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.

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

Photo by Paolo Raeli

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

Photo from maevecatherinee

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

Photo by Kevin Laminto

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

Photo by Kevin Laminto

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,


Flower Doors

Photo by Melody Pabroz

I never liked daisies growing near my doorstep
in which the petals unfold—
so reckless they lit up my closet, and from then
I’ll be filled with rage.

As smoke touched the ceilings,
fibers will burn above my head
so as dollar bills will cover the hole
and yet my broken roof
has resembled me more than the woods.

Her leaves told me there’s nothing to be tired of.

Yet I prefer blue roses living in my palms.
Those that can soothe you—
a lingering garden in one soul
where woebegone clothes are alright,
and liquids are not of weakness.
I want flowers who mourn with you.
I want bushes who wither
once they see you paint red again
and depart
from the roots you built.
The one who finds you when you get lost.

But daisies are not like that.
They’ll ambush on hibernation
rummaging to year-long feathers
and coffee stained mugs—
never giving an eye to padlocks on her feet.
Before the dream catchers knew it,
nightmares won’t falter until sunrise
gnawing my skin to first-degree.

And I’ll tell the lores a thousand times,
snowflakes are over
and my petals are gone.

Earphones Breaking

Photo from rover.ebay.com

I’m always thinking how life plays an important role on how people come and go. And with you, I still haven’t given up that thought.

Perhaps the lines drawn on spaces between us are meant to be that wide. I wasn’t ready on what you can give. The old times are for the moments we have to grow separately. These ambitions, I knew you had a lot of it too. That’s why I was grateful to meet you halfway now. I’ve learned and am still learning.

But as far as I think that this time’s exactly the one I need, it slipped before it started. You came to me like a good song wanting to be listened, but I didn’t know your lips would make me bleed.

And now it’s too late because you’re all over my playlist. You never left ever since.

find me in your sleep

“You are the epitome of warmth I longed to see for years. Finding you without the quest must be rare. You met me between my farewells, and I welcomed you as how beginnings should be embraced. I know it’s always a long road, but if you sit right next to me, it must be a good travel I guess. Any place with you in it can be my home. But if I were to choose, I wouldn’t go anywhere. I want to stay here. You lovely sleepyhead– I want to dream right next to you.”

Photo by Iris Apatow on IG

Own World

We held cosmic dusts within our veins, each particle resembling the void. It was the first time i saw islets.

We are the statues carved into flesh— a stone magnified to light-years of freedom. I even held lores of mundane speeches but those weren’t everything to explore. The blues and yellows were a twinborn history I hid in my shelf. and that what makes the spectrum we nurtured.

That’s how we turn a grain of us
to another cosmos.

Photo from the movie, The Breakfast Club