yours were sculpted
in the name of pharoah ants;
mostly rapid to grow,
furnishing pavements
enought to stand alone.

I never had a moment
to chase for the shadows—
even the crumble chips
you brought back home.

You were best at leaving,

I often forget the nights you stayed.

Two Boats

Unchain me
of hollow spaces;
the ones where you lurk around
and just remove
these frames
clogging my arms
to stretch.

You’ve been mourning
with me for too long—
it’s time that you too forget.

Leave my windowpane,
quickly before I open;
before I let
the breeze in again.
I know you wanted freedom;
you even ate
in two pantries,
me with the right,
and another with the left.

You held democracy
in your knee sockets,
that even when you bend,

even when you pray,
your wild spirit is kissing me.

Routines That Will Help You Write Poems

Hi, fellow writers!

I’m back again with another Sunday Night Thoughts entry. For today, I would like to share my personal routine everyday before and after I write.

This is somewhat connected to my first entry in this Sunday Series. But let’s focus on physical activities aside from contemplation. One of the things I do everyday, is to exercise. Yes, it does help. Being fit and healthy really helps to make your mind sharper. Exercising or working out also releases endorphins. That means it can trigger positive feelings. Most of us write out of sadness, pain, and heartbreaks. But happy people can also be more productive, and more conscious of how they use their time. With that being said, you may even write faster than the usual, but still maintaining the quality of your words. And it is indeed effective for me.

Next one is to take longer time in the shower. It is definitely not advisable to be in there for hours, but once in a while, you can maximize your time a bit. I think for my part, I often had rush of ideas and concepts while taking a bath. It wakes me up not just physically, but my mental functions as well.

The last is to randomly say words. Or you can write it out. This isn’t my original routine since I’ve only read about it on a Facebook post. But I’ve also been doing it for years. I’ll try to do it right here.

“Scratch the blinded cars before the laughter turns to piano keys.”

“Mourn for the mom you broke with a vase and watch the printer you burned until midnight.”

“I was a coach of a thousand shapeshifters who got choked by purple stilettos.”

Now, if it made sense in a metaphoric manner, then it’s great. But if not, it’s still good because it’s random. Making it make sense is not the deal in here. Just write what comes up to your mind and start from the pile of words that you randomly painted. Raw ideas sing better than those vocabularies planned from the start. I think that’s how you spice it up. You may even find some sentences funny for its unrelated clauses.

That’s only a few of my habits that I would love to share here, but I’ll be ending it with the last routine stated. If you find this interesting, leave a comment and tell me about your daily habits too. Maybe I can apply it to engage in a healthier lifestyle.

Looking forward,

Dem