with every push from them
i move closer to the edge
not ready to fall
not ready to break
not ready to heal myself
and put things back in place

with every pull they give
i can't seem to gain balance
not holding onto anything
so i stumble back
not watching where my legs are going
where my feet are going at

someone, let me stand good
someone, take my hand
i'm weakening every step of the way
my spirit's off the land

someone, save me from them
someone, save me from myself
someone, don't leave me all alone
sitting on life's shelf

people say, "expect the worst." well, i say, "expect the inevitable."

sometimes in life, we always think there's an end to everything; a negative end, a sad death of something, that we'd get the idea of not living anymore and join a dead person or relationship in the grave. but in reality, death isn't always about end either, because after a death, you move on. we can't expect a death or an end, and that's it... we have to move on. i think moving on is inevitable. we may not notice it, but soon we find ourselves being okay with the fact that a relative's six feet under or that we don't get sweet 'goodnight' messages from a significant one. we just keep pressing forward and surviving the remaining days of our lives. living just as we used to, only, with a better perspective of everything around us, especially with the inevitable.

They always ask
Why i like the dark of night
Or the gloomy rainy weather
Or scary thunderstorms
Or the big menacing moon

I always answer
That it is in the darkest moments
That light and hope
Is most well seen and found

Broken people are beautiful. Their shattered parts are clear. You can observe and see what's in their minds. And their rough, edgy sides... oh, the excitement to discover! Those large pieces of them -- you can probably hug the life out of it. The smaller portions can easily hide and wait for you to seek it.

But take caution: Once you mishandle them, you'll get a cut.

For a long time, I have avoided my best friend because I have developed feelings for him. Until now, I had a chance to strike up a conversation with him.

So what are these tears for?

Am I crying because I could finally talk to him as usual?

Or

Am I crying because I am only talking to him as usual?

I dont trust people
as much as i used to
Knowing i'd get stabbed
In the back anyway

And now i dont even trust myself
Because i know i'd stab myself
Through my heart
To numb all these lonely feelings

And as i readied myself to reply to your message, i felt the familiar warmth in my hands when i tapped away on my keyboard-- the warmth from years ago when i last saw you and held your hand

Maybe my dreams of us
Are recorded inside my pillow

Maybe it's either those dreams about what we could have had

Or why you had to break my heart

Maybe that's why my pillow's damp every night

Maybe that's the reason for my sleepless nights

it was a blur.
your eyes wouldn't focus.
I heard you lost your film.
it took you a long time,
shooting away like a star.
but your gaze frames everything
touched by dark and light.
your heart knows no storage limit,
compared to those picture albums.
capture each scene,
in full color and clarity.
save it, remember it.
wait with the process.
your photograph has developed.
now it's clear.

— photograph, he.
(j.m.)

the radio static of a blank station
the moment raindrops hit surfaces
the gliding of wooden sliding doors
the tick-tock of the clock on the wall
the sounds of leaves flying in the wind
the period of time a guitar is being tuned
the mellow piano scale of moonlight sonata
the echoes of footsteps in an empty hallway
the breathing of a newborn and a dying man
the far-off engine roars of a car on a highway
the supersonics of an airplane flying overhead
the crashing of tidal waves upon the breakwater
the ****** of chimes or frozen icicles on a cold day
the scrape of my pencil on paper as i draw and write
the scratchy noise after a vinyl record finishes to play
the ruffle of bedsheets when someone is restless in bed
the bristle of hair when mothers tousle their children's hair
*his voice

"I know i’m still a child now
I can’t catch up to you yet
Only a little while more"

but i can promise you
my love for you is sure,
even with a mind still young
my heart's intentions are pure.
to run into your arms,
for you to kiss my tears away,
to look out for each other:
that moment, for it, i pray

to love him is like
running a marathon in circles.
his long strides carrying himself
further away from me,
and i'm getting tired of going unnoticed.
soon it has come to the point
where i stopped chasing
but instead, thought,
"what if i were to stay put and wait?
wouldn't he most likely
catch up to me one day?"

I wake up to your eyes on me,
Your lips close to my cheek.
Under the sheets, slowly,
It's my hands that yours meet.
Entwining beneath the fabric,
You hold me closer.
I inhale, exhale your morning scent,
It makes the dust particles stir.
My fingers run themselves through your hair,
Like how you keep running in my head.
To fall asleep in your arms,
to fall in love again,
I never want to leave this bed.

we both had two different painting styles. he was into calligraphy, the bold and gentle strokes of black ink on white paper; i was into watercolor, the translucent colors slowly spreading to a gradient on a Canson. we were two painters with brush styles of stark contrasts.

three objects. a flower arrangement, an antique vase and grecian sculpture. we were asked to pick the most eye-catching one out of the three, paint it in our of style of representation. and so we began.

him: what will you be painting?
me: i can't tell, you might judge me for it.
him: alright, but promise me you'll show it to me once you're done.
me: okay. same to you too, then.

hours passed, and while i often discreetly glimpsed at him, he caught my eye sometimes and would make funny faces or just softly smiled at me. i could not deny that my hands were shaking as i dunked my brushes into the watercolor jar and continued to finish my painting.

him: i'm finally done. this is a masterpiece.
me: i believe it's the same for me too.
him: should we count down as we turn our boards to each other?
me: nothing better than a surprise of what's the most beautiful thing out of all the objects before us.

we flipped our boards to each other's viewpoint, and we were both shocked to be looking at ourselves, a painting of ourselves, one done by the other. he painted me in black and white, a figure-ground influenced painting, strong in lines, simplicity in its finest state, rendering me bare and raw. i painted him in pale colors, a positive reflection of him lighting up life, and soft shadings to give depth to the meaning of his existence.

after knowing this and scrutinizing our works, his cheeks turned pink as the pink on my palette, while i covered my eyes with my hair as dark as his ink. we burst out laughing and blushing at the fact that the most beautiful object before our eyes was each other.

sometimes, i wonder if he's my muse, the art or the artist. and i felt like a watercolor jar at that exact moment, as if brushes soaked with different colors were being dipped into me all at once, the tint, hue and vibrancy bleeding into the clear liquid, getting murky. it was like those colors are my emotions, and with every emotion mixing, my thoughts get murky. i guess this is how it feels to be in love with all forms of art at once.

******
(noun)
1. any undesirable or troublesome plant, especially one that grows profusely where it is not wanted
2. a cigarette
3. ungainly person or animal

the weeds in the garden,
though sometimes unwanted,
sprout from the dirt yet full of life,
little in worth, yet lovely.

the weeds that we smoke,
dangerous to our health,
tasting bittersweet like memories
yet brings us short-lived ecstasy.

the **** of my life,
he was nothing but trouble
that brought about mirth
in my too-perfect garden;
he frustrated the people
who tended to me,
growing back into my life
every time they plucked him out.

unwanted but lovely.
dangerous but lively.
he was my whole definition of ****.

The veins on your arms
Remind me of crumpled paper
Which I hold on tight to,
Then loosen my grip,
Smoothing out the imperfect surface.

My eyes follow each string up your arm—
Untying the ribbon like opening a gift—
And back down again, to your fingertips.
My very own quiver
Like the tip of a quill pen.

I notice there are blanks to fill in,
And proceed to write my name
With my finger, onto your palm.
I write something longer,
And it doesn't tickle or bother you.

Then our little fingers wrestle:
it's a strong pinky promise.
We seal it with a swear of the hand,
And a handshake. We hold it in place,
Until our fingers are intertwined.

One more seal, with a kiss this time,
As I bring your hand up to my lips.
I won't let you go now.
This is how I write poetry
With my bare hands.

Your broken guitars,
My finished sketchbooks--
That's how we are right now.

No more songs meant for me,
No more completed portraits of you;
We're blank and make no sound.

What if, back then, I had stayed?
What if, back then, I had fought?
Would I have loved you til the end?

What if, back then, you had found me?
What if, back then, you felt the same?
Would you have held on to my hand?

i might have become
         h o l l o w
         as the bottles i drank
                       numb
             as my cold fingers
      e m p t y
        as the inbox on my phone
         disoriented
  as how this poem is typewritten

how much more naiveté
do i have to go through
in order to realize
because i know im hurting
yet i dont know how to explain the pain

it's acidic, sour and bitter.
You feel it bubbling within you.
Sometimes you want to ***** it out.
Or let it seep from your eyes.
You might opt for bleeding it with ripped skin or blotched ink on paper.
And after I've done my best to throw sadness out,
I feel full of emptiness.

Love is a tidal wave
that one alone
cannot brave.

Unless it's a boat for two,
then the ocean is made
for the both of you.

my favorite dance step of yours
is when your fingers
start to play the piano.

and because you,
who speaks little with strangers,
suddenly become the talk

of everyone
when you let your hands
speak for you.

who said i needed SOS
to heal these wounds
when i all needed was XOX
just from you?

the easiest and hardest thing
about falling in love
is being a writer

the little things
that they do and say
come and stay
in their place.

the sun is so in love with the moon
that he's starstruck
and is already a shooting star
falling everyday
dying every night
just to let his silver lover live
and gives some of his light to her
during the darkest hours

the sun is so in love with the moon
before the universe even existed
we just don't know it
because their love is light years ahead of us

The vast space between them
As the sun continually chases the moon,
Who smiles back at the sun.
Watching her in the dark
Knowing she's admiring him from afar,
The sun can distinguish the moon
In the dark with a thousand stars
But the moon has trouble finding the sun.
One day, they'll be in front of each other.

As the moon says,
   " Ah, this is the girl who radiates
       As beautiful as the stars around me"
And the sun says,
   "So, I finally get to see the boy
       Who perfectly reflects my light,
       A quiet mirror of my own image"

When that day comes,
That will be the time
The world will stop.

"Everything you think of
Will become all of me
Look at me and be my lady
You’re my twenties
As more time passes, when I grow up
I’ll understand you more
My love my love my love, my dear,
Don’t you dare let loose of my hands"

To have you here right by my side,
To be with you both day and night,
To watch you in your highs and lows,
To keep you steady at your toes,
To support you even when you're wrong,
To put you to sleep with a song,
To complement you when you're right,
To be your morning light,
To see you when I open my eyes in reality,
To tell you what I honestly feel,
To see you when I close my eyes in dreams,
To show you we are more than real.

there will only be two things that will happen to you:

either you end up in my poems of heartbreak, remorse, and sadness,
or,
you end up beside me with my hand in yours.

A castle is built
           within myself
Caging the sleeping beauty inside
With thorns growing all around
Piercing through
   my head and my heart
The damsel in her slumbering distress
Knows not a single pain
But puts faith in her prince
                         And her fairy guardians
All of whom have no true sword
To slay the dragon roaring like tides
Or to awaken the kingdom
     Of the numbness
                in which they hide
Not even the witch who casted the spell
Can undo the magic bind
              
Because I myself am the
         Princess, the prince,
The castle, the fairy guardians, the dragon,
                     The kingdom
And the
    Witch

It's only in
    A dying me
Where the saddest fairytale can
              Thrive

I push your hair away from your face the way the wind blows the clouds away from the face of dusk; both actions exposing the creative glories of God's artistic hands. You are already the moon, yet little did I know you are more than what I think: you are all of the night sky. You hold the moon in your eyes, moonbeams in your smile, and constellations which dot your face in the form of moles.

And it's only now that I understand why they're called the beauty marks of a person.

And it's only now that I realize I can embrace the eventide and continue floating in a dream into the dawn.

And it's only now that I'm able to see nightfall as the last thing I see before I close my eyes.

And it's only now that I know I can literally kiss the stars and the rest of the night sky good night.

his eyes are one of my favorite things about him.
but i can never draw him, much more his eyes.
not even when i try.
i can never capture the way his eyes glow
as soft as a little star when he smiles softly,
or as bright as the sun when he beams.

i can never copy the intensity of his gaze
without my pencil lead breaking or my hand tensely shaking,
in fear of giving injustice to such opened and clear windows
to his beautiful soul.

i can never shade enough to give it the depth similar to reality.
i can never bring out the emotion of his eyes
with my pencils
like the way he does with his heart.
i can never draw the flutter of his eyelids,
the curls of his lashes,
the color of his irises,
or the void of his pupils,
all of which i get entranced and ****** into the blackhole of his soul.

i can never draw him in the simplest way:
his eyes staring at me.
because i can never look into his eyes
or lock gazes with him--
not even with a still portrait.

Raindrops are the
guilty tears
of the sky.
She thinks that
everything bad
that happens
underneath her fold
is her fault.

i heard him call me through the wind
and the smell of his scarf lingers around my neck.
he grabs my frosty fingers
and warms me up with an embrace.
standing outside starbucks,
waiting for his apple pie and my hot choco.
"Let's get inside, it's warmer there," his breath dances in the cold air, arms encircling around me tighter.
I shake my head and snowflakes melt against my beanie, head against his chest, hearing his clumsy heartbeat.
"No, being alone with you here in your arms is warm enough for me."

i wish i could stop missing you
and trying to remember your voice
  or recalling trips we've been to
   the way you looked at me
     burned right through my skin
      
i wish i could take you out of my mind
and all that happened wouldn't live anymore
  your laughter wouldn't be there
   neither would be the feel of your skin

i wish you wouldn't forget me though
and that you'd miss me by the minute
  you'd regret every moment you left
   and you'll wish you had come back

i feel wistful
As the grey smoke
that escapes your lips

Reminiscing the past
Where i scolded you
For being careless of your health
And you promised
You wouldn't puff another ever
Since you didn't want me to worry

But ever since you left
I guess i couldn't help you anymore
And you went back to your old ways

Like you were living to die
And i was dying to live

And now i cannot do anything
To save you anymore
But to watch you turn yourself
Into ashes
Just like how we burned out

What tragedy has seeked me out this year, I know not.
For in hope I expected, but t'was disappointment I got.

I think,
it's time to go
back home on land.
I leave the waters,
step out of the blues,
before I could drown.

I sink,
each foot entirely
in the sand.
Rooted in place,
the fine grains
anchor me down.

I ink,
your name on
the back of my hand.
I know it well,
and tell my pages:
I love you now.

seeing him took a day
deciding my feelings took a week
getting to know him took a month
spending life with him took an eternity
but loving him took only a second