Flashback

I try to forget the cruelty, the vile deeds, the hypocrisy in your ways -- but reality's too sneaky: it comes up whenever we least expect it to.

At that one moment, I let my guard down and there, there it was. It crept into my head and ruined every chance I had of ending the night in peace.

Now, I am reminded of the way you hid things from us, your supposed family, your lies, your dastardly actions. You ruined things for me. You destroyed every respect I had for you: I could never look you in the eye again and say that you DO NOT creep me out, disgust me, or disappoint me. I could never take your words as truth ever again.

Everything you would say is presumed to be lies unless proven - by proof beyond reasonable doubt - otherwise.

And I am reminded of the parasites that cling to your every limb. Those who are just waiting for the dole out. And I plummet to an all-time low.

Yes, I may despise you for everything that you did and did not do to and for me. But, I tell you: I am not stupid enough to let go and waive my rights. It's not actually what you think.

I am proud to say that it is not the value of the rights I seek to fight for. It is deliverance for own self.

And I will bring you and the parasites around you your very own judgment.

So even if it irritates me, I will move in your midst to see to it that MY own ends meet. Revenge and the last laugh will be mine.

I suck.

Not literally, no.

blank stare

Blank, yet again, but still I have the urge to pour out the deafening silence onto this canvas. And I realize the 'blank' state is only an armor I resort to when times get dire.

Thus, though I'd call it blankness or even apathy, in all actuality, I am not devoid of any emotions. I'd be irritable and angry, even bitter. I'd be depressed, the pathetic loser that I really am.

The blankness is just my friend - a blanket to ward off further damage to my shell.

[cursor]

Inside, I bleed.

from the penthouse, looking down

Paranoid. Scared. Quick-tempered. Weak.

But I am not less of a person just because I'm all these and more. You try to change me - for the better, you say. You try to rehabilitate my ways: render gentle my tongue, curb my language, do away with my choice of clothes. You want me to stop fumbling with my answers and my logic by reminding me over and over again that I just don't respond the way I am supposed to.

With these means, yes, I do realize my flaws. But instead of successfully overcoming them all, my pride shatters into smaller pieces with each blow. I draw myself deeper into my shell.

You may prove everyone right. I may fail. Badly. Terribly. With these wounds to my pride, I lose all the remaining respect I have for myself, if any. Each day, my spirit falters and try as I may to push myself upwards again, my arms fail me. Your words drag me down.

I'm on the brink of falling - all 23 floors down.

Just let me save myself.

paint me.

I could be happier. I try to be. Happy. Happier. Although I vaguely remember someone telling me once one shouldn't try so hard to be happy, else it's not really happiness that comes, if ever a similar feeling comes. It's going to be a delusion, not the real happiness. Or maybe just a feeling one got to feign. It works for some. But not really for long. And it gets taxing, too.

I try to be someone I'm not. Someone more, someone less than who I really am -- all depends on how you look at it, really. Less expression, more detachment. Whereas I would have yelled or laughed out loud or even danced to my hips' content, I'd bite the insides of my cheeks now. And look away. Sometimes, I let myself smile and maybe laugh a bit. Just two "Haha!"s suffice.

But I do try to understand that the world does not revolve around myself nor around any single human being or physical thing, for that matter. That truth exists -- it has always existed. But whereas before it was just a cliche that hung around along with the other "Early to bed, early to rise..." lines, it is now a spoonful of wisdom I'd have to force myself to swallow daily, if not every quarter of a day or so.

It's not that hard to be un-feeling. It's just when the reality of it -- of you trying your damnedest to feel nothing -- creeps in on you that sucks the most.

pokerface

Another attempt at writing a coherent and sensible post.

Another attempt at happiness and security. Stability. Comfort.

Another attempt. Wasted? Not certain as yet. But failed, absolutely.

The tears are raw but everything else is numb. My face has succumbed to an expressionless mask, tinged with ivory concealer and rosy-melon blush.

Failed. Failed.

And I stop for a moment to empty my mobile of its contents.

If only I could empty my mind of its thoughts as easily, I'd be at peace.

Writers' block.

Not everyone understands why we write. We, the nameless few who find solace in stringing thoughts and words along. We, the alleged artists, drama queens, cynics, and what-other-names we find ourselves branded with.

We have our blogs, leather-bound journals, bedroom walls, comfort room tiles, desks...

Not everyone would call them poetry. They'd be vandalism, doodles, nonsensical and almost always useless lines - the kind that wouldn't put food in one's mouth (au contraire, poems, articles, short stories, and other works may leave you with a bundle of cash), which would not help alleviate our country's economic and political suffering.

I understand their opinions. Not everyone can appreciate writings of the non-academic, non-news reporting kind about either the extraordinary or the mundane that do not really make the headlines. Not everyone can understand poetry: how it can release our anger and passion, how the sometimes grammatically incomplete sentences can convey the deepest tears, how the words can somehow soothe a weary heart.

Not all of us are well-known prolific writers or best-selling novelists. But that doesn't mean we can't try our hand in writing our poetry.

Let us, the nameless in the literary world, write. On our blogs and little pocket diaries. Without fear of mockery and belittling. We don't seek to please everybody, not even our very own readers, if we do have some. We write, because not doing so, would cut off our thoughts, our breaths, our very own lives.