if i could fight drowse
and time allows
i would harvest words
from moonbeam
and scatter them on your hands
so you could accept
with all your might
my plight:
my days and nights
are empty without you
my thoughts would not
let me sleep
living has no meaning down deep.
into nothingness i creep.
I think you’d like this story: “100 Poems of Esmeralda” by EsmeCruz2023 on Wattpad https://www.wattpad.com/story/335363215?utm_source=android&utm_medium=org.wordpress.android&utm_content=share_reading&wp_page=reading_part_end&wp_uname=EsmeCruz2023&wp_originator=aYMSo8s8jw7sIKzJz%2FoMFsje0OaLN5%2FDga6P4F3QNfFxUlfBDaGHHf2tvlEU0wdyAeIOfdwyfOr0Xzs87DKYgI00EhExA5yIt7wBnNm0Mq8LdirB%2F5Ub7QyATxCu7kpt
I think you’d like this story: “100 Tula ni Esmeralda” by EsmeCruz2023 on Wattpad https://www.wattpad.com/story/335329519?utm_source=android&utm_medium=org.wordpress.android&utm_content=share_reading&wp_page=reading_part_end&wp_uname=EsmeCruz2023&wp_originator=diWm7Z%2B65LWcBiWZeoYvr16BfX3%2BO05Xhq0afa3S9LcsYjBXSH1DFPKP8RhmKl8aDbXBSl59HG362LYhDCJD9xYpkPARvj7dfUJWUBtUu4itUzY%2BQgWRCd5D5exRa%2BPe
I have locked gaze with your eyes
more than I ever did with mine
or anyone’s
They are topaz in the daylight
and hazel in the night
They are the pages of my
favorite book
Impossible to let go
I long to peek at them
in your slumber too
Your eyes that never rest
in delight, in sadness, in jest
They are my favorite poem
I can recite on and on
In the chaos of my thoughts
They are the anchor to hold on
delight in every waking moment
is only for the insane
impossible to always smile
in the mundane
the core being invites
frustration and pain
my poetry, my eternity
this I have to gain
in my heart of hearts
I still incantate your name
as if it was a spell that would set right
everything wrong in my life
I deem you dead and gone
ghost of you left and far
but time of us there was
planted inside me
like evergreen
Oak tree I am
accustomed to falling leaves
that bid me farewell when season comes
no one said that spring is better than fall
or summer than winter
the changing seasons make up
the colorful time
we have on earth
each offers its kind of pain
in winter the cold
in spring the rupture
in summer the heat
in autumn the breakage
pain is red that bursts into rainbow
pain brings joy you will never know
when pain is too much
as seasons change
cling onto the hands of time
this too shall pass
nothing but change lasts!
when life says sorry
it means so sincerely
for life does not owe us anything
we only see it ending
take only what is there
and question not
for life’s mystery
will drive us crazy
life is a master
not a friend
what it says happens
no one can bend
be grateful we are here
the other side is unimaginable.
tell me where it lacks
the breathing space
the air that fuels creation
untrue to my birthright
distant from my purpose
the muse forlorn
the soul restless
a hollow person
put to test
if i could make magic
in a hand’s twist
i would leave all behind me
and seek serenity.
life stands on fingertips
nothing to hold but swift
split-second it’s magic
only memory there is
and memory itself
fades, that’s it.
in an eye’s blink
the moment is gone
whispers vanished into thin air
now is fleeting
by the edge of time
shadows dancing by
music stops
unions collapse
without goodbye.
If you could do something
of self-love
Remember to forget
Take the hundred steps it takes
Beyond the 21-day habit
Remember to forget
For as long as you can remember
Memories serve us well
It is suffering that doesn’t
Remember to forget that it hurts
To forget how it does
Remember to forget who forgets you
To forget what you forgive
The road may surprise you
Suffering may not recognize you
‐ It is better that way.
When you have tasted every poison
And none has killed you
When you have howled like a beast
Out of an empty well of tears
And cut every nerve ending
Of your callous arms
And punched the walls
Of your invisible fears
When you have turned
Your dwelling upside down
And found nothing that
Lasts your lifetime
And offered your preloved heart
At a discount without warranty
And your two-sided soul
In a package deal
When you have lost all
You deserved
Desired
And have taken for granted
And nothing but
Gray hair strands to gain
And the only number
You can remember is zero
And the only thing
You have is your name
But sometimes
You hate it
And change it
And forget it too.
Pandora had kept two
Hope and a secret
She told only me
Today is your lucky day,
It’s called Surprise.
Before you ask
For arms around
To comfort you
When you
Are hurting all over
To gather your broken
Pieces together
Remember once
You felt
Like this
The body that
Wrapped you
Pricked you all over
In every conceivable
Way
Made a wreck of you
Worse than casualty
Of war
Before entertaining
Your fantasies,
take a second look:
It is a cactus, not a man.
You are better off unresolved
Impeccable structures
Are only meant for exhibits
Disabled by the desire to preserve
The beauty superimposed
By mortal hands
But you are the grainy dunes
That set the desert on fire
The acid rain that shakes
The clouds and triggers the thunders
You are the stubborn spring
That flows out of immovable mountains
The indomitable seed that sprouts
In humble soil
You are better off in the open
Showcasing your imperfection
Destroying what you can
With your innocence
And constructing out of the debris
With your wisdom
You are better out of proportion
Striving to create balance
With every step you take
You are better off unresolved
Your puzzle is what keeps
The world turning
My prayer
Someday
Differences won’t matter
We’ll all share the same
blood and flesh and bone
The cages that define
Who we are
Will break
And we’ll all fly
And see the world
In spectrum
With our compassion
Friendship will blossom
It won’t be about
How we look like
But how we act
And reach out
As brothers and sisters
Sprouting from the
Only earth we have
And returning to
The very same earth
Indiscriminately
As dust in the wind
As a child is taught
how to cross the street
There’s a lesson
that comes as a treat
Stay on the gratitude lane,
my dear,
because
life is speeding
danger is approaching
left and right
stop to ponder
look from within and without
listen to positive vibes
The road gets hard
with bumps
and detours
and mud
Stay on the gratitude lane
you’ll be safe here
Forget the doubting
Life doesn’t owe you anything.
I cry
My heart
Out of me
As human
As I can possibly be
I’d rather break into tears
Than break
In entirety
Steaming emotions
Need to be free
Timely
Or I’ll freeze
Over seasons I take
I was warned
“Hardened hearts
Will
One day break.”
He asked her,
Do you love me?
She inhaled his Question
And exhaled Yes
Yet
Saying nothing
Him not knowing
Is better
Than any other
Decision she is making
— all her life
Love has
Its way of
Taking her breath away
This one especially
She keeps
Feelings to herself
Just to
Stay
Alive.
There is a place in my mind
I’d rather be
No one hurts
No one judges
I am free
Whoever figured out
That mind is a magnet
It attracts what it conceives
He is mankind’s brightest
For when others hurt me
And I hurt myself too
I revisit this place in my mind
Undisturbed by my own
Understanding
Of myself and who I am
No one knows me but me
And in this quiet place on earth
I am a step close to heaven
Always.
On the verge of losing
Self-respect
Dueling with the
Ghost of me
I know nothing more
Of strategy
To defeat
My monstrous weakness
Self-isolation is real
Loneliness creeps in
I wish an iron bed
Could keep me from
Falling off
To the bottom of despair
I wish a garden of hope
Blooms out of
This glaring screen
I am never good at
Electronic connecting
I miss their eyes
I miss their touch
I miss the roads
I traverse too much
I miss telling time
Without sleeping twice
Because I am inside
Yet easily tired
Two days more
To complete the quarantine
On my own but forty
Days go on and on
In this crisis
I lead nothing
I initiate nothing
Just I myself
And a lot of fixing
Yet
Even just one person
Is too much to bear
I came in one
We’ve become two
My silhouette and I
I do not recognize
She is in the dark
And speaks too much
Let me turn on the light
And put an end to these
Let me clean her mess up
And give her peace
Of all things great and small
You deserve my adoration
The queen of the galaxy
So gentle and meek
Selfless and silent
Most coveted by dreamers and
Lovers alike
For I know you’ll never hurt me
No matter how much desire I hold
To touch your grandeur
To see light unfold
The nearness of you
Is my salvation
When tides of life drown me
You take away my sanity
Like what most loves and dreams do
Despite your majesty
You wait for your turn
And live in the shadows
Of those you love
You are my ultimate hope
When daylight demands
All strength there is in me
Your beam casts humility
To love and to dream
To persist in the dark
To be worthy of the trust
To forego
To withdraw
To acknowledge
What I owe
I have killed myself countless times
Only to wake up to same old days
Life goes on, they say
It matters not if you’re here to stay
Desperate I am to spare my self from suffering
From trauma and uncontrollable thinking
To my surprise every day
I erase the evidence anew
Of last night’s murder
Life won’t let me give in
Each time I commit my crime
I have no death wish but one:
To fall from the cliff of doubts
Into your ocean of acceptance
And stay there forever.
It takes everything to ask for someone’s hand
It takes no doubt to say yes
One step backward
Everything collapses
If love is not as hard as diamond
No ring can stop it from breaking.
For the first time in my life, I am getting paid to write.
I was six years old when I started to write something with sense — something with a plot, I shall say. It was a horror thriller short story that my father thought could be published in a comics magazine. I can still remember that day in the summer of 1995, I wrote the story titled “The Venomous Egg” at the back of election day sample ballots. I read it aloud to my brother, who was four years old that time. My father heard me and he was very proud that he showed off my story to the neighborhood.
I can also remember keeping diaries and writing letters as soon as I have learned how to write sentences. Early in life, I have already felt a strong relationship with words, papers, and anything that can be used to write anything.
A writer is also a reader. At fourteen, I had finished reading a novel for the first time. What could be better than an awakening through “The Wakefields of Sweet Valley”? I have also been collecting books since then and my runners-up include “Tuesdays with Morrie”, “The Hobbit”, and “The Diary of a Young Girl”. And this, folks, is what I call “archivist syndrome starter pack”. I have read almost 200 books in my lifetime, excluding law books, and have taken track of them at Goodreads. I have about 500 books and have not stopped collecting. When I am not reading, I am writing, and vice-versa. Needless to say, I have become a loner, a weird loner. This has made me friends with a very few souls and too many fictional characters.
I had always been part of the school publications and had participated in writing and editing competitions. I have also gained readership, and frenemies, through the defunct Friendster blog, and have almost met the perpetual sentence of my writing relationship through WordPress.
I have always loved writing. Even when I am asleep, I’d like to think that I am writing. I can write anytime anywhere, as long as I am undisturbed externally. I have fantasized about becoming a published author — a poet and a memoirist. But I do not like sit down or lie down, as the case may be, and write to please the readers. I write to commune with myself and the world and be able to relay through words what I sense and build a common spot somewhere in the heavens. That when they read me, our thoughts will meet. That every time they think of what I have written, we will meet again and again, endlessly. I want to create something that will linger forever ready to be utilized by humanity anytime.
Writing is not a job to profit from. I have been writing for twenty-five years and it is only recently that I have gotten to be paid to do it. Whether or not for monetary gain, writing is not an eight-to-five job. It is a 24/7 on-call job that requires one to drop everything when the muse comes. And when the muse is gone, it’s gone. One needs all the luck in the world to summon it back. It is also a game of chance to become didactic and stumble upon something new and great. It is a job that requires coordination of head, heart, and hands before one can submit something and be unable to take it back.
New Year resolutions may be a cliché, but for 2020, I resolve to keep on writing and make a room for the muse to come a little more often.
There are three sides to the story:
yours, mine, and truth’s.
How do I cross the bridge towards truth?
Do I have to leave you behind?
All I know is that I was poisoned
and would not last long
in this road I am alone
and have to crawl with my remaining might
I hope to live to see another day
to stare truth at its face
but should I die on this bright midday
amidst confusion and lies
still I would be thankful
it is a privilege to die hanging on a bridge
under the brightest sunlight
marveling through the beauty
of earth beneath me
and having you as my ultimate memory.
I see you drinking
at a fountain
with tiny blue hands,
no, your hands are not tiny
they are small,
and the fountain is in France
where you wrote me that last letter and
I answered
and never heard from you again.You used to write insane poems
about ANGELS AND GOD,
all in upper case,
and you knew famous artists
and most of them were your lovers,
and I wrote back,
it’ all right,
go ahead,
enter their lives,
I’ not jealous because we’ never met.We got close once in New Orleans,
one half block,
but never met,
never touched.So you went with the famous
and wrote about the famous,
and, of course, what you found out
is that the famous are worried
about their fame –– not the beautiful
young girl in bed with them,
who gives them that,
and then awakens in the morning
to write upper case poems
about ANGELS AND GOD.We know God is dead,
they’ told us,
but listening to you
I wasn’ sure.Maybe it was the upper case.
You were one of the best female poets
and I told the publishers and editors:
“Her, print her, she’ mad but she’ magic.
There’ no lie in her fire.”I loved you like a man loves a woman
he never touches,
only writes to,
keeps little photographs of.I would have loved you more
if I had sat in a small room
rolling a cigarette and listened to you
piss in the bathroom,
but that didn’ happen.Your letters got sadder.
Your lovers betrayed you.
Kid, I wrote back, all lovers betray.
It didn’ help.You said you had a crying bench
and it was by a bridge
and the bridge was over a river
and you sat on the crying bench
every night
and wept for the lovers
who had hurt and forgotten you.I wrote back but never heard again.
A friend wrote me of your suicide
3 or 4 months after it happened.If I had met you
I would probably have been unfair to you
or you to me.It was best like this.
Charles Bukowski
good weather
is like
good women-
it doesn’t always happen
and when it does
it doesn’t
always last.
man is
more stable:
if he’s bad
there’s more chance
he’ll stay that way,
or if he’s good
he might hang
on,
but a woman
is changed
by
children
age
diet
conversation
sex
the moon
the absence or
presence of sun
or good times.
a woman must be nursed
into subsistence
by love
where a man can become
stronger
by being hated.
Charles Bukowski
inexhaustiblemuse 