WHILE I'M NOT DEAD

the kids are at it again

throwing rocks instead of skipping stones,

who are you? what are you?

you are a witch, go get your book.

i once kicked a boy on his groin

a girl must learn to fight,

then i ran home to my crayons

because that girl needed to hide.

but, no wrath from a mother ever came

nor that boy ever cower,

what was left was a girl, a funny girl

without a friend because she plays karate.

II.

my friends are at it again

writing a scene instead of acting one,

are they real? how true are they?

good people come, the worst ones go.

and then i fell in love

and it is a question i'll try to answer in this life,

i like to believe that i did

but not all things you believe, you can have.

but then i felt love

and it isn't a wave ebbing from the sand,

it is the calm waters under the moonlight

where no siren sings and dooms no man.

III.

my worst enemy is at it again

writing her letters with poison on her mouth

to be or not to be?

she's still hurt, still, she'll write.

i lost my innocence not knowing what it was,

i may have learn to forgive

but clearly have never forgotten that night,

and when i made love to a man i don't know if it is right.

memories are fragments of who we are

and yours will always be a part of me

though i certainly do not want,

to be or not to be? why do you ask?

IV.

might as well be dead;

but who is not?

when we all live as ghosts,

why are we so fascinated with stories of the past,

yet so frightened to face our own?

and why does it hurt to remember

some memories that gave us joy?

so i speak,

and i know for once i am loved;

so what choice do i have?

if there is an option at all?

i have learn to forgive

so shall i do it myself;

i WAS your magnum opus—

the most fucked up of all.

Artwork: Prado Mona Lisa (c.1503-1516), Museo del Prado, Madrid.

a copy of Leonardo Da Vinci's Mona Lisa that is theorized to be painted by one of his students at the time the original Mona Lisa was painted.

I cure sadness with lollipops.

When I was three and my red balloon popped,

I licked lollipops until my tooth ached.

It doesn't matter if I'm in pain,

what matters is that it is sweet.

When I was fourteen and I failed Math,

I bought two packs of white colored lollipops.

It made my words sweet,

my parents didn't even noticed.

When I was twenty-three and a guy dumped me,

I stayed nights on the bar waiting for candies.

It doesn't matter if every night is a new one

as long as it takes away the bitterness in my lips.

Somehow I got tired from all the sugar rush,

I ingest all the truer words I dodged through the years.

I can't always cure sadness;

not with happiness even if it's fake.

We always tend to take the bitter pill,

like how anxious people still drink coffee,

how smokers can't get nicotine out of their system,

and why we keep testing our options,

always choosing the worse

because it gives the better feeling...

We always take the bitter pill

but why can't we be responsible for it?

At one point,

you'll have no one.

All the ties you've made,

all at once you'll cut them,

not only because it's what's best

but also you know it will be the worst;

You don't understand how to stop the tears,

so you'll do everything that will give you pain,

one wound to another, one exceeding the other,

until you reach a point where you can't feel anymore.

You'll have no one, not even yourself,

and you 'll stop thinking for a time,

not until you remember a thing,

you'll think of ways of how

to make a memory

less memorable.

But, you can't.

And, it hurts.

It will always

hurt.

Fuck habits that consumes you.

You are awake at 2 AM,

and that will repeat tomorrow,

with the same reason,

you are awake because you're thinking.

You are thinking last night

and you'll do it again,

on your mind are the things

you should and shouldn't have done.

You've listed all the bad choices you've made,

and you can't drink your coffee while you think,

nor function well throughout the day,

you're too careless to be careful, that's what they don't say.

You will be awake at 2 AM,

until you realize that in whatever hour, you can't.

You'll start searching for all the reasons why,

in the morning, you'll repeat it all over again.

Fuck habits that consumes you,

but you won't find which one is,

or maybe it's everything you do,

but you won't realize it, because you are them.

This is why I know a lot of songs.

When you wake up at midnight,

not by the sound of love making

but the loud noise of heart breaking,

you'll listen, until you can't anymore.

When you won't sleep at night,

not because you can't but you shouldn't,

you fear what the night brings,

why they whisper what you already know.

When you are still awake at dawn,

anticipating how you'll see their face,

but they never pretend, not even once,

so you pretend you don't really care to feel.

This is how I know a lot of songs,

and how I've made mine,

with all the knives I hid under my bed,

and all the words I never said.

This is how you'll listen to my songs,

which I never meant sad,

if songs tend to make you feel a feeling,

my songs might be the ones unheard.

People read not because they understand,

they read words written by a stranger because they feel what they feel.

This is the unpaid works of a writer.

His words became the words of another,

his soul breathes another soul,

and it makes them less alone;

because in an ocean of lonely people,

you ought to find the ones you can swim with.

I was woken up from my deep sleep accompanied by the buzz of a machine. I was on a hospital bed, I realized. The room was bleak white, so did my clothing. There was no window and the door was close.

There was something wrong in the way it was silent...

All I heard was its noise.

Then I thought about Mary Jane, a snap in my confusion. I didn't know how long has it been since I last saw her but I remembered the way she looked:

Disposed.

I first met her on a summer day. She was introduced to me by a friend, someone I knew from high school. We used to hang out on my friend's parents garage, at the backseat of a broke car. By midsummer, there's only two of us.

We did it mostly during hot afternoons in the woods, on my way to the lake where Ispent the remaining of the day contemplating myself. She was there, making me lose everything to her. I wasn't smitten, I was intoxicated by her.

One day, we did it inside my room. That was the last time. She was like a flower wanting to be picked. She tempted me on the most provocative way that I gave in.

That night she asked me to stay with her. To be above the skies and never go back. For a second, I doubted it. Just like what I did every single day on the lake. I wanted to dive in deep on shallow waters but I was afreaid that I can't swim.

But, I can't swim.

It was past midnight and I inhaled most of her. She told me to come with her again and never go back. This time, I ran into the woods, got some scratch from a branch or two, 'till I reached the lake. It was a very hot night, the one that desired a late night skinny dipping. So I did.

I couldn't remember what happened next but I know that I woke up from this bed. She was so hot like the midday sun I got burned.

She burned and I inhaled her.

She was smoke.

Photograph: Geno By The Lake, Bavaria (1994) by Nan Goldin.

just to get away,

and those left behind

can never quite understand

why anybody

would ever want to

get away

from

them.

I will listen to your voice one last time, just like how I said it last night and the nights before that. I'll pour myself another shot, not gin nor brandy, but the words that pierced my heart.

Goodbye, you said. So easily, like you were never here, like you haven't whispered to me how much you love me. You were gone, just like that without even saying how you loved me.

Is it really possible to feel nothing?

Or are we only pretending we are to protect not only ourselves but those who are important to us?

Is it really possible to feel nothing?

Then why do we feel it?

Artwork: Bullfight (1959) by Elaine De Kooning, Denvert Art Museum

Background:

“A painting... Is primarily a verb, not a noun, an event first and only secondarily an image.”

- Elaine De Kooning

Made me question what I feel about life.

Everyone's afraid of being alone.

The truth is we all are, merely collective souls pretending we are not. No man's truly happy because if we are, why the hell do we try?

Movie on pic: All About Eve (1950)

I have this longing for classic films.

Not only because of the surreal acting, the very well written scripts and how I like the banter between the actors, I just love being transported to eras.

But yes, I have dwelled too much on the illusions. I've become pretentious so now I must not. I must focus in the now. There really such strong feeling that when you get used to things from the past, not only the glamour and distinction of your past, or no matter how bad they were, you'd like to dwell in it, and drown in it. Maybe the real truth we have is that as much as we have a way to escape, we grab it, but memories are really beautiful even the ones that hurt so we sink in its depth and then we'll dream of another escape.

People talk about how you get crazy and you remember it.

Dropped out from college and left province at sixteen,

then you had to live with an aunt,

you helped raising pigs.

Every day wasn't enough and so were you just letting clocks tick,

so you escaped to Manila to find a job,

escape, you did.

People still talk about why you get crazy and you remember it.

Landed a job at a construction site and get paid enough,

I was your baby, spoiled me with chocolates

and I gifted you laughs.

Every day turned every month but still enough until you met the bluff,

so you stayed in Fairview,

stayed, you did.

People were talking how you get crazy and I remember it.

Learned to deal with your vices until it got worst by getting high,

but you're too good a fellow, people love you even of you didn't try.

But the bluff was not, people wanted him gone and you saw him die,

you're too good a fellow,

they let you run, you ran.

I am writing how you get crazy but I know you remember it.

Packed all of your things because the ghosts were following behind,

but prices are to be paid, once you get high you'll wanted to fly.

Jumped off a bridge, cracked your skull and you utter a lie,

no, you weren't Spiderman,

you are just a man.

People talk about how you get crazy and they didn't really understand why,

but we both do,

we do.

Artwork: The Blue Room (1901) by Pablo Picasso, The Phillip Collection, Washington DC

Background:

My uncle attempted suicide when I was a young girl. Luckily, he's still alive and is living with my grandparents but since the incident he had mental problems. I chose the painting The Blue Room for two reasons: First, Picasso painted this during his Blue period, the time when he was depressed mainly because of the suicide of his friend. Second, conservators discover a hidden painting underneath the final paints of The Blue Room. It is a man sitting and resting his head on his hands.

AND HEY

I.AM.BACK.