Adieu

It was the summer of twenty-fifteen.
I had to take extra classes
to fill in the gaps of my naivety.

Basic education needs, I mean.
When I started freshmen year,
I was lacking five months of hell.
My high school starter pack
wasn’t fully wielded.
Those five months were secondhand days,
those became hand-me-downs–
I’ll never come back to it anyways.

This was when I realised
I had to throw away the bliss of my childhood
to take a swift dive into the realms of
catching teenage hormones
and all those juvenile shenanigans.

You see, when I was disbanded from my home soil,
I was the new girl, the shy-type,
but never “the girl next door”.
That cliché never suited me.
I’ve moved in many apartments,
I rarely saw my neighbours.
This time, I finally live in a proper house
like a suburban mom’s dream.
Still, my new neighbours were
a bunch of lanky grasses and greens.

Though,
how could–
of all the places we could have bumped in,
my fairytale started in my Filipino class.
I was the only one there,
I was the class’ only student, present.
This wasn’t destiny, really.
I just really sucked at that language.

So, I had my nose pointing each word
coming from a romantic paperback
I got from the airport’s bookstore.
I was ignoring time
and when the teacher will arrive.
The writing had me so engrossed,
I couldn’t hear the footsteps
of him entering in.

“You’re an introvert,” he said.

And so the rest begins there.

He was scrawny, chocolate-skinned
and his hair goes in a hurricane direction,
as I had noticed.
He wears clothes
that can piss off a weatherman.
He wears his eccentricity like a crown,
he talks too much, reads too much,
knows too much–
and I somehow like him.

Every time my head were to hid behind
strange universes,
he would come to the class and grab me away
by letting out a subtle whistle
(I wish to hear it every day)

Then, we would talk. Well, he talked,
you could call him a pseudo-intellectual
or straight out pretentious.
He’s like a Wikipedia page,
constantly refining and re-editing.
I thought he’s everything I need
until I found out
that I can’t decide whether or not
I should trust him.
His sources had me confused
with greed.

Somehow, I still like him.

He wrote me two letters,
four pages in total.
The first one, he mimicked
Beethoven’s love letter.
The second, he blabbers about
Tchaikovsky’s sweet melodies.
In return, I wrote a hundred of poems,
(that I never shared with him),
I called him “the Person,”
cause his name was too sacred for me.
I could be the patron saint
of helpless teenage girls,
because this is what I think
love is supposed to be.
being naive always does
these little things to me.

He had a bag full of flaws,
but he wrote beautifully,
he likes politics and the flaws,
but he wrote beautifully.
He’s never good at keeping promises,
but he wrote beautifully.
Thick-skinned, sugar-coated, outspoken,
He had always been my favourite book.
More of a short story, I’d say.

I know him long enough
to see him everywhere,
I could catch his aroma anywhere
from the school’s premises.
I could catch a glimpse of him
even from meters away.
I know the way he walks,
his gestures and his ungraceful charms
by heart.
he was my favourite advertisement,
but I usually skipped them.
he was my favourite kind of vandalism
until it got out of hand.
he was my favourite art
until you discover that there are
places that needed to be fixed.
(but you can’t)

There can be a time where his silence
seems like he never existed
in the first place.
That was the worst kind of torture
for the summer of twenty-sixteen,
for a hopeless girl like me.
He came back eventually
and we played pretend that it never happened.
We talked over at text messaging
and I was all giddy.
A few days later, I erupted out a “Fuck you.”
And I had to call out his name.

But what the fuck, I still like him.
I just had to ignore him.

It was then our school’s Christmas play
came to a quick end.
I lacked five months of him,
thought I’ll never come back to it anyway.
I was alone on the steps, this time,
reading a book on my phone.
Then he came,
that same subtle whisper
flow through my ears
and all of his faults became strangers.
Our petty fights turned into fluffs.
All the things I knew,
they became myths.
and these missing bits
continue to pile up my naivety.

That was enough to convince me
that it was love.
(Surely, it never is)

I remember someone told me
that he would always take a bow
and blurt out the word, “Adieu.”
Whenever he finished reciting.
“It was weird but amusing,” they say.
Like him.
Adieu.
I said that once to him as a tease
but I never fully mean it.

⠀⠀⠀

(Addendum I.)
⠀⠀⠀
Our love was never divine.
I was seen as a fragile china;
the world could have smashed me up by now.
He had been haughty and masked,
the world could have killed him by now.
To me, he was the comma,
I wish he could go on and on.
To him, I could be the period.
I always come to an abrupt stop
and the quiet would fill us.
Though
I’m familiar with his hopes and dreams,
I bet he knew mine too.
The seam came clean
but the patches were overdue.

Our love goes like this:
I still kept his books.
He handed me James Joyce,
I never returned it for a year or so.
He wanted Joyce back,
so in return, he let me decide
on two books I could borrow.
I grabbed both, left
and we never brought that up ever again.

“You two just never seem to understand
each others’ feelings,” my friend once said.
The truth is,
we knew them all along.
But what’s the point of building
on a fundamental flaw?

⠀⠀⠀

(Addendum II.)
⠀⠀⠀
It was near the summer of twenty-eighteen,
we had a year of on-and-off colloquies.
No more inquiries, no whistles.
Suddenly, he became that first person
that I bumped into
during my first summer class.
Except, he stayed that way.
Only those subtle glances
at one another
reminded me of our folded past
of mishaps, misunderstandings
and all the mushy things.

I hope you do too.

At that graduation ceremony,
you took your one last bow
together with your batch,
and I mumbled, “Adieu.”
Adieu
Adieu
Adieu.

(Thanks,
it was a whole journey
meeting you)

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You Met Me at a Very Strange Time in My Life

⠀⠀⠀

✧・゚: *✧・゚:*  ♡  *:・゚✧*:・゚✧
there i was, standing next to you
in a skyscraper fumed with gloom and dew.
you were limping, this wasn’t a pas de deux.
your face bred shades of purple,
crimson poured out from a hallowed mark below.
obituaries soon to be written all over you.
you were almost on the verge of doom.
yet, your face claimed a triumph.
soon, orange sparks from our view
turn into a tumult of imploding rooms.
it’s like the fourth of july,
but those weren’t fireworks.
it’s like he gave me a bouquet of dubium
that prosper and popped by itself.
all was left was the cloud of industry’s ashes
and i could see the clearance of the vast midnight.
one last time, i stared at him in awestruck.
we have never felt so alive that night.
✧・゚: *✧・゚:*  ♡  *:・゚✧*:・゚✧
⠀⠀⠀

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Loners

(Bukowski Jr. – Revised)
*+:。.。 - 。.。:+*

i don’t get loneliness.
is it a sickness
way worse than sickle-cell anemia?
perhaps, it is as daunting as
short-term goldfish amnesia
or whatever medical jargon that is
i keep forgetting how alone i am,
i’m bothered by this vague disease-
a nostalgia i once crave,
but was never there in the first place.
i never liked that feeling at all.

i created a playlist
and picked out sappy indie songs
to arouse my room with whiffs of solitary.
slowly, i can’t recognise the familiarity-
the stacks of paperbacks, cluttered posters
and sentiments that i have hoarded,
all seem to dive down into a deep descent.
my only comfort is a book,
about a 17-year-old boy who wore
a stupid red hunter’s cap and likes to smoke weed
in his crappy cheap hotel room
on either the second or third floor.
he carries his luggage of angst
and left pieces of them
in places, he never ought to be.
he tried pursuing a casual conversation
with a whore
and likes calling everything a phony.
i never thought i’d give away
all of my empathy.

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To Kill Grandfather’s Clock

reality’s tales

plays its trails

like a cassette tape.

spools rotate,

hitting repetition

and mistakes

goes into collision.

⠀⠀⠀
time never likes

to go back into reverse,

it is timeless

of your shenanigans,

it does not pity

what you’ll grave.

expect forward first,

straight to oblivion

or sinking in

unfamiliar skins.

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Forbidden Fruit is the Sweetest

to the feisty eyes ripe with colourless flavours,

a honeydew heart ripening to your gaze,

what is enough of what you gave her,

it’s hard to taste without mellows’ grace.

⠀⠀⠀
flowers blossomed to how much she cares,

and the bees’ duty is to pick every life of woe

containing you, the honey she shares.

into the caged beehive, you ought to go.

⠀⠀⠀
when you can’t support her frail vines,

holding onto a batch of sweet or sour grapes

for your pleasure, for your wine,

crawling to you, where else can she escape?

⠀⠀⠀
knowing we’ll again be born,

she plants another seed to the dearest dirt,

stuck in fields of shrubs and thorns,

her bold and bravery which they were birth.

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When the Universe Laughs

when the universe laughs

at how you can’t tell the difference

between glow and gloss

or how you felt lost

beneath his worn out shoes,

guffaws outspread a gust of wind

blustering onto your petty face

the way he grinned,

never once a wise wisdom tooth,

but a pretty muddy face.

⠀⠀⠀
he is the ruler of the abyss

and a wolf that cannot be tamed.

his pitch-black pity hole

was as black as the ink scribbled

on a shaved stick with my name.

he makes puppets for a living-

of the living, i would say.

can’t cut the foil strings,

you’ll have to play out his game.

⠀⠀⠀
but i never wanted to

(not that i can be sure of),

his lukewarm remarks

were stone-cold hearsays,

not a great storyteller,

he’s a silhouette of his words,

but a smouldering fireplace.

i threw in my baby mittens

to let my hands breathe in more heat

my feet won’t complain

and i can’t put out the fire anyway.

⠀⠀⠀
maybe someday,

i’ll step on his crippling skeleton.

grate the bones, gather the powder

and leave the flesh all alone,

my wind shall flew him away.

to the girl who blew dandelions,

wishes do come true- (you don’t have to say)

out comes a gloomy day or doomsday,

when tingles don’t come,

he’ll be kept away.

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Of Dawn and Dusk

hummings of creatures when sunrise bloomed

and grace frisked to the flow of those who knew.

passing rusted leaves lying on the bed of filth.

perishing lovely roses with pricks of guilt.

you, a lone, hid among shades of dimmed tint,

brooding over an assemblage of strewn flint.

intaking air from dawn’s mellifluous breeze.

resting beside lakes from far-flung tease.

trilling along the tunes until afternoon’s drizzle,

hide coated his skin, but he needs no muzzle.

drenched by droplets from Heaven’s weep,

an anomaly at night, absent to each sleep.

yonder to the void, he ascends from the deep.

⠀⠀⠀
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A Morning Lullaby for the Sleepless Nights

white dots speckled the sombre sky,

lingering onto the raven void

with dark cotton rampaging up high.

weepings from above and i was annoyed.

i mumbled and prayed to see the moon

hiding among the mists like a lost possession.

then, all thoughts slumbered in the gloom,

whilst i dwell on my fickled emotions.

my ears suddenly shoot up to a voice trilling,

a sweet rhapsody from paradise up top.

my morning bursts in colours of thrillings.

and when my heart began to hop,

those little ticks, like chirps from early birds,

are humming humbly as i spot him in sight.

his dirty mug, i cared less about, but his words

brought me in the garden of sheer delight.

when the wind bustled his sugary melodies

in the deep forest of my very own heart,

where my beats were his instruments of remedy.

and the trees swayed to the rhythm of the harp.

at twilight, he became the silent moon,

he never sang the blues but rose from the woes.

and it’s easier to doze off and turn into a cocoon

because my nights never again became my foes.


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The Untold Tale of the Painter Who Never Paints from the Optimist’s Perspective

if this youth were to paint a maiden, picture perfect,
he too would be revolved around the sun.
presumably, selfish; self-absorbed-
and that’s what I ought,
but he hesitates to touch the paintbrush
and honestly never painted anything or anyone,
even him, himself, and his reflection in the mirror.
supposedly, he ain’t selfish, self-absorbed,
nor a hypocrite.
yet he proclaimed the fact that he is a painter,
even though he is reluctant to paint a person.
he ain’t arrogant too, he’s just scared.
terrified to be the unworthy one.
then, why he is considered to be a painter
if he can’t paint a single object or a face.
he can actually paint!
the problem is he has never tried doing so.
if he were to paint the world, the universe, and the people-
a blank canvas would be the only thing existing,
but the picture can only stay still,
while the thoughts that formed a ring
spun uncontrollably; surrounding his mind
not to burden him, nor making him a ne’er-do-well.
he’ll still call himself a painter,
even if you mocked or bashed him.
surely, he is not an arrogant one, I promised,
he is not a hypocrite, I swear.
because,
he too, was never painted picture perfect.

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Handsome Lady

IMG_0449

Classified as art, viewed on every existence here on earth.
She was defined as one, ever since she was given birth.
She was like a young plant, blooming into a flower.
Her heart was sweet, but her mind was sour.

Despite her appearance, she never perceived her beauty.
She was a gorgeous lady who is frequently moody.
Her characteristics were strong like the opposite gender,
It surprisingly matches to a serious offender.

She would always be seen wearing a bow tie;
She would always hang out with a drunken old guy.
Those who admired her, their hearts were shattered,
For she eradicated her beauty which she was once flattered.

She attended every masquerade with her classic black suit,
Bewitching maidens with her slenderness and her enigma brute.
Her face; her mask, which she disguised,
Revealed her masculinity to the ignorant men who were not surprised.

Even a single dance can captivate the heart of an oblivious female.
Even those around her were desirous of her charming swell.
But once she removed her mask; her incognito will be released
And all the people will avoid as if she was a contagious disease.

⠀⠀⠀
(Picture drawn by Tracee Kyle)
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