Not from the magazine

” She is not a woman of the magazine.

She’s an all time mess of doodled paint; a candidate for a three-fold pain in the anal.

She’s never a dream woman, oh dear, this is not to break her heart.

She’s a rouge in a boyfriend shirt’s clothing

The best men actually ‘friend zone’ her, they said, “she’s only a good person.”

She chases her own hero every 10 years but other men accuse her like that of a restless child.

Although she belongs to a world where magazines are made

and photos seen on Instagram with a short caption that says ‘like me’ coz I’m fishing for compliments, oh but,

She’s out of that league. 

If she could make you hold onto the edges of a twinkling star, she’d make you feel you’re a dangling beauty of the evening light.

Herself is her own character in a novel, and if you’re not careful, 

She can write you as one of her notable characters. 

 

 

 

 

Sigh..

I wish he’d contact me like the first time.

But I know him so well.

He wouldn’t give me the satisfaction. 

Still 

I wonder if that would make any difference. 

 

The ends of a slinky

Like a slinky played by the angels

We wriggled and wiggled like two fattened marshmallows

Moving smoothly 

Not touching.

Strangers in love

a love created by mere coincidence ruined by tragedy. The same love that fled from twenty years ago. So love scattered like the dust that covered the sea the same love reflected towards the sky. It’s hard to tell whether you’re still on my side now that we’ve both become awry in love. Believing in fate was no less than plucking butterfly wings and blowing them off aimlessly. Strangers we are in each other’s eyes as we both have lonely lives. Yes, just like strangers without you my love. 

Unsettled

 

 

 

It’s difficult to be with talented people. Like a bird they choose when and where they want to perch and leave the nest whenever and however they desire..

Half-dead language

The language I know is Half-dead

Unfavorable words to brief phrases all set to get lost in translation

They fly often but fly blindly

To eyes not seeing, to mouths not tasting

Still we choose, we write them

Then decide to execute them; our suspects

Either kill ’em by a click of the thumb

Or let ’em sit til they become the forgotten ones.

Translate. But do so only after the murder of the maker then proceed.

The language I know is Half-dead.

It wants to stay in the crevices, in groves and in grouts.

Half-wanting; Half-needing

Alas!

The language I know is Not dead.

Dead authors; writers remain dead

For those who have perished, they stay as is

But the language I know is Not dead.

It rests, it stays dormant until some time

Authors, writers may or may not choose to distinguish,

But death can be resuscitated, and the dead can live again

Language keeps up when we..

Translate to give ’em life anew

To translate to get closer to relevance

Translation is a reincarnation; an emancipation

It is when we decide to judge the works of the past

Only then can they be regenerated.

 

Half-dead language, that, I used to know.

 

I

I am a person who lives well in solitude. I am not lonely. And although some days, people may find themselves offended by my strict adherence to such an adventure, I take no pride in it. When I have the luxury, I prefer to look deep into the bottom of my cup when I drink coffee than to look above it. Take me out of it and I’ll famish. My creativity is stimulated when I’m left in discourse with my true self. Let me dwell on it in order to find the world in a much lighter perspective. The blackness of the room is sunlight to me so when I want to breathe, I just need to be.

Love is what I do alone

…When a woman doesn’t want to tell her secrets, It’s a man’s duty to pretend not to know anything. ..even if he already does.

 

hmm..

                                     To kill you or to let you live.            

Are there only two choices?                            

 I mean, we are friends after all.                                                                                                                                                   Aren’t you the one who said so?

If we aren’t friends, what are we?

 

Journal entry #1 What I want in a partner

I’m a child wrapped in the arms of a caring sister; a sister innate in me who values life as much as the child within me. Though life may seem rigid and tough she never forgets the lady, she is. Her free-spirited, cheerful and amiable beauty radiantly excites the world around her. But when my path veered to what I thought was the one for me; I crumbled. I  was stricken with grief and vexation. It made me gnaw at its merciless impact. I knew then that the first cut hurts the deepest.

My past taught me as well. So much lessons I had to keep hammering. I know I’ve a lot more work to do to try to figure out my life now. And I will. I’m working my way through it. There was a time when I vowed to never repeat the same mistakes about who I let in my life, It was very taxing  and toilsome. This time, I’m taking my time to prepare myself to be my best version as well. For now, here are four of the things I want in a partner for the woman in me.

• Has his own identity; someone who never lets himself go in a relationship.
•  Self-motivated
• Shares the same dreams and goals
• Committed to do the hard work

When I think about it I just can’t help but smile because I know that the road to success has just begun. It’s about time I raise the bar.

-Poem-

Afflicted by the irreconcilable past

hoisted by distrusts and fights

A boy; never loved himself

severed the so-called ties

Blame no one but ourselves

Let the heavens tremored;

plagued the land

lashed judgment

For once we were denounced

children of the flock.

Now I have fasted

Appeased the gods

from the errors that

punctured my heart

A girl; overflowed with warmth

awakened to tend her mead.

alone.

For her descendants

For their meads

For their skies

not weeds.

Time is a friend.

Setted the plains

Colored the firmament

Called the gays

To move the waves;

To lift mountains.

then, she’d soar.

Higher her perch above

overlooking the forked roads.

Hiding her tears away

Her other self has kept her company.                       She believes she’s more of this and three of that.                      For how long?  We don’t know.                               She wouldn’t tell. She said she’d rather recline on treacherous waters than roll over the dainty flowerets grinding juice.                   The kind he would never understand.                       It’s when she feels that for the first time a real man possesses her; wrecking her innards like a cannibal.                          She only wants to dance on the floor like a girl           not a whore.                                  She wants him to stare at her;        the way her body so skinny juggles the weight of the lecherous truth,                     the dwindling pain of loss and defeat and              the whimsical trait of love.                                                             She supposes that the hearts’ of men are on their cocks or so she believes that’s how they love.                She waits, and waits again. . .some more.                                 To see if waiting could extinguish her anguish to  touch him with her bare hands and make him vow not to leave her.                                            But how does a woman love a man and                      a man love a woman?             To be naked.       To be shown.                                    To stand both until your calves become weary?                              To leave and be left?

Tell me something I do not know.