Life is a heck of an application.
You may know how it should start
But you can't be certain how it will end.

You can never delete what has been written
But you can give yourself a pause break
And then decide if you have to shift paths.

You cannot escape what has been laid before you
Or try some backspaces to correct your wrongs
Jumping between tabs is also impossible.

Different people will insert in your life's many chapters
Those who will shake your hand during your page ups
And those who will pat your back on your page downs.

So caps lock for all your big moments
And scroll lock for your every lofty dream
Num lock for every blessing you will receive.

If you scroll up you life's pages but get no clue
And scroll down only to find yourself regrets
Don't forget that  you can always go back home.

To the planet called Earth
And its so called overseers:
We are your distant neighbor
From a far-flung star
A thousand times greater than yours.

We don't come in peace.
Certainly, you may think
That your intergalactic
Space bound expeditions
Got us all figured out.

Your futile exploits
Gave you but an idea
That might turn out to be
A million light years away
From such a prized truth.

But we know everything
About your infant planet.
Your warm-blooded race
The silly thing you call Science
And your many weakness.

We have been here all along
Since the ancient times.
Your ancestors offered megaliths
And long tried to build relations.
But we were never pleased.

Your intelligence, though much inferior
Made us believe you are prepared enough
To decode encrypted messages on crop circles.
But even so with your best technology
You have failed us once again.

Humans! Take heed to the signs
And the warnings of our coming.
We have waited long enough
And gave you time to hone your potential
Only to find you stuck in your own maze.

You call us aliens, those big headed monsters
That you amuse yourself  in your movies.
But you are the strangest kind of life
That our probes have ever studied.
Your saga shall be recorded well.

The wooden door that I used to knock
When I come running home from school
Is the very door that embraced me back
When life outside turned cruel.

The tall racks seemed a bit older
From ***** shoes which come and gone
The vases have turned decades colder
But didn't miss a lot of fun.

The tattered canvas painting
Survived countless humid nights
As our mutters echoed up the ceiling
That stopped when we turned off the lights.

The windows are clean but rusty
With the curtains that nimble still
Where I jumped around so carelessly
As I played Tarzan up the hill.

The lights have turned gloomy
But still have the warmth inside
Like what mom still shares with daddy
A true love that won't subside.

The kitchen sizzled endlessly
As we dine there day by day
The round table remained sturdy
Through the years we sit and pray.

There laid the old bicycle I rode
With my stubborn older brother
The puppets that have lively showed
By the hands of my elder sisters.

It seems I've flown years away
But my heart remained in here
Where it found the meaning to stay
With people I laughed and shed a tear.

A house can never be a home
Unless it is filled through seasons
With a love that grows in every loam
From the hearts that need no reasons.

He took the stage for a one-man show
A character of a hundred roles
Too many a script but he sure knows
To take a bow when the curtain falls.

A storyteller extraordinaire
In his endless soliloquy
Over a thousand and one affairs
Of all his quixotic reverie.

Two hands he proudly speaks at best
Which work like that of twenty men
From different realms of Sciences
Philosophy and Arts he studied them.

But what wound could cut so deep
That he can fool everyone but himself?
Before he drowns his sorrow to sleep
He hides his monsters behind the shelf.

He took his mask and off a smile
That he wore to get himself a crowd
And asked the mirror for quite a while
Did all the theatrics make him proud?

He was the Jack of all trades
Certainly not an expert in one
And his own game of charades
Made him a master of none.

Slowly, idly, lackadisaically
The clock ticks to a thousand degree
Crossing angles of my obliquity
An eternal wait of pure agony.

A mind game is but a child's play
In these four walls of cream and grey
And the heart could easily fall prey
To this pointless introverted decay.

How time flies by so fast
But its wayward wings can never last
It can only cry a regretful past
How soon is soon, this I shall pass.

The future is an elusive plead
Of the tattered hearts and scornful greed
That the mind will try to sprout a seed
And sow a tree to bear the deed.

Tomorrow lies my judgment
That will either end or start the torment
And all these myriad of seconds spent
Will all turn a fraction of a fleeting moment.

The ceiling becomes a painted mirror
Of pure monochromatic colors
My veins enrapture in this cold terror
As my heart relearns this familiar horror.

They say, in the wheel of life, you'll spend half your years rising to the top and the other half tumbling to the bottom. I guess they got it all wrong. I believe life is a crooked tire that can never roll up and down. Pretty sure, it is nailed to the ground where weeds could grow to entangle it forever. Until now, what they keep trying to say remains a puzzle to me. Perhaps I can never understand what they mean. Or maybe I just won’t. Why? Because from the moment our eyes opened for the world, we’re already stuck down below and I’m afraid we’re trapped here in this limbo for all eternity.

We’re just simple people living an ordinary life. Like every family who seeks refuge from the storm, we do have a place we call home although it’s not much of an architectural delight. However, for some reasons, I find our roof appealing like a real work of art. Patches of cardboard embellish the underside while a combination of tarpaulin and ad posters works in harmony to provide an extended shelter. On bright mornings, we’ll wake from the sunbeams piercing through its many gaps. On rainy days, however, the sound of raindrops falling from the gaps down to our water containers serves as our wake up call.

To jumpstart ourselves for another day’s challenge, we could either eat breakfast (if there were any), or just sing our skipping meals away and spend the rest of the day with sacks of scraps and rubbishes on our back hoping to make a good deal with Mr. Gomez, the junk shop proprietor. He reminded me so much of my father but without the alcohol problem and violence, though. During nighttime, we bring with us our drum to sing carols on the lonely streets. If our feet become too weary to walk, that’s the time we head home. We rush all together, eager to count the coins we’ve collected that night. We make sure to put a plastic cap underneath two of our table’s feet so that it won’t lean uncontrollably and spill the tiers of ten, five and one peso coins we’ve dedicatedly piled over. Then the next part does the trick. A portion of our collection for the night goes straight down a big jar and joins in the many others which fill more than half of the container. The remaining part is used to buy supper to save our hungry tummies from
shrinking again. However, during slack nights when drivers and busy people decided to become miserly, we’re fortunate enough to have a pack of noodles for supper. But if we ran out of luck, we just set our untidy beds ready and drown our raging stomachs to sleep. I know there’s not pretty much but this is where our lives revolve. And as they say, life must go on no matter what.

Together with the three most important persons of my life, I continue the journey for a better living. Along the way, we try to search for the good things out of life’s bitter truths. We never let misery **** our hopes and dreams. Instead, we work harder and tougher. Take Islay, for example. She’s cheerful,
clever, aggressive, talented, a model of hard work. She’s got most of everything. Well, except for height, probably. I wanted to be a doctor so I could help the needy. Islay dreams of becoming an elementary teacher. She said she really likes kids and teaching them would surely be a more exciting thing to do.

Then there’s Nova. Her looks may require you a little more time to think and consider, but she has a good heart. However, she gets a little, uhhm, what term do we use for an unsociable person? That’s it! She’s a bit of a Killjoy!

Islay and Nova caroled a store swarmed with drunkards. It was always Islay who’ll find every creative idea and propose it convincingly to Nova, who in turn hesitates and rejects it but then ultimately respects it in the end. Islay always has the winning edge. Maybe that’s one of her abilities. Her convincing power deserves a credit to the list.

The two didn’t mind the ***** that welcomed them. Inside her mind, Nova asked herself how many people could waste their money on a doze of liquid or spirit that can poison their mind and bring them to imminent danger. If only they have given it to the poor and needy, they could have saved a lot of lives instead of ruining their own.

But Aling Nena, the wicked storeowner, unleashed her witchy wrath to the two. She looked at them with eyes of contempt, of prejudice and disgust. She accused the two as jinxes and blamed them for the
store’s unprofitable end. If only she could look at herself and discover a chest of shimmering blame, she might shrink into shame. Islay and Nova ran off not because they were afraid of Aling Nena or the drunken men but because of what Aling Nena said to them. They cannot defend themselves from such
an attack. How could they when they were surrounded with eyes of ridicule?

And of course, there’s my dearest sister, Juaning. We’ve only got each other since our mother’s death. It has been months already. Juaning was still 15 when mama left us. She’s 16 now. It’s been quite a while and I know she misses mama a lot like I do.

And so they fought life’s bitter realities. They begged and implored to the unconcerned passers-by, almost falling to their weak knees for one very important thing - to live. But even if the three of them were sitting, lying, and rolling down the cold pavement, these people with more graces just pass by without even sparing a glance of concern. Wouldn’t it be happier if they shared their God-given blessings? But as the day continues, they have to endure the hunger, the contempt. Because other than filling their
hungry stomach, they have a sibling, a friend to support.

That’s my part of the story. It has been months now since I caught a serious illness which bound me
to this bed, flat on one’s back, weak, inutile, and useless. Every time they come home, I wish I was with them to taste the sweet and feel the pain, not just a good listener to their stories of survival and moments of friendship. Someday, I’ll become strong again, and this curse of a disease shall be gone.

I woke up to the longing for water. I’ve never been this thirsty before. I called out their names but my voice just echoed deep in the four dark walls of our crooked house. With no one to help me, I summoned my strength and decided to get a glass of water by myself. But my legs aren’t as strong as my will. And as I attempted to stand, they betrayed me. I collapsed and plodded down the floor. Luckily Islay came and helped me get back to bed. She scolded me for being careless. I cried. I can’t help it. I pitied myself all
over again.

The cold evening wasn’t a problem for Islay. Seeing me cry like that crushes her heart. I know, as a friend and a part of our family, she wishes the best for me. And that’s why she’s still out there in the middle of the night, working late to earn more for our better future. She ignored the chills and the exasperation. She knows she has to work harder and she’s more than determined for it.

But something happened to me while she’s away from home. I cannot move my body, not even my mouth. Tears just fell from my weary eyes. And before it’s too late, Juaning caught me unresponsive and paralyzed. My sister cried for help. Nova sprinted to get the jar. Juaning told her what to do. And wasting no time, Nova rushed to the nearby pharmacy to get me some medicine, and most probably to save my life.

But Nova’s effort was in vain. Prescription drugs cannot be bought that easily. The pharmacist closed down the only lining of hope for me. The security guard felt pity on Nova and he suggested her an alternative decision that will change our lives forever.

Islay was still busy serenading the busy streets with her chants of joy and sweet hums. But the clouds become unwelcoming. And by the sound of the thunder, big droplets of rain started pouring down the highway. She ran as fast as she could and sat on a corner where she thought of something deeply. She hugged the drum that she was carrying for five hours or so and tried to remain calm in the presence of the bad weather.

After half an hour, Nova came back with a pouch of medicine on her shaking hand. She handed it carefully to Juaning whose faith and hope were hanging to the tiny bottle of miracle.

Days gone by and my condition wasn’t going any better. It turned out that my medicine was consumed to the last drop. Still I remained immobile and my hands are going number by the days. Slowly I was losing hope. I wish they weren’t mad at me. I’m trying my best to live on. That’s why I’m still here. But Nova shared something worth listening to. She revealed how and where she got the medicine.

It was from a quack doctor on a stall put up on the corner of Rizal Avenue. She said he was well versed and very convincing. And that she spent all of our savings for a bottle of deception. But we can do nothing about it. We did not have formal education. We were fortunate enough to meet kind children on
the streets who would try to teach us something they have learned from school. We would attempt to read newspapers and the description in the carton boxes we spread beneath the Badelles overpass.

Nova cried in guilt and shame. Islay was still angry at her, and it can be understood. My sister, Juaning, comforted Nova with a promise that everything will get better in time.

December 27. It was my birthday. And more than anything else, what I wish is for the four of us to be happy. Nothing in this life is more important than seeing everyone you love smile with absolute
happiness. Juaning never forgot her job and that’s to buy me a cake. Every year, they will try to surprise me with every creative possible way. But that’s how their surprises become predictable with my age.

They sang me a birthday song. But this time, they were the ones waiting for a surprise. As my sister was about to hand me the cake waiting for me to blow the candle, she noticed something she was least expecting for. My lips are pale and my eyes are shut from the light of the world. I caught my last breath and before I gave it away, I left a smile on my face that can never be changed forever. That is how I want them to remember me. Not that heck of a frown clown whose audiences are stricken with sadness.

They say, in the wheel of life, sometimes, you'll spend half of your years rising to the top and the other half tumbling to the
bottom. Maybe they were right. It was then that I’ve come to understand what they were trying to say.

Our life’s wheel revolves around things way beyond just money, food, and shelter. It is about the moments you spend with your loved ones, friends and family that will be forever carved in your heart. We can never know when our life here on earth will be over. So let us cherish every bit of it. And for me, even if we skip breakfasts and eat only noodles for supper, I have realized in these last fleeting moments that my life has always
been on the top of the wheel after all.

Earth is a pretty
Messed up equation
Of quite hastily
Made up solution.

We are but numbers
Of different values
Every sign matters
In this set of issues.

Many were born real
Physiques built evenly
Few quite look odd and
Imaginary.

Some are but factors
Serving evil's loots
Denominators
Of ungodly roots.

There are radicals
Who've got point of view
So are rationals
To speak a word or two.

We're discriminant
To other religions
Differential rant
To other opinions.

Can't we simplify
This complex squirm
And instead unify
To a common term?

We're just variables
Merely dependent
On the valuables
Of our environment.

We were given one
To be shared by all
Equality's gone
And this is our call.

If I could steal Saturn's ring
Or paint the sunrise in Mars
Tie the comets to a string
Or maybe pull down the stars.

Wish I could fly to North Pole
And ride the great Polaris
To make the constellations roll
Under her divine orifice.

I'd walk the whole universe
And ride the lunar crescent
Sail the heavenly rivers
To find a fitting present.

For a celestial being
Brighter than Andromeda
Among the stars outshining
In the streams of Aurora.

The Virgo on Earth descends
Zodiac to a sister's birth
And in her heart she transcends
A treasure of greatest worth.

You grow apples in the orchard
And tomatoes in the backyard
Both will be sown in the days to run
To ripen underneath the sun.

Come the season of the harvest
When your heart is at its earnest
You will pluck the morsels from the vine
And climb the tree 'til you swell your spine.

But winter, like the raging horses
Goes creeping like the darkest tempest
And let you do what needs to be done
To bring home just a single one.

It's quite funny but it's true
What these two things will do to you
They will just lie there side by side
To give you freedom to decide.

Which is which? You'll start asking
Here and there they'll go beguiling
Both are succulent, both are red
Both are fruits in the book you've read.

You will put one in the basket
And throw the other in a casket
To rush back home without a track
And leave the guilt behind your back.

An apple rolled on the table
It was the choice that you made able
It looked sweeter, that's what you think
It's bigger and would never shrink.

But as you took a bite it bled
The rancid juice it ever shed
And worms crawled out to sing your death
As you grappled your one last breath.

Alas! You lay in that coffin
While the soil crawled down and mud crept in
Seeds will drink your blood and sprout again
Red tomatoes you wish you would have taken.

A tiny speck of dust
In the celestial clump
Of infinite space
Merely consubstantial
With the ocean of stars
In a cloud of galaxies.

Began to move
Began to feel
Began to think
Began to dream
Began to live.

The wisdom of a thousand lore
Bore a tapestry of culture
That danced to an endless music
And read a myriad of poetry
Which spoke in different tongues.

Began to play
Began to wage
Began to rage
Began to hurt
Began to war.

Clashed beneath the smoke of dawn
But saw the piercing ray of light
That spun the thread of harmony
To cage the animosity
In the hymn of a lasting peace.

Began to build
Began to climb
Began to fly
Began to soar
Began to see.

The limitless possibilities
In the sleeping distant worlds
Of the vast depths of truth
Waiting to be explored
In the sunken days of youth.

Began to want
Began to greed
Began to lust
Began to feed
Began to ****.

And cast forth the entropy
For the triumph of the few
To the carnage of races
In the verge of selfishness
An insatiable desire.

Began to cheat
Began to lie
Began to cry
Began to end
Began to die.

In a cloud of galaxies
With an ocean of stars
Merely consubstantial
Of infinite space
In the celestial clump
A tiny speck of dust.

Overborne barrels
Rolled out in weights
That God knows how much.

Down the bottomless pit
Of unredeemable darkness
Where desire laid unrest.

The hounds of greed
Stripped off the barks
But hid the naked truth.

Where pigs are kept
For the coming slaughter
By the hungry crocodiles.

Only brittle bones
Shall be thrown and fed
To the ignorant river.

But the water saw blood
And soon the tide will rage
To drown the narcissists.

The hardfaced queen of misadventure
Dressed in a robe of insecurity
Seated on a throne of infidels
Ornate with misled hearts of a thousand men.

The resenting mirror of insidious lies
Confessed all the ugly truth
Of all those swollen eyes and wrinkled cheeks
Concealed behind a facade of smiles.

The incongruous pair of unfortunate heels
Tells a thousand stories of her exploit
In worn out stilettoes of faded red
By the futile resistance of those frozen feet.

Playing god on the hellbound streets
Her thighs bewitching weak and drunken hearts
In a fiery throng of mutilation
For a decisive battle that shall claim no victor.

You are the systole to the diastole
Of my four-chambered cavity
You are the pulmonary rhythmic control
That fills air to my capillary.

You are the Pituitary Gland
That drowns my bloodstream in dopamine
You take my brain to a wonderland
Drunk and overdosed in Seratonin.

You are the only Mitochondrion
That powers all cellular activity
My Cytoplasms are in motion
For the sexiest Golgi Body.

You are the ultimate synapse
In my every granule of neuron
That gives an involuntary prolapse
To both my dendrite and axon.

You, the wisest of all fools
To whom whose love has turned so cruel
You dare inflict your morbid pain
And fine us for your selfish gain?

How could you pierce somebody's heart
With that silly game you wish to start?
Toying minds with an arrowhead
And shoot us all at point blank dead?

Why do you make somebody fall
And drag them down from heights so tall?
While you watch there, hovering above
With those weightless wings as white as dove?

Tell us what there is in store
We leave all behind for something more
Show us what there is to see
In this world of pure insanity.

Would we all turn mad in love like you?
Who defied all rules for a fate so true?
Who took a shot to his own heart?
In Psyche's gaze you fell apart.

A cumulonimbus caused the gloom that day. It went shedding drops of rain that looked like bead of pearls glittering in the grey autumn sky, vanishing as they plunge on leafless laurel trees and solitary cypresses. He watched them dance to pitter-patter on every umbrella that opened towards the heavens, their colors of rich black calling out to such empathy. Finally, the drops kiss the graze of withered grasses and thirsty dandelions, reviving their foliage and greenness. Slowly, the rainfall collect to become one with soil and mud crawled down to the six feet depression where a coffin was laid. It was white like ivory and carved with elaborate insignias as a token of love and undying memories. Soon, it was all covered with crimson roses that carry the last parting words of the bereaved. The priest waved out his hands above with mournful eyes, lisping his beseeching of earnest favors while spades of loam filled up the burrow. He saw faces of despair around the pit, gasping for reprieve and sympathy. If only the rain could also bring back her life, he implored.

This, in his senses, was belongingness. This, in his heart, was death.

It had been two long weeks since Roxanne’s death and Vincent couldn’t get his feet back on the ground. He still couldn’t believe he had lost her and that their seemingly endless love has flown away from him for all eternity. He’d make believe that this was all just a dream and at some point of this nightmare he would finally be unchained and awakened. Days became niches of shackled memories that kept haunting his love-fletched soul and nights were nothing more than a requiem of lovelorn longings that still linger in his mind. He remembers it all, the feel of her name on his lips, the smell of her hair, and the sound of her laugh. Everything is still as fresh as the dewdrops of June and as vivid as the most cinematic imagery a mortal could immortalize. The ultimate fight of this melodramatic transition was to remain whole when all the strength Vincent has built up begins to crumble by a mere reminiscence of the tragedy that gets freeze-framed from beginning to end over and over again.

It was a rainy Friday evening on the 22nd of May and everyone’s feeling the smell of the weekend rush. Vincent was already at a friend's house party and called Roxanne that he’ll be waiting. Roxanne was driving the Lexus behind a small truck that seemed to plod toward the upcoming red light. She was a few minutes late on her way and watching these two people ahead of her jabber away in that truck was getting her out of her ecstatic  mood. The light turned green, but the truck too slowly moved forward. Roxanne became frustrated as the driver fixated to the right. He visibly gasped at what was just about to come into her view. A brand new grey-blue Chevy Silverado blazed through the opposing stop light to broadside his little truck. Roxanne tried to stop, but her car slid into the Chevy's rear side and went tossing down the highway to an explosion.

All these is what Vincent needs to drown himself to agony. It’s as if Atlas gave up the bearing of the world for him to endure. Wretched and perplexed was he, blaming the world for such a prejudiced conspiracy. How could an angel like Roxanne be bound to such an end? How could an invincible love become vulnerable on the visage of death? But then again, his heart starts to concoct a spell of phantasm, bringing back the most prized memories of him and her together, infiltrating his whole system and gaining power over the bitterness and pain. In this test of sensations, he himself wasn’t sure if this two-edged delusion is a boon or bane. But one thing was becoming clear to him-he cannot be like this for the rest of his life. If this nightmare must be proven real, he must find a way out. Whatever may lie ahead, he must keep going, recreate his own world and be able to break free from the fetters of this mishap that surely promises him nothing but living scars, frustrations and sorrow.

Two years have passed and the town of New Hope has undergone a lot of changes. New coffee shops and cafes run down a block away from the University premise as well as convenient stores and parlors. New establishments stood welcoming and billboards mushroomed the skyway. The streets are crowded with more and more busy people, indicative of a metropolitan evolution of lifestyle. Summer has ended and without a trace, the arid autumn and the frigid winter fluttered to oblivion.

The same is true for New Hope University which, in its current enrollment period, has its student population increased by two thousand. The institute’s remarkable performance rating in board examinations and national competitions attracted other towns to invest their education to the latter. It was nearly the start of class and everyone is busy catching up the enrollment pace. But not Vincent, who, in the first day of inception has already completed the enrollment process. He was ecstatic, more of curious how his life as a senior student could turn into this academic year. He met faces of different kinds-some familiar and some entirely strangers. Those he doesn’t recognize would just pause and pay a smile while others he knew jsut pass by and make him feel invisible. On a ledge in front of his course department’s office he sat. He in himself was New Hope town in human transfiguration- braver, brighter and better. He looked from afar, with eyes playing on the nimble of heads and shoulders of people passing through the corridor. He drenched himself to an illusion of how each head turns toward him with a infectious smile, that once in a while, happiness is sought even in the gallows of solitude. Solitude-it wasn’t a strange name to him anymore. It never was. He was entangled with it on that day the sickles of death took his love away. Somehow, through the passage of time, the wound that was scourged deep in his heart has mended and the thought of being alone became amusing that he has managed to laugh about it over the seasons. He is more human now, away from the devious portal of his mundane imagining.

The daydream was shattered when out of the blue a silhouette of a familiar figure took the stage. She was elegantly tall, with hair of pure ebony lolling on her shoulders. Each step enraptures, and each gentle sway of a hand is a compelling rhythm. She draws closer to where he was and he's left slack jawed. She entered the office and he was back to his senses. Maybe not. What he beheld was something farfetched, something that he cannot comprehend. Vincent saw it all coming back to him. A remnant of his long buried love has come to life. It was Roxanne and it is more certain than breathing. He couldn’t explain what he felt. It was a maelstrom of joy and surprise, of hope and fear. It was the face he yearned to see, so long that the yearning turned to hate and despair. But now that it came to pass, his humanity fell apart. Although he is a mere victim of his own circumstances, the serendipity took a shot straight to his heart and there is nothing he could do about it.

Perhaps there is, and he is now pretty preoccupied. He wanted to know her. He must unknot this puzzle that has challenged his whole conviction. He must find every answer and throw all of its questions behind. Whatever there is that the road has in store for him is not essential anymore. He couldn’t care less to fathom this enigma and once more, find something worth living. But now that he is hanging in midair, he planned to fall back. He jumped out of the ledge and headed out the campus, afraid that she might be at sight and all the strength in him shall subside. He was up all night, thinking of how he could get a chance to meet and talk to her. He had thoughts of crafting schemes, devising methods and inventing tricks.

And nothing of it worked.

The first day of class commenced. New Hope University is buzzing with ecstatic students. Vincent giggled with utmost excitement, carelessly bumping shoulders and brushing elbows with other students in the corridors.  He molested his tattered COR and skimmed for his first class. It is in room 101 scheduled 9:00. He reviewed through the digital clock and he hurried as it ticked to 8:58. Luckily, he is safe from prime tardiness, though he seemed to be the last comer. He seated at the back, knowing that after thirty minutes, he’d helplessly succumb to napping since it is his favorite subject-English 8, Technical Writing.

And so she happened.

It was her, Roxanne’s doppelganger who broke the charts. She was 15 minutes late and unforgivably beautiful with her sequined tee and skinny jeans. She realized what she has gotten into and apologized with the kindest gesture. The professor gave her a hand and led her to the seat beside Vincent. She felt awkward. He was worse. They both sat like lifeless puppets with the puppeteer gone until she broke the silence.

“I’m Katherine,” she muttered. “Katherine Evans, glad to be your block mate”. She took it off with a smile that sent Vincent to hyperventilation. He couldn’t shake her hands. They’re already shaking with butterflies. The poor guy mounted his strength. He could not afford to lose the chance. “Vincent, Vincent Smith”. That was all and a nod. It was rare for Vincent to survive the thirty-minute nap attack but he did this time, although the victory seemed unnoticed. They enjoyed the remaining hour sharing thoughts and ideas with Vincent succeeding in all his attempts to stint his best jokes. He has come to know who she is at the basics-a transferee from Dakota University, a cheerleader and an adventurist. He also looks forward to know more about her in the days to come- hoping that she likes cheese, watching live wrestling fights and attending Sunday mass.

Perhaps she doesn't.

Two weeks was enough a time for the two of them to get closer to each other. They were both open to let the affinity they share to grow and blossom. It was very apparent that the two knew where their relationship is going and they both seemed ready for it.

Months have passed and the two were no more than couples. But Vincent was too overwhelmed of what he had let enter his life. Katherine is no Roxanne. She doesn’t like cheese, wrestling or Sunday masses. She was more self-driven, conceited and unwelcoming. Sooner he realized that he isn’t in love with Katherine, nor will he ever be. He just created his Utopia by painting Roxanne’s memories on Katherine’s facade. He believed to have loved again and he believed in vain.

It was a candlelight dinner at Katherine's and it was all set. She suggested it herself. She would always do this, steering their affair on a one man tag and turning the tides whichever she likes it to be. She seemed obsessed about Vincent, about their friendship, about their bond. This was her biggest mistake: to let Vincent get drowned in her self-consumed devotion.

Vincent is on his way. To break her heart.

When he came, Katherine pranced in glee. She presented the menu. And the drinks too. She was on the midst of telling Vincent her summer getaway plans when he told her to stop and listen. He undid it to her gently by taking all the blames, that it was his butter fingered actions which led them both bruised and bleeding. It was a self-defeating battle preordained by the gods. A tear fell down from Katherine’s eyes, and she didn’t want to show him more. She fled her way out the dining room with a tormented soul, like Aphrodite torn by Adonis, and hurried to her room with the banging of the door. Vincent was left with only the deafening silence, keeping his severed heart together.

As he sat out there slowly losing substance, he began to notice a set of picture frames that showed two happy faces, one of them Vincent was able to recognize in just a matter of seconds. But what puzzled him most is the picture's relevance to Katherine. He thought of a reason to make his way out the riddle. He looked closer to the girl beside Roxanne and found a spot of mole that was identical to Katherine's.

Vincent stumbled to a discovery he wished he had never known.

On the night Roxanne met death, she was not alone. She was with company. The girl that happened to live is Vicky Duran, Roxanne’s best friend. She was secretly in love with Vincent. And she was prepared to change her entire life for a streak of a chance that she’ll have what she was living for.

And she almost succeeded.

Vincent, still staggered on how things turned out insane, went to Roxanne’s grave. He shattered from an implosion of mixed emotions and he cried out like a child who lost his treasured toy. He curled on the ground with so much pain and bearing contained inside him. He called out Roxanne’s name with pure longing, bringing back his old self and his memories of that grey autumn, of that unwanted Friday that took her life away.

Footsteps cracked from the ground and Vincent ceased his outburst of melancholy.

“Let me end your misery,” a trembling voice came from behind him. It was Vicky, whose face is neither Roxanne’s nor Katherine’s. It was a face of a hopeless woman, wretched and determined for something. She was wearing rugged clothes and she held a gun on her hand. To Vicky, living is no different from death. She has now understood why the very person she loves has turned away from her when she gave all that she never was. But the realization priced too much of her reality that she cannot anymore take back. She decided to **** him and then take her own life.

She pointed the gun towards Vincent. He jumped at her to take the gun away. They grappled on the ground, the weapon still on Vicky’s hands. Vincent managed to overpower her but she kicked him, tumbling back to the gravestone. A shot was heard from afar with a man’s cry.

It rained that day. Brown withered leaves of tall laurels hovered with the wind while branches of solitary Cypresses dance to every whirl. The breeze whispered to the clouds of grey, a mark of autumn’s return. Vincent crawled to Roxanne's grave. It was a weeping of a true love that echoed away. Raindrops keep descending from the heavens, washing away the blood that kept flowing to the ground of mud.  Perhaps, on the last moments of his life he found happiness, even from a love that was never his to keep.

 

- by Larry Potter

In my heart, you are an asset
But in my mind, a liability
You are an entry I can't forget
That's slowly shaking my equity.

Loving you is an understatement
For a beauty's carrying value
And so I made an adjustment
Of the love that I must issue.

But your heart had a preference
For someone who's not me
Who can give you more dividends
Than a hopeful ordinary.

All my hope was expensed
For such unrecoverable loss
And the business I've commenced
Resulted in an opportunity cost.

And so you went depreciating
Ending this going concern
There's this pain accumulating
From a romance unearned.

Now I'm left here to close
All the journals I've made
Correct the errors I chose
For a love that I would trade.

Do angels have to cry
To let rain pour from the sky?
Would unicorns hang round the bend
When rainbows have to end?

Where could be the *** of gold
If the leprechaun turns cold?
Will the Toothfairy check my bed
If I hide my sweet tooth instead?

Will Mr. Sandman catch my dreams
If there's nightmare at the seams?
Would the Easter be the same
Without that egg-hunting game?

Would mermaids lose their tail
If there are no lands left to sail?
Or would Humpty Dumpty fall
To a foolish heart's call?

Will Alice lose her way
If Wonderland turns grey?
Would Jack Frost cast a snow
If there's no love left to grow?

I was hungry enough to eat the **** end of a skunk.  I felt like gobbling the whole mound of concrete that is half an hour closer from becoming a part of my room.  Make that a quarter. I guess my tummy has had enough grumbling, like a seething network of volcanoes ready to devour Hawaii.  I am sure as exhausted as a zombie after a “battle of life and death” handling a plethora of carpentry tools which I have managed to rummage from our dismal basement.  I’m quite serious with the phrase “battle of life and death”.  I get to have this Obsessive Compulsive Syndrome which gulps a huge amount of my rhythm compelling me to put things in place especially in my chamber.  At times, a weltered pen could instigate an emotional havoc.  Or perhaps an inappropriate collaboration of curtain hues and mattresses would be ample to spin the color wheel concept out of my brain.  But now, my walls have done it.  Well, it was just a microscopic sight of a divine crevice, but how in the world could that escape my eyes?  Without a second thought, I approved an avid proposal from my subconscious – a full concrete room renovation.  And that’s how it brings me here, smothering the last square inch of the genius blueprint with this porridge of lime and clay, the hell with chemistry!  I have found out that my room has achieved the piquancy of a sizzling summer noon, thanks to the mist of dust and the precipitating drops of sweat that come tingling down my overheating body.  Ah! At least my system tells me that I’m not a promising patient of ****** dysfunction.  When the last patch has been perfectly planed in place, I drew my last ounce of pure strength and plunged into my most formidable bed, congratulating myself for a job well done. Alas! A thirty-minute nap and I’m ready for a superb coffee and doughnut delight.

I woke up from a cat’s screech. I peeped through the window. The nap breaker was a Cheshire, one with a dimmer fur, the stripes of gray suppressing the darker color.  Its tail enjoyed dancing around its rear, connoting either fear or excitement. It sure has a distinctive mischievous grin.  The feline was on the verge of climbing up the roof by jumping from a gutter about five feet away.  It seemed to have slipped but has managed to bring its **** next to the roof tiles. It stared at me with intent, giving me the macabre look from its glaring eyes.  It’s as if I’m being watched, stalked and examined in a way I couldn’t see, bringing me that feeling of guilt, of remorse.  Urgh! That’s why I hate cats.  Though I’m planning to keep one, I’ll reconsider it.  But what pains me more is to discover that my alarm was not able to do the job and so I slept three hours more than planned.  I looked down and saw the city lights flashing one by one, the beams glowing like a barrier of radiance diffusing into the gloom of the night. I guess this was the price I have to pay. I traded my snack with a peaceful hibernation, turning the coffee into a glass of iced tea and the doughnut into a great dinner with me, myself and I.

I have learned to cook since I was ten.  My mother believed that culinary prowess could be inherited from generation to generation.  And so, she put her trust on me and I haven’t failed her ever since.  This gourmet brilliance proves to be very useful at times of solitude when you got bored of ordering other’s recipes and decided to make your own buffet.  I remembered her telling me that all food would taste good if there is the chef’s heart flavored in it.  Cooking is an art, combining the loops and the whoops of seasonings and spices to the medley of meat and herbs.  Tonight, I decided that my dinner would equal breakfast, satisfying the grudge that I got from skipping my  diabetic snack attack.  A beef stew and a side of paella made my stomach die in joy, appeased at last that my gears are energized for my routinely nocturnal bookworming activity.

I normally hide under my sheets at nine but tonight, I shall break the rules. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll fix the rules next time. Just this time to spare for I have gained interest on this book entitled “100 Years of Solitude”, talking about how one could live happily even alone, just by creating the world you have ever dreamed of. Gabriel García Márquez is dumping the “no man is an island” concept which anyway sounds inspiring to me.  Finally, I jumped into bed thanking Him for letting me outrun another day living alone in a comfortable apartment, free from all sorts of vexation.  I wished for a better life at school, which gives me an imagery of dull monochromatic memories.  I am not that famous but I can be someday.

A heavy beam of sunlight pierced through my window, refracting on the ***** white floor and creeping up to the mahogany table just right at the corner.  It intercepted with the glass pyramid and created a beautiful prism that glittered all around my room.  It was a really majestic scenery, one that I luckily happen to see every morning, a good optic background, I guess. Two hours before class time – that’s where my pattern starts.  Take a bath, eat, brush teeth, groom, check the doors and power, then I’m off to go. Everybody follows a certain kind of pattern, that’s for sure. Whether you wear different types of clothes everyday or use competing brands of toothpaste, clothes are clothes and toothpastes are toothpastes.  As humanity finds more and more complexities in life, they become wired to doing the things and involving the events which they think would give happiness to them and simplify their equation of life.

As a proof, there’s Mrs. Lanny Honeycut from the house next door. She usually sprinkles her daisies every ten in the morning, wearing that friendly neighborhood smile. On their patio, you could never miss a day seeing her husband, Mr. Blake Honeycut reading the daily papers with a round of tea, jam and bread spread on his table.  On the busy intersection stands traffic enforcer, Red Mayer, waving his arms to and fro while wearing that aura of valor, never seem to get tired of doing the same thing over and over again. Thousands go out for work and go back to sleep everyday and that's the status quo we're talking about. Even inside the academic arena, you can still hold on to that thought; I mean the size of the population doing the same pattern at the same time – my schoolmates, enemies and… friends? Well, I’m not quite sure with the last one, but it’s this: they all make a fun of me.  They say I’m a dork, a nerd, a geek, a freak, and etc.  I wonder if they mean everything that they say or say everything that they mean.  Either way you put it, I’m not buying it. I am not what they say I am.  I just like being alone and that’s where I do best.

And as always, the school is crowded with busy people rushing through the corridors. Others are beating the deadlines while some are happy they could breathe for another break. But no matter how busy everybody could be, there is always a time spent for “information dissemination” or chitchats. But only this time, the topic discussed is the same.  I could hear it on the entire campus, everywhere in the perimeter. Another student in the university is missing leaving no trace of existence.  It’s been going on like this for over two months now and the university council has taken their best courses of action to unknot this mystery while campaigns have been running on TV’s and vigils were spent. Not that I don’t care but it seems that this is also happening to other places, I mean, this is not the only school where maniacs could exist and become professional serial rapists in the making. By the way, this is already the 12th case on the record. Weren’t people overreacting to the issue? Isn’t the case overrated? Did they reject the possibility that these people ran away because they got pregnant, messed up or something like that? Soon, the university area was covered with security troops roaming around like a swarm of bees, buzzing and sometimes boozing all the time.

I guess that’s what happens when you hang out too much with friends who are just jesters plotting your own jeopardy. I don’t think it would be good at all to be bothered with things like that because sometimes, it’s also useful not to have any use at all.  Like the king being admired by his kingdom amidst his sloth and compromises.  But that doesn’t mean I’m not friendly anymore. Actually, if it happens that I got company, I would magnanimously offer a treat at my place.  But the thing is, who would likely do that? I’d cross my fingers on it.

Wishes do come true even for a loner like me.  I think I have a fan. No, that would be too sublime. She’s hot and she’s hotter when you’ll know she’s so cool. Quite a paradox, but that’s just reality.  We came to know each other on our lab class. Her name’s Athena, fitting for her twisted logic and good humor. It makes me burn a lot of calories when I talk to her more than a 5-mile marathon could squirt. We were lab partners and we get along well. I just couldn’t figure out where she got the courage to befriend me. I do regard myself as unwelcoming species, but I might work on it when someone tries to knock the door. We juxtapose ideas. Yes, that’s what makes our conversations spin like a merry-go-round. But we enjoy it nevertheless, evident by the crescent smile we both generate out of the craziest topics in store. Once, she interrogated my way of settling wars with enemies. Well, I told her it was my habit of treating them to my house and giving them souvenirs to show how sorry I could be. She snickered and her eyes glowed like the Andromeda and her face shun the whole universe. Oh, I can do this all day long, if only I got hold of time and space.

Today, she asked me if it would be okay if she’ll stay at my place till nine when her dad could be home and she would be able to call her and ask to pick her up. She reasoned out that otherwise, the night would be scary because she’ll be alone in their house, no company, no security. I was puzzled how the thought of being alone could scare her. It is like freedom from any constraints, no ties, and no limits. But I couldn’t blame her. She’s too fragile, too vulnerable to handle it with herself.  With the speed of the light, I accepted the favor.  Well, that goes even without saying.

It was past six thirty when we arrived at my immaculate apartment. It’s great to be an“ OC” sometimes, I said to myself.  I thought of a winner dinner, one that would make her visit worth reminiscing. I preferred Italian.  I cooked her lasagna and drenched the dinner with sherry. We talked a lot until we run out of resorts. I guess she planned it, or I planned it, synergy perhaps.

The clock ticked nine and there’s no sight of her father’s getaway car. But there’s no sign of worry in her countenance either. I surmise it didn’t reach her inkling yet to phone her dad.  She was busy dissecting my kitchen and living room with her very playful eyes. That doesn’t trouble me though. That’s just as instinctive as any other first time guest could get. She grappled her attention on my antique collection of prehistoric movies, like the Scarlet Letter, The count of Monte Cristo and the likes. She happened to love them too. Well, that makes her more beautiful to me, other than the satin white dress she wears. Suddenly, she got the impulse of going to my room. She said there’s nothing more exciting to see than a gentleman’s bedroom. I startled from the request, but before I could say anything, she leaped straight to my chamber with the gestures of an imp. It’s weird to be in this kind of circumstance because I don’t often invite a lot of visitants to my room. I ain’t no hotel crew, bowing down and waving his hand to the chamber’s destination and leading the VIPs to their cabins. Yet this time, it’s the other way around: it’s my cabin.

But now it’s too late to stop her. She molested the **** and I giggled for some reason. Finally, the door opened a crack and a bend of light escaped from inside. She stepped in, and I followed. She was filled with awe not because my room is all made of gold nor did it resemble a royalty’s den. It was the exaggerated neatness and order that greeted her. In some unknown vortex of my deepest imagining, it made me feel like I’ve been through this instance before. The flashback is not so vivid as it appears, but something tells me this isn’t the first time. Deja vu could be working on it, I infer,although I don’t really believe in those forms of conceptualizations. Perhaps it’s the sherry’s spell infiltrating my mental prognosis. But something, I guess, isn’t really right.

I caught her opening a red box that was hidden behind my cabinet. I tried to steal it away from her but she fought back and it came tossing down the floor. Numerous items spilled from the case. A purple head band with the glittering initials ANNE, a ruby embedded bracelet, and a Nokia handy phone exposed the secrecy. This isn’t going to go along well and fine, I guess. A strong surge of desire came from my core. It tried to envelop my entirety and control me like a lifeless puppet. I felt the tip of the pyramid glass in my hand and I succumbed to lose my consciousness.

Morning came and it felt better than ever. It was a ***** Saturday. There she lies beautifully on the deck, like an immortal bud of red rose trapped in golden amber. The cellophane fits her well, and there’s no doubt she’ll be complaining anymore. I already prepared a cozy place for her deep sleep: A 5x2 feet wall engravement which I was busy molding last night. It wasn’t easy making her go to bed but still it ended up smooth and sound. I helped her get up and fitted her in place.I turned on the radio as I reached for my dear carpentry tools. The news was still nailed on it. But this time, the missing case struck for the 13th turn. Ahh, the hell with society! They never really get a way to deal with it.

I was busy patching the last mound of concrete that is half an hour closer from becoming a part of my room. Make that a quarter. I guess there’s no end to this divine crevice issue. It must be following a pattern too. But I can handle it, thanks to this vicarious personality. I wonder if I could get the chance to invite another visitor in my place. But if I do, I would certainly offer the best treatment they could ever have.

I see
No human faces
In this city of bones
Only fallen graces
On crumbled stones.

I hear
The masked men
In their soliloquy
At the desolate den
Of pure agony.

I feel
Them reach their hands
To a chanting bell
As they zealously trance
Towards the gates of hell.

I smell
The rotten corpses
Of murdered hopes
Hanged in the ruined churches
Of silenced popes.

I taste
The bitter end
Of a golden age
Corrupted by the hand
Of pride and rage.

It was quite a while
Since I wrote to you
I'll make up with a smile
And "how do you do?"

You see, I've been busy
Roaming round the streets
In this sleepless city
Of lies and deceits.

I longed for my pen
And my loot of ink
Missed going down my den
To write what I think.

But I have a story
I sure love to tell
A dash of honesty
It could ring a bell.

As I make my way
In this jungle of concrete
People live the day
With a dying spirit.

They tend for the future
And wake up tomorrow
Caged in a wicked culture
In the grayest limbo.

They don't sing the same
Nor dance the beat
They won't play the game
To warm their feet.

But the coldest truth
I've come to know
Is one to bear fruit
From a fear to grow.

Their hollow heart
Left the passion to write
Of how poems start
And end with might.

I'm stuck at a sea
Of wandering souls
A piece of humanity
In a thousand ghouls.

Washed ashore
By the angry ebb
Of lost Atlantis,
The ocean brims
In liquid Jade
And grains of gold.

The sun won't sleep
Under the blanket
Of the vast horizon,
But dances with
The velvet moon
At heaven's feet.

Divine rays pierce
The prismic clouds
Bleeding spectrum,
Rain that seethed
At the apex
Of nature's bossom.

They gushed forth
Like raging horses
To a thirsty basin,
That slithered down
The silver rivers
And shallow streams.

Neon vines
Creep in the floor
Of the sleeping forest
Cradled by the songs
Of Mockingjays
And willow dryads.

The zephyr hums
A joyful song
In the laughing thickets
As flowers bloom
Like newborn stars
In the undergrowth.

In the mellow heart
Of the deep forest
A *****'s cry
Echoed woes
Of the hidden land
And its deadly curse.

I hovered down my cursor
Towards the Facebook icon
My senses were in fervor
For one notification.

I clicked the drop down button
That was drenched in crimson red
My mind had an implosion
As I decoded what it said.

Someone sent a game request
To me when time was lush
My day embarks another quest
In the game of candy crush.

A ticket, life, or power-up
Could be the thing I need
To clear the way and reach the top
And in the ranks I'll lead.

A move that swaps a jelly bean
Perhaps could form an "L"
A wrapper bomb then could be seen
Explosion it would spell.

Maybe an orange lozenge
Could pile in lines of four
A striped bomb could come in revenge
And wipe out lanes for score.

A bunch of yellow lemon drops
I'll surely link to five
In time a color bomb would pop
And clear the candy hive.

Heaps of lollipop heads in blue
And purple cluster sweets
Could get swept out in a row or two
By coco wheels or jelly fish.

How lovely it would be to see
A medley of combination
Bombs and power-ups in spree
To a rainbow candy motion.

Two wrapper bombs would be enough
To blast two groupings clean
Two striped ones make a checker stuff
Where blocks have ever been.

A wrapper and a color bomb
Blast off a certain hue
A color bomb and a stripe in clump
Stripe out some colors too.

Perhaps of all the tricks I've seen
The one that serves me great
A duo of color bombs would mean
The end of all the slate.

The sun may rise, the moon may set
I'll be there to sit and play
A sweet treat is all I need to get
And I'll complete my day.

I hear the clock ticking
Cursing the dead silence
The walls are slowly bleeding
To an eternal sentence.

The fan swings its razor blades
Toward an endless cycle
Singing a requiem that fades
Into a childish cackle.

The vesper in the ceiling
Casts a familiar shadow
A succubus slowly creeping
Down the covers of my window.

The chimes are prancing gladly
To the coming abomination
The wind blows an eerie
Stench of vile intoxication

Voracious grubs of horror
Crawl out from the pillows
Devouring all my vigor
In this crypt of morbid hallows.

Tingling drops of sweat kiss
The melting wooden floor
That crumbles down the abyss
Of hell's scorching core.

My frightened heart withered
To what ungodly sight
I woke up from my slumber
At the twelfth hour of night.

I want to be the Man of Steel
But I cannot breathe
On that tight sheath
I'm too short to spread
That shiny cape of red.

I want to roam the galaxies
But my fear of height
Defeats my will for flight
And my skinny thighs
Tremble in the skies.

I want to have Herculean strength
But my tiny hands
Don't stand a chance
Over chunks of meteors
Or Velociraptors.

I want to gain superior speed
But my porous skin
Crumbles in the wind
And my crooked feet
Hate the city streets.

I want a pair of laser eyes
But my reading glasses
Could reflect the flashes
And deprive my sight
Of the Earthly light.

I want the power of the sun
But my curly hair
Could catch a flare
And they'll all conspire
To set myself on fire.

I want a shield of purest lead
But my brittle bones
Petrify to stones
Before the aegis glides
Against all Kryptonites.

I hate to want the Man of Steel
His pair of laser eyes
Or his flight to the skies
His speed and vigor
Or eternal power.

I wish to be just Clark Kent
Who only has a pen
That he can lend to men
But was the one to gain
The love of Lois Lane.

Blue and Yellow were seen
Staring at each other's chin
Thinking of something Green.

By Red, enranged and confused
Who crushed his box of Orange juice
And gave Blue a Violet bruise.

The pitch Black consumed the brightness of day
As the the moon chased the sun away
And the White clouds turned to puffs of Grey.

Beneath the shade of trees with Brown barks
A bed of Pink tulips withered in the dark
And a love affair had lost its spark.

As I lay me dying,
See how all the children play
In the flaming streets of a winter day
Without taking heed to what I say.

As I lay me dying,
Catch a pigeon's flight to blend
In the toxic clouds of violence
That steal away all her innocence.

As I lay me dying,
Listen to the mournful cry
Of guns and bullets in lullaby
As they dance to both the truth and lie.

As I lay me dying,
Laugh at all the foolish hounds
In armored suits and heavy bounds
As they kneel before an ungodly crown.

As I lay me dying,
Witness how the world intends
To end her days in great amends
And awake the curse to last the ends.

As I lay me dying,
Watch with me in this graze of grey
While the sun dries my flesh in decay
As the sea of tears drowns its bloodstained rays.

As I lay me dying,
Join me as I breathe my last
For the darkest future and regretful past
And the wrecked present that my greed has cast.

Why do I find myself so
Weak in your arms?
Why do I fall my knees
To the pit of your charms?
Why do I betray my thoughts
For your wicked lies?
Why do I lend my ears
To your mournful cries?
Why do I lean my
Shoulders when you weep?
Why do I stay awake
Just to watch you sleep?
Why do I feel alone
If you're not around?
Why do my feet dance
When you make a sound?
Why do I catch my breathe
While you walk my way?
Why do I see heavens
When I watch you pray?
Why do I hate myself hating love?
When you're a transcedent from up above?

I once had a Simple Plan
To bribe a lady for a Kiss
With a Nickleback in my hand
And an Eagle tattoo on my wrist.

I brought her to the Linkin Park
And gave her meatloaf and Bread
But it had Red Hot Chilli Peppers
So she ate the Pearl Jam instead.

My tongue was like a Rolling Stone
As I tell her my Nirvana of love
I made promises with my Pink Floyd finger
As she watched a Led Zepellin flew above.

Her Metallica heart didn’t waste time
And she rejected me within Thirty Seconds to Mars
I treated her like a Queen
But all I got were Iron Maiden scars.

It stung me like the Bee Gees
Or a Scorpion tail’s as fine
The Beatles are all crawling down my skin
When she broke this Heart of mine

Guns N Roses were the choices
That were left for me to Root
But a Cheap Trick with the latter
Ended my romantic Journey afoot.

Ardor
Beauty
Cascading
Debris,

Envy
Frantically
Glorifying
Her
I­diotic
Jealousy,

Killing
Love
Messing
Negativity,

Oozing
Pride
­Quaking
Restlessly,

Slither
Tricking
Unanimity,

Vexed
Wretched
­Xenophobic
Yearning
Zombie.

The sun melts the zenith
Of wild galloping horses
Igniting the mist of dust
From the scorched flesh.

The moon fluttered to the gallows
Where the dawn slithered by
But her inevitable death
Sprung a vengeful return.

The infant orb of Helium
Lies cradled in the horizon
Where the grinning darkness lurks
In the vesper of the shadows.

Pitter-patter rain of fire,
To the coldest burns of my desire.
****** my soul so strong but weak,
And feed them to the roaring meek.

Light up all the stars so dark,
Ignite my waning cogs of spark.
Send me near a distant sun,
And let me end where I began.

Scorch me with your biting chill,
And move me with your thoughts so still.
Blow my mind in the gentle gust,
And polish all the gems of rust.

Nothing triumphs every fall,
Of shortest ego standing so tall.
Grief will laugh and joy will weep,
To the beauty of the ugly sheep.

The velvet moon sprung a tide
Crashing towards the wrecked shore
Of wretched dreams and perplexed hearts.
The sand of grayest melancholy
Veils a secrecy of lies
In an ocean of saddening truth.
The sky cried out in vain
Pouring wisest drops of rain
Towards both the tide and sand
And mingled them as one
Towards the crimson sky of dawn.

I couldn’t help but wonder how
My life has changed from past to now
College years have come and gone
With battles fought and friendship won

I can’t rethink how I put up
A fight with all the hazy crap
Reports and quizzes make me see
My messy life’s a topsy-turvy

At times I’ve longed for high school days
When fun chased all my fears away
Exams are all but worry-free
Not like now, dread won’t leave me be

Eye bags pop from lack of sleep
Flapping out like a bulldog’s cheek
Breakfast shake hands with my lunch
Nothing’s cheaper than a brunch!

I wouldn’t care if you wouldn’t dare
To bust your **** out of a chair
For four straight hours to read or so
Without a choice, you can’t say no

Professors blow your brains away
With problems that are sure to stay
In the deepest corner of your mind
You’ll end up asking why life’sunkind.

Amidst all these, I always end
With a thought of awe and self amends
My college life is more than fear,
Struggles, hex, and countless tears

People of same age as you
Share you love and gaiety too
Laugh out loud to let you know
They’re always there and won’t let go

I couldn’t help but wonder how
My life has changed from past to now
I sure have lived this life He made me
And out I’ll share my college story.

1 Upon slumber, unfold thou faerie eyes,
2 Grab ye stardust, prepare thou soulful flight;
3 If in journey’s midst wrapped with nature’s guise,
4 Be not nimble less so to wane thou light.

5 Bright fireflies conspire to dim thee shadow,
6 As thou fleet bequeath pure enraptured plains;
7 Chanting rhymes, dryads cometh to follow,
8 Thou escapade to human cosmic vains.

9 Let our worlds converge on a rendezvous,
10 Where love’s verge proves true its life immortal;
11 A portal death’s call shall only endow,
12 A cycle of joy and fear revival.

13 Let our world’s loathe expire from our being,
14 Time nor death can’t hinder love’s revealing.

1 The zenith tempers warmth in hueful mist,
2 Of indigo splatters and crimson beams;
3 Wisps go flickering, zone of blossoms twist,
4 For art carnival of aesthetic creams.

5 Thee heart’s a-beating drunken symphony,
6 Conjures pure, shrill pounding acappella;
7 Cognating pulse on graceful melody,
8 An ensemble of forceful orchestra.

9 Thy sway tickles all dead integument,
10 Pressure’s on accord, feeble limbs awake;
11 Impulse enlivens every element,
12 An ecstatic cradle in every flake.

13 Nestle me lambent gal, don’t leave me be,
14 Thee orbs thou have enslaved wish not be free.

1 I beseech the night to bewitch the day,
2 That the latter suffice, employ her, charmed;
3 To seize her specter with illustrious ray,
4 Through his ember embrace her frost be warmed.

5 I pleadeth ye tide to transpire from sea,
6 So he may leak and she thirsts his substance;
7 When vapor drained she would surely seek he,
8 Whence but gush back will be cared with constance.

9 Permit this herculean love lose muscle,
10 And all strength from thy heart subside;
11 Implore thou mind to unknot this puzzle,
12 Patch them pieces, surge within thee collide.

13 Just as how Hades tangled Proserpine,
14 Our love’s fortune soon paint great self design.

1 Life’s melody plucketh on broken strings,
2 When thou visage pulsates songs of passion;
3 Resonating frail music thy tongue springs,
4 Thee’s faltered core of fettered intentions.

5 Through rain I burneth, in thou radiance chill,
6 Thy mind defeats what thy heart embattles;
7 If pain lingers sweet, I benumb to feel,
8 And feed ceaseless bane and boon entangles.

9 Lest thee feeling withers, I recompense,
10 The gaiety of life in thy love’s commend;
11 To abhor the horror, erase the tense,
12 And finally embark to last the end.

13 Though Uterpe’s shut, Cupid’s arrow broke,
14 Our hearts shall sing rhythm, love will uncloak.

The sun wakes up with the warmest smile
And flowers bloom in a fragrant pile
The zenith high and the sea below
Witness how you age and grow

A tingle underneath your sheet
Makes your slumber slip underneath your feet
As you look up to the numbers far
It’s your birthday! Says the calendar

While your heart beats fast for what’s in store
Should your guests come knocking at your door?
Or your friends and pals and sweetheart too
Would they be there to celebrate with you?

Remember that through all the pain
And the wisdom through those years you’ve gained
There’s a single one you didn’t find
In your parties or of such a kind

Yet He was there to share with you
The tears and wrath and gaiety too
Protect you from all sorts of harm
And embraces you to keep you warm

So on your birthday please don’t forget
To thank God for your every breath
For His love and light and countless bliss
Who deserves the biggest hug and kiss

Today as you add up another year
To the digits of your age my dear
Remember Him and all those who
Make your life and dreams do come true

But of course don’t ever odd me out
From your list of memorable laugh and shout
I’m your friend who wishes the best there are
For your birthday’s written in the stars.

When my eyes first opened for the world
With my cries aloud and my body curled
Her bright smile put the sun to shame
And her warm embrace was the one to tame.

Through the wounds I get when I stumble down
And the tears I shed when I feel a clown
She would come running in the barest feet
And try to save me from my drowning fleet.

At times we get ourselves in a fight
And we cuss and fuss with all our might
But when our hate and rage finally subside
We would smile and swallow up our pride.

She knows me better than I know myself
And my monsters lurking behind the shelf
She’s got the best medicine I've ever known
To every sickness that my body had sown.

Her wrinkles are her boldest legacy
For the love and care she gave to me
That I can’t help but give back in return
A promise that I have tirelessly sworn.

Let the earth devour our bodies weak
Crush our brittle bones in the grayest bricks
Still my heart and soul will always remember
That I have the world’s greatest mother!

Let lore luster lax,
Lingered love leavens.
Let love loop lilac lei lavishly.

Listen lovelorn lilt, laconic liken
Lisping liturgy, limping litany.
Litmus-leaking longing, languor lengthened.

A jot, a blot is all I need
To give my thoughts their sweetest deed
I swing and swirl this loot of ink
As letters dance to what I think

Think not and write you cannot do
Like Napoleon to Waterloo
For what is war but a loss in wager
A broken truce in a piece of paper?

Papers shrink and end in bins
As writers make their painful sins
But how can that be not far better
Than to hallow one with a price much greater?

Greater than the boldest force
And the many knights in their battle horse
Is a gobbled pride left sealed in wax
To unleash the sheep and **** the fox

Foxtrot to the endless seams
Of choicest words and inner hymns
Writing is a hundred twice as fun
And safer than a loaded gun

Guns may pierce the human flesh
But words hit straight a person’s chest
For what it’s worth, a mighty mortal
Can fall to such a force as equal

Equal to a slash of sword
Is an ample dash of pointy words
A blood spill sure can end a war
Don’t you think a pen can get that far?

Far and near are distant words
That pens can glue but not the swords
For I can rule the world and sprout a seed
A jot, a blot, is all I need.