No One is Happy

At times I open up with some of the closest people in my life, and they wonder how I am so unhappy all the time. I don’t speak a word after that, and they assume I must be overly dramatic. They (and I) could not stand me. The next weeks that will come after are the last days I will spend with those people. It’s a years-worth routine. By just asking for my happiness I lose some more.

At times I ask myself why I am so unhappy all the time. It’s as if I grew up to get sucked into the endless cycle of daily torture and constant torment. Yet I cannot pinpoint as to how exactly I am this down. The fires that flow down my bloodstream must be having the longest winter.

Yet again, why do people ask me why I am so unhappy, when everyone else are not as well? If living is of constant happiness, then that is death. The struggles keep me sane and insane (mostly) and they drive me to live for another day, even if it hurts this much. The thrill of opening your doors and getting hurt some more. That is my motivation. If to live is to be happy, then living is dying as well.

Before they leave for long they always ask me one last time, why am I so unhappy all the time? I am in search for my happiness. I am living.


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Tear-Ups 01 | I Am Not At My Best

don’t let me hear
what I already know
and whisper at my sleep

don’t let me see
the things I shy away from
for I break them easily

don’t make it sound
that I watch too much TV
i am my demon
since day three

(Honestly i ran out of words at the last. Again why do i have to explain.)


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The Dark Connoisseur

You see how these people
speak loud on such big words
makes me long for such warm tones
of word-speak

The banality of which
is the same heart of a cappuccino
out of foam it stings
with pure nothingness

Tongue tied I cry each break of dawn
through my feelings they are
the dark connoisseur
upon notes of paper cups and mild sugar

Strangled I am
in shots of espresso
I stay awake
for same old musty songs


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Backspace

I wrote a poem about hate
On how my supposed best friend used me
About how he made me feel useless
On how he turned me into a second choice
Other than his new tools to use with
I felt abused
I was befriended to be taken advantage of
He really tried his best
To make myself veer away from him
He was my only
But he has it all
And all was not part of me
And me and him is no more
And so I pressed backspace as I wrote this poem
As I try to forget the letters of hate
One by one they vanish
But deep in my heart was a torn flesh
An irreparable misery
That was once the seal of our good friendship.

 


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Toddlers

I cannot clearly recall the times I have enjoyed my childhood, given that those were the years that I suffered with a lot of injuries I inflicted on myself: I broke my elbow; I had my ruptured appendix removed. But I know for a fact that I was acting like how I’m supposed to be: child-like. I ran through the rural streets and climbed over sacks of cement thinking that I could reach the space and conquer Jupiter and some random spider web by the electrical lines. I am so free from conscious thought. I was a child.

Now, I am in my third year at college. I see my aunt’s kids the same age as I was in my free spirit. But they grew to not be like one. They speak to me like they want to grow faster. “When I’m bigger” they say. And I guess that’s how the times have changed people. And it has taken a toll on the dream of a happy childhood: From a silly toddler who does not know when to stop running, to a kid pressured to grow as fast as how the city moves all day. Banging their horns, each small step turning into large leaps, going left and right, whatever space they can occupy. As long as they can move faster to the stop sign.


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Barely Even There

I know there was once this young boy who serves wholeheartedly for his purpose. Staying true and firm to all his ideals and beliefs. He was the delight of the sunrise and the dreamer of the night. But suddenly this boy became little of a man. The horizons became a lot smaller and the view started to shift from reaching to the stars to gathering of all the dust. He seems to have lost his purpose. Now he’s barely even there. Somewhere between those distant galaxies, he’s rotting away by his own culture of bacterium.

He was his own identity. He was the innocence of the divide.

But who is he nowadays? Is he as far-reaching as before, or was he the speck of glimmer the comet used up?

I bet he already felt the gravity of the truth. And I hope he doesn’t stop from trying to get there: To the vast majority of the cosmos.


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Solar System in Suspension

I wonder what happened to that

Wondrous little seedling

That wakes up at midnight, craving for milk

But then he reaches for the stars

Instead of crying

Continue reading “Solar System in Suspension”

Life Ordered Me.

It all started with me as a fetus

All covered with blood and some mucus

I was held on mother’s hands

Still fresh from her insides

I wake up to this world, crying

Because life ordered me to do so

 

I was a toddler

I learned to play

These childish games

Laughter’s worth everything, not to be repaid

I prance above the clouds, happy

Because life ordered me to do so

 

First day of high school

They say be the most presentable

Have nice friends and a good amount of fun

For this will never pass again in the long run

Times change

Hormones build up

Rushing through my body with rage

That leads me with all these crap

I did what early adults does, enjoying

Because life ordered me to do so

 

I’m about to cross the bridge

My life that automatically skyrocketed up, up above

Being ordered

To what life wants me to

But I know for sure

I do not have to follow life

For being free is not by force

And not by order of which is which

How you connect yours to what others did

I, want to get rid

I, don’t want my life for me to lead

I… want to grow my own seed in my own process

I’m not the river that flows with the rushes

I’m not the… sky that des the same thing over and over

THIS IS NOT A LAW

That it’s an imperative for you to follow

THIS IS NOT AN OBLIGATION

That as I cross that adulthood bridge I will do what is typical

I MAKE MY LIFE

I AM NOT WHAT LIFE ORDERED ME

 

I don’t want to be this adult who gets to marriage because “life ordered me”

I don’t want to die with white strands waiting to fall off my skin

I don’t want to be in this same generic coffin, or such life shit

I DON’T WANT TO BE

What my life ordered me

I want this to stop

Like how this poem ends.


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Makeshift Butterfly

You

Indeed

I felt those words

But there is yet to ponder

That I thought you already understood

You were just your own canvas

But not others’ brush strokes

You thought you captivate me with your fluidity

You

That thinks you made it longer there

You 

That makes yourself tweet endlessly

Like a hummingbird losing its patience

You- 

Just… You.

I think you haven’t grasp the right words yet

You are still on your youngest

Waiting to be out of your chrysalis

You are just a makeshift butterfly

Making yourself as beautiful;

As colorful;

But you

Yes… You.

You are just a tiny dot 

That you think is a whole paragraph to my whole existence

You… Yes… You.

That won’t appreciate these ponderful lines

That I’m about to create

That you will hate

To your fullest.

You… Yes… You.

That thinks only of formality

The colorful spread of your wings and yet-

Order.

As informal as this poem is

You were just like this

An utterly complete piece of-


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Heartbreak: A Scientific Inquirry

Solid
that hard punch
in my chest
that scarred me for my whole existence

Liquid
these waterfall
in my eyes
that tire the hell out of my soul

Gas
the gloom
in my life that sheds tears as I am

Matter
different; one of a kind
which I will never be to you


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For A Poor Child Who Looks Up At The Skies

how i wish
I could see
the stars
of heaven

was the belt
of Orion
as heavy as a gem,

or as tattered
as jaagged
as tattered as mine?

how i wish
i could see
the stars
of heaven

were the brightest
of all
as obtainable at hand

or are they just wanderers
farther than the skies can go,
just a single spot of white?

how i wish
i could see
the stars
of heaven

were their rays
as radiant
as the good samaritans

or are they a blinding sight
with luster
but no radiance, just a twinkle

how i wish
i could see them
but they’re too sparkly

for a poor child like me
who looks up at the skies
but sees unreachable stars


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6:43

I won’t forget
Those shades
Of blue and white
Shining upon thee

It’s as if time has set
That place
Of darkness and light
Of peace and serenity

I won’t forget
Those shimmering shades
At six forty- three
the glow is thee


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