The Foundation

We built our story on quicksand.

It looked so stable

But it wasn’t.

 

It wasn’t my job to fix you,

And it wasn’t your job to fix me.

 

Our brokenness are our own responsibilities,

not each others.

 

I had to learn all this the hard way.

FRIENDS

Friends are there to be your pillow when your eyes get too heavy.
They are there to be a couch when you feel extra lazy on a Monday morning.
They are your jacket lender, food providers, reminders and your alarm clocks.

Friends are made to be rant collectors.
Someone who can listen to your rants as though they were sponges.
Soaking up all your words and releasing them by being hugged by you
(As a thank you for listening)

They are bullshit detectors.
Trained like dogs, they can smell your bullshit from miles away.
You can’t get pass them.
They are the opposite of mall guards.
You can’t cheat on them without them knowing.
However, you can always have them as cheat mates.

They are gossip whisperers.
They are your bad ideas
But mostly your good ideas.
They are your palette cleansers when you need to start anew.
When you need to get punched in the face,
Friends will punch you with their words from their real talk speech.

Friends break your bad habits
And start your good habits.

There’s this idea that the reason why you become your friends is because when you breathe out, you release a part of your soul. When you breathe in, you get a part of your friend’s soul.
Friends are your own personal Charles Xavier.
They know what you are thinking even before you say it.
They know how you are feeling, because they feel it too.

Friends are tear catchers, hug givers, and nap buddies.
They are your personal rest sign when you get too tired driving on the road.
They are the nets that catch you when you fall from your high moments,
And they are the trampolines to propel you away from the dark moments.

They are your inspirations,
Your muses for
Poems,
Songs,
And stories.

Friends.
The wish you never asked for
But the only dream that came true.

My Love, The Moon

If I get a child, I would teach them how to love the moon,

As the moon loves her children

As the moon loves her guardians, the stars

If I get a child, I would teach them how to shine as the moon does,

Not as bright as the Sun but as important.

Not as dim as the stars but just as special.

If I get a child, I would teach them how to be a selenophile

Loving the moon with all their heart,

Loving the moon as I love Her.

 

If my child would ever have a rough day,

Because the kids at school are being bullies,

Or because the teachers were too unforgiving,

Or because the sun was just beating down on them too much,

I would tell them to wait until the night has come.

I would tell them not to wish on a falling star but rather the moon.

Wish to the moon all your love, and share it with her.

For as she reflects the sun’s ray,

She will reflect you love’s waves

And project upon the world that is too cruel to go unnoticed.

 

If my child would think of themselves alone,

I would tell them to wait until night has come.

I would tell them to once again look up at the moon,

For someone out there is reflecting their love upon her,

And when you feel the love radiating from her,

My child, you will never feel alone.

 

If my child were to get married one day,

And she decides to have her love pronounced by the moon.

I would tell her to go ahead, have your wedding at night.

For the moon, will walk her down the aisle with me,

Her shine will be intoxicating,

Her glow astounding,

As she was and always will be

 

If my child were to see me on my death bed,

I would want to her to know that she, the moon, is here with me.

Ready to make me a star.

And that she would never fret,

For the moon will always guide her way through the darkest of nights,

As she has always for me

What I Sacrificed

I don’t know what else I can lay down at your feet.

I have given you all of me.

There’s nothing left of me to give.

So please. I beg of you.

Be careful with what i have given you.

For my essence is all with you.

Fool’s Errand

Loyalty, Love, Equality.

All of these I fight for.

And all of these makes me a think I’m doing a Fool’s Errand.

For these three are the epitome of foolishness once made into action.

Loyalty. Once done, Ten times stabbed in the back.

Love. Once done, Blood shed.

Equality. The one thing that will never be achieved.

Yet I fight for all of these to be not a Fool’s Errand anymore.

As to why,

Ask my heart.

 

(This might be edited later)

Dick Move

Writing poetry is a dick move.

It decorates its stanzas with heaven’s perfume.

It uses flowery words to hide the author’s pain when all they need is to let it out

Sure the author is letting it out in a discrete way but he or she needs to let it out in its truest and most raw form.

But I ask myself why I still put make up on my words

My lips stop moving.

I am all talk but no action here.

Because in truth. I use these flowered words to cower behind.

Because we authors are cowards

We rather decorate our world with mystery and fantasy rather than face our fears in its raw form.

Oh, you went through a break up? Say it like this:

“I was the glass mirror she shattered with her fist”

You have a mental illness? Say it like this:

“These are not demons. These are sirens. Calling out to me to find them.”

You are in love? Say it like this:

“Cupid must have shot his arrow through my heart once more today.”

 

This is how we hide.

This is the truth behind poetry.

Poetry is the only way authors can hide without really hiding.

And this is why it is a sort of drug.

Some sort of heavenly outlet

It must be heavenly because it’s better than suicide.

…Right?

 

So we will not stop.

Because this is the only way we know how to bring up our feelings.

This is the only way we know how to relate to people like you.

Our audience.

 

Poetry is a haven for dicks like me.

Poetry protects me,

Gives me sanity.

And I am sure,

If you try it

It will give you sanity too.

 

Love

You would think that Love would make you happy all the time.

Love would shower you with faith, trust and pixie dust and help you fly up

Up

Up into the sky.

You would think Love is all fun and games.

You would think Love is someone so totally expected when in truth…

Love is not.

Love is not expected at all.

Love is not that person with a charming aura and fancy cars.

Love is that person with a not so prominent aura there at the backseat of your car on a road trip with friends and friends’ friends.

Love is not fun, it could be. But not all the time.

Love is a game of truth or dare.

Because you always have to say the truth to Love and make yourself a dare for Love

Love is not tinkerbell.

Nor is Love Peter Pan.

Love is the Stars; you don’t see them but you know they are there.

You trust them not to fall on you.

And stardust, as we all know, doesn’t make you fly.

 

However, Love is real.

And reality is better than Neverland

In Neverland, nothing grows.

Not the people, Not the Trees, Not the Mountains, Not the sea.

In reality, everything grows.

The trees, The ocean, The People,

Even Love itself, grows.

Love grows more and more in love with you each day.

 

Yes, Love makes mistakes,

Yes, Love is unstable,

Yes, You may be hurt by Love and You will hurt Love back.

But.

Love wont leave. Love won’t give up.

And You won’t give up too.

 

Love is worth it.

Make sure Love knows that.

Because sometimes Love forgets its meaning.

So it is our job to make sure Love knows.

Love knows that it is worth it.

Love is worth anything.

Worth going to jail,

Worth sneaking around,

Worth all the pain

Worth all the waiting

Love is worth it.

 

 

 

To My Best Friend in High School

I understand why you had to go.
We were toxic to one another already.
We couldnt stand each other,
We were just breaking each other.
But what i dont understand is why you thought i was drama.
Why am i drama?
Because i am a burden?
Do you know how many times a day im reminded by how much of a burden i am?
The sirens of my mind have already done that.
But you.
You tried to silence them once before.
Telling me im not a burden, that i never will be.
Then when you said you didnt need drama in your life so we called it quits is just pure bullshit.
Tell me.
What made you change your mind?
My neediness?
My sensitivity?
My clinginess?
My absolute longing for someone to reassure me that there are still good things in the world?
My constant deppressive and anxiety attacks?
Tell me.
Is it the latter?
Because i will not fucking say sorry for having attacks.
I will not say sorry for what i have and what i have to deal with.
I will not say sorry for my demons and how much they inconvienced you.

You never loved me.
Im sure of that now.
You never loved me.
Never.
Dont you dare say that you did.
Because you’ll be bulshitting yourself and me.
Not that you care about me.

Dont use the “i changed” card too.
Fuck you i changed and i still love you.
Yes. Until now.
Until now even if i am cursing you.
I still love you.
And you left me broken.
While you go frolick with the friends you used to tell me were plastic.
“I remember that it hurt. Looking at her hurt”
Never did i even think that this line from my favorite movie would be about you.

Vices

You know you are dead when you have found comfort in that ice-cold bottle of beer you are holding.

When that beer has become somewhat like your home.

After all, home is where you find comfort right?

You know you are dead when you have found yourself seeking every corner for that shot glass filled to the brim of tequila.

When you feel that smooth burn go down your throat, you feel safe.

Because you know that you can control what pain you feel and what pain you wont.

You would rather choose the pain of alcohol than the pain of your parents’ cruel words.

You would rather choose the pain of liquor that the pain of being left behind.

You would rather choose the sweet burn down your throat than the pain left behind by a broken heart.

You know you are dead when you feel the loneliness with an empty bottle of alcohol beside you.

Yet…

You feel so alive.

You know you are dead when you have found the fragrance of smoke coming out of a cigarette stick.

When you get a whiff of that smell, you go closer to that person sucking on it.

Till you find yourself saying,

“Can I have one drag?”

And of course, they offer you a stick instead.

And you accept it without a second thought.

You know you are dead when you crave the taste of nicotine.

When that is all you think about

And not even a nicotine patch can help you remove the pictures playing in your head.

You know you are dead when you find despair when you see cigarette sticks, unlit and on the ground.

Yet…

You feel so alive.

Just because one thing leads to death, doesn’t mean it makes you feel dead.

Vices make you feel alive,

So you can spend every single day feeling alive,

And when that day comes,

You know you spent your life well.

You know you spent your life feeling alive.

Welcome!

This is the untold story of people behind the addiction.

Listen to it.

Funerals

They’re my type of party.

I mean,

Who doesn’t love getting wasted because of a loss?

We do it all the time.

When we get a broken heart from the loss of a person.

When we get broken wrists from the loss of motivation.

Even as petty as losing a car to an accident

I mean…who cares about the person inside right?

You care more for the car you see as you pass by the highway and see an accident.

Don’t deny it, we all think of the car first before the person.

 

(Sigh)

 

Funerals.

My type of party

My favorite type of party

So when it is my time, to host this marvelous event

Here are some rules for those who want to attend my funeral.

 

Don’t wear black for mourning.

Wear it as if you are going to a formal black and white party!

Because what’s there to mourn about?

I’m finally free from the pains of this world.

Finally free from the cage that my parents locked me in for the longest time.

Don’t mourn because I’m finally free.

 

Make sure to drink.

It’s a party. Have fun!

Drinking is fun.

It makes you forget shit.

So this is my way of sharing my freedom with you.

So go ahead, drink till your livers erupt!

Drink till you feel as free as I am in that beautiful wooden bed that you put me in.

Drink to forget all your pains,

Drink.

 

Play my top 5 favorite songs.

First is “Broken Strings”

Second is “Gasoline”

Third is “All Those Pretty Lights”

Fourth is “Totally Fucked”

And lastly, the fifth, “Funerals”

And imagine me singing them by heart.

Imagine that I’m screaming at the top if my lungs trying to reach the high notes.

Imagine them as your lullabies to me as I sleep in the ocean of my freedom,

My last rule

When you see me there,

Say hi to me as if I were still in my body.

Laugh with me as if I were laughing too.

Smile at me before you leave.

Because I’m going to be there when you finally say you’re last words in front of my body.

 

When they finally carry my body down to be buried,

Don’t say goodbye.

Continue drinking.

Continue smiling.

Continue laughing.

Pretend you are in my party.

Would you cry in a party?

 

To everyone who remembered my rules…

Tell her please.

Tell her be happy for me.

Tell her…

Tell her to drink all the pains away.

To laugh when she sees my hideously made up face

To smile in amusement that I’m wearing a pink dress

And tell her this:

“You will always be my galaxy of stars, that’s where I am swimming right now. That’s my freedom. You. I’m swimming in your mind and heart. Don’t worry my belle. Just drink and have fun. Be happy. It’s a party.”

(Hi! This was inspired by Lukas Graham’s Song: Funeral)

 

 

 

 

Dear Mom

Dear Mom,

I love you.

You gave me my favorite toy when I was a kid,

That teddy bear,

Remember?

I used to hold it at night

When I go to sleep

To keep the bad monsters away

You know,

The monsters you told me to be wary of?

The monsters in my closet,

Under my bed,

Under the stairs,

Hidden in the dark.

But mom,

Why did you never tell me of the monsters in my head?

You never taught me how to protect myself from them.

Now they keep on haunting me,

They never leave me mom.

Never.

 

Dear Mom,

That hurt.

That belt hurt.

Those words that come out of your mouth hurt.

They all hurt.

Why are you hurting me?

I thought you loved me?

Didn’t you know that the monsters don’t like hurt?

They don’t like me getting hurt?

Did you know that?

Of course not.

You never listen.

 

Dear Mom,

It hurts.

But it is strangely satisfying.

To see my masterpiece on my skin

To see the glorious color of red dripping down my wrists.

It is strangely a wanting now,

To see red dripping down my neck…

My head.

After all,

I’m bleeding inside right now.

Because the monsters are fighting in me.

They are creating a war in my head that I don’t know how to stop them.

I don’t have the power to stop them.

So instead,

I distract myself.

With the red

And with the salt running down my face.

 

Dear Mom,

Remember when I told you I would listen to the radio in my head?

You would always tell me to go ahead and listen.

But you didn’t know it was them.

The monsters I mean.

I listen to them all the time now because of you

They tell me the truths,

In a repeated echo of your voice.

You’re worthless,

Selfish,

Ugly,

Fat,

Waste of space,

Disgrace,

Unwanted,

And worst of all

You know what they tell me?

Want to know what they tell me to do mom?

DIE.

 

Dear Mom,

I know now.

I have depression.

Yet you still can’t seem to grasp that mom.

You tell me that I’m not making an effort,

That I’m not doing anything to help myself,

That I’m not even trying.

But don’t you get it mom?

Having depression means that you are trying

And trying

And fucking trying

All the time

Yet it doesn’t seem enough.

I feel that I am the lack of enough!

I have these monsters,

That tell me to quit every single day,

But I am trying

I AM TRYING

Not to.

So why can’t you see that I am trying?

Why do you keep saying I’m not?

Why can’t you see I am fighting a losing battle

And actually winning

Since I am still fucking here?

Why can’t you understand?

 

Dear Mom,

Want to know a secret?

I never loved you.

What I do love,

Are the scars on my skin.

Because they are the reminders that I am a survivor.

You are a reminder

That I am never enough.