The Darkest Hour Is Just Before the Dawn

it’s hard to talk to the cosmos.
my concrete universe, as bare as it could ever be,
remains as a wall between myself
and the immeasurable.
often times, I stared at it way too long
my mellow eyes are desperate
to nibble themselves out of the seams
of these vicious entities
stitched around the corners of my shrivelled mind,
but they lost and I’m sleep deprived.
consumed by the void,
I can no longer tell which is myself
and my disguise.

my mind back then wasn’t as complex,
rather it was its own rarity, a simplicity-
I loved how the ascending glory
cast a glow onto my face like a spotlight
or when the ebony shrouded the sky,
the crickets click in the quietude,
reminding me that I am not alone.
I used to soak in the ineffable
in exchange for scintillas of delight.
now my mind is battered by trains of thoughts
that continue to run over me
again and again
and again.
killing me on repeat.

I thought I would be endowed with ease.
I gave my condolences to my brain,
but it hasn’t rested in peace.
sometimes I imagine the child I used to be,
I was everything impossible,
the underlying truth
that we’re too mundane
never bothered me.
I guess one way to keep me intact
is by slipping in snippets of her
in my art and my poetry,
giving her breath and a playground
for her to roam this quilted world
and shield her from the trials of maturity.

I know it’s hard to talk to the cosmos
when they are flooded by the gloom.
my voice can’t reach the infinite distance,
so what’s the point of them hearing?
I’m just part of a cluster with no importance.
like him, like her, like them, we all
shared the same pair of deadbeat eyes.

I bet little me would have thought otherwise,
that the stars are just as human as us,
stuck in the vacuum, staring down
at these beams of light brighter than themselves.
I bet she thinks they have dreams too,
and that shooting stars have their own wishes
whenever they see cars passing through.

so I got out of the cranny,
my shivering feet settled on the balcony;
my eyes focused on the freckles of the welkin,
admiring how they slumber under the dim
and somehow,
these pretty things
got her running back to my skin.
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Ah, Golly

tensed, hands clenched,

posture straight up,

“you have the floor, ma’am.”

straight ahead, to the middle,

direct observations

of envy, whispers and thoughts

of “what is she going to do?”

breathe in, breathe out.

recite, hands flapping around.

and ah, golly fuck,

i forgot.

continue on to the end.

perfect, a little awkward.

walks back.

fuck.
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Youth Sings

i do not want to dwell into this fantasy.

a wrenching, swollen heart

slowly diving into flames of “never meant to be.”

time creeps into our space, into our ark.

a gush of water drowning what i believe.

tuning veins, broken strings,

my roots can never reach the leaf,

sticking to sad melodies

and all those mushy things.

⠀⠀⠀
if only i can count your fingertips,

play with them like piano keys,

our hands will never rip,

glued together like honey and bees.

your back against my shoulder blades

and your finger shall twirl my hair braid.

when all i can see is solitude,

confined to me and you,

whispering claims of “never meant to be.”

which is what i believe.

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Language Barrier

i’ll carve our names on a tree bark

with long-twig runes of elder futhark.

dead language, ancient sweethearts

and no one would know it was us.

unless someone appeared out of the blue,

figuring out what to do

with those markings made blissfully,

decoding how we weren’t meant to be

and antiquity shall lay eyes on me

for our love is not too prominent to see.

⠀⠀⠀

i think we are hiding behind metaphors

when there is no reason for,

and neither one of us is good at hyperbole

when our hearts talk, it’s just a folly.

but we can speak with eloquence,

shower ourselves with big words

until to the point, we would not understand,

“why does this language sounded dead to me?”

maybe your shallow feelings can’t be freed

and mine, perhaps, was stuck in that tree.

⠀⠀⠀

still, i keep a library of what you would say,

composed of poetic remarks and terms of gold

i would want to collect and decode

every witty expression or sentence,

but it’s tough to comprehend.

all the time, i knew his phrases,

i’m just a dead language translator

going through phases.

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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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Post-it Notes

i took slices of scotch tape

and i stuck them on papers,

either quotes or drawings.

i created a collage of my ego,

and no, it won’t collapse.

my pride is hidden beneath those words

and everytime i see the wall, i relapse

to the days when i held the world.

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Flightless Flock of Sheep

when a feathered creature learned to dive

and glide underneath the empyrean,

his silky wings brace the ol’ buttermilk sky;

wafting herds of sheep, mounting one another,

gently moving in an all familiar direction-

all the way to the neverending finish line.

how restless they were

and the creature wondered why.

⠀⠀⠀
he explored different faces; different places

and avoided savages in their beastly phases.

when famished, he stepped on weak worms

and let his pointed beak pecked the life out of it.

in his eyes, he’s a hungry creature,

naive and absent to others’ thoughts.

his stomach growls louder and he wanted more,

how monstrous he is!

and the worms wondered why.

⠀⠀⠀
And all goes back to the little creature

when a tiny missile-like steel

touched his pounding heart,

an abundance of sheep wept,

but he still continues to fly.

not into the arms of the Shepherd,

who guarded his flock with his eagle eyes.

the Shepherd didn’t catch him,

and the creature, into the abyss he goes

and the Shepherd knew why.

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Hell Hath No Fury Like a Woman Scorned

a blanket of roses

over her lithe body,

and candle wax

on her pale fragile face.

no crimson flowing,

and her eyelids locked.

drowned in eternal peace.

once she consumes heaven,

oh, she’ll be beautiful.

but haunted by vices,

dances on carcases

and malice she wore

displays her wrath.

how graceful she laid there,

how beautiful she once was.

what beauty

can hell make of her?

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Damned

i’m nothing more than a raggedy creature,

stuck in a chamber with mice and rodents.

they treat me like a worthless tramp

and served me bones i couldn’t consume.

i am left to wither each and every other day,

and when the time has finally arrived,

my smile shall be painted on my lifeless face.

⠀⠀⠀

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