Chasing Paris

When I asked you, “Do you still remember our song?”

Maybe the reason you said no, was because we were working on another one. A happier song, a song that can be played for ages. I’ll cling to that. I hope you’re writing that song now. The silence has become deafening.


quasimaginary:

mademoisellerika:

quasimaginary:

mademoisellerika:

quasimaginary:

mademoisellerika:

all i ask is for you to write me poetry
was that too much?

you have given me the world
through your poetry when
all i needed was for you to hold my hand
was that too much?

writing poetry left my two hands crippled
but there was another reaching out:
my heart with its thorny fingers
and its bloody veins that bled ink
you were too busy connecting physically
you forgot you could hold hearts

you wear your heart like an armor
and ink is the blood that leaks,
you bleed as if it were endless;
if it runs out, what’s left for me?
my insides is crumbling to pieces,
mere words could never mend;
so, lay down your sword and armor,
and maybe let me hold your hand

In a raging war of everyday,
In what has now become a masquerade,
Would you dare attend devoid of a mask?
Armors were armors
Because they hid the coiling flesh within
Like a mask, a home, a refuge,
I tell you so you know what it is 
That you are asking me to give up,
That for you, I am willing to give up;
But do take away my sword 
For the only person there is to battle
Is the person inside the armor:
The monster that has become of me
And the monster I’ve let society make me;
But then again, like a gun made to protect,
Have the bullets turned against the cause?
Has it not been used to defend, but to kill?
If I lay down my armor and let you see
What I’ve been hiding for so long,
Do you promise not to get scared?
Everybody I’ve dropped my armor for,
Always, always , ran away
If I lay down my sword and hold your hand,
Do you promise to hold back my hand,
With its green skin and crooked nails?
If I let you take away my ability to write,
To be able to harbor your hand in mine,
Do you promise to let me recite you my poetry,
And do you promise to write it down for me?

Promises are for the weak, my love,
and I am too proud kneel,
for what are words but fading stars,
they burst and disappear.
Yet between hurtful swallows of hope,
I hold on to your words,
for they fill the void between us,
with pleasant possibilities.
So, I’ll listen to your poetry,
until I’m trapped in silence,
then I’ll dream my soul to sleep;
write until these fingers melt
under your lukewarm caress.
And I’ll make love to the harsh reality
that without these words,
I drown in your empty eyes with only
your crippling coldness to keep me alive.

but between bursting and disappearing,
the stars lay themselves for the world to see
against the splash of colors in the sky
and for a while, a person looks up,
and clings to the hope a star may give
cling to my poetry, love
and know in your ablaze heart
that even if I am as cold as a corpse,
you start a fire in me and give me my air
let’s hope it won’t burn me to ashes
now, do write this down

The dance we shared was a different kind;
One that didn’t need your hands on my hips
Or a background noise to initiate the beat
The dance we shared was a different kind;
It was all kind of genres all at once
And a whole lot of emotions at the same time
Your heart tangoed with the pieces of mine
As our arms waltzed into the night
And our feet chased each other like rumba steps
Our hips swinging so harshly, so fluently
As if it could speak, “cha, cha, cha”
The dance we shared was a different kind;
One that didn’t need your presence
Or even the slightest bit of your participation
You were my first dance—
Without even dancing with me
It was so easy for you to rock my heart
From left to right, in a way a dancer never could
Because our rhythm was so perfect,
And our timing so in sync,
And with every beat,
I love you even more so


But how is boxing a dream, how do you turn away from education because ‘I won’t need to look for x in algebra, because I see the x in your gut and I’m going to punch it so hard, x turns to ko’? The media should be more careful about what they say. Boxing is a sport, it’s not a profession. Sure, it brings money. Lots, actually. But you do see Manny Pacquiao studying law-related policies for politics. Boxing will never be enough.


What I learned the hard way, all these years, is that regret bites you the hardest in the end. You can be in pain, but this, like everything else, will pass, and time will heal you. As the song says, “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” You can be sad, but look out the tiny window, and you see the sun, and all the tiny stars that shine for you. If it’s still too dark, then there’s the moon and its crescent smile cheering you on. You can be grieving but there would come a time that the waterfalls in your eyes will be sucked by the clouds of summer, ending your season of tears. You can be disappointed, but if you’re ocean deep and lying on the ocean floor, there is no way but up, for after all, even corpses float. What’s good about these is you have a reason. You know where it hurts. You know why you’re sad. You know you’re mourning because of a particular event. With regret, however, you’re clueless. All the hours you should be spending sleeping, you spend on thinking. That’s the thing. You don’t know the root of the problem, because it didn’t actually happen, which leads to a series of questions: What could have been? What should have been? What if I did? What if I didn’t? It’s a web of questions. And anything that gets caught in a web is eaten by spiders, or worse, left to rot. Good luck.