A Lifetime Ago

A lifetime ago, I would have loved–
Believed, need not to be proved.
A lifetime ago wouldn’t have been conceived–
A lifetime ago, I could have lived.

A lifetime ago, I would have dreamed–
Wished, for nothing was dimmed.
A lifetime ago, I wouldn’t have been deceived–
A lifetime ago, I could have grieved.

A lifetime ago, I would have smiled–
Saved, unwashed by the tides.
A lifetime ago, I wouldn’t have been beaten–
A lifetime ago, I couldn’t have written.

What Is Your Name?

What is it about you,
Whose denial of my existence
Leaves me with frantic words written down in verses,
Hurriedly.
What is your name?

What is it about you,
Whose words and voice get me through tear filled nights,
Reminding me that I’m real– I AM real,
Perfect.
What is your name?

What is it about you
Whose silence remains a beautiful interlude of peace and mystery,
An unexpectedly needed rest,
Ironically.
What is your name?

What is it about you
Whose questions marked as concern keep me up at night,
Tossing between bedsheets, seeing through what’s unsaid,
Untrustingly.
What is your name?

What is it about you?
Whose everything leaves trails of poetry,
Lines and verses I pick up like pebbles,
Delicately.
What is your name?

Words

Because sometimes words forget what they mean,
And fail to live up to their promise.
Because sometimes they dance not to the tune of the mind,
But with the melody of the heart.

Because sometimes they betray the face where they came from,
And reveal the image the mind cannot fathom.
Because sometimes they sing the songs of the living,
By writing the odes and eulogies to the dead.

Because sometimes they paint the light of the world not with the pleasantries,
But with the darkness that lurks in the depths of the soul,
And all that it is not,
And all that it cannot.

Because sometimes they confuse more than explain,
And set in loops all these unmaskable pains,
Because sometimes they leave larger wounds than they started with,
Gaping and growing beyond what they can patch up.

Because sometimes they leave just when we need them,
Only to return when we can’t find the use to them.
Because sometimes they hide more than they show,
And stop the world whenever they flow.

Coming Back

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seven types of ambiguity|elliot perlman

On my absence.
I know not the time when I’d see this posted.
And that time I won’t pretend that I had been in a soul searching journey. I had been not. Or at least I am not, consciously. I won’t pretend either that this is the universe conspiring for bigger things to happen or anything, I don’t know. Or more accurately, I don’t know what to believe in anymore. So with these posts and the incoming poems that I managed to write down on infrequent moments of lucidity and possibly mediocrity… (I lost train of thought so I don’t know how to go on with this).

So yeah. That’s probably it. I guess.

I’ve been re-reading this novel, and it gets me everytime. The level of identification that I have for this novel and for its characters is really suspicious for me. I highly suspect that it is quite too much for my own good. But I’m not my own psychiatrist.

Ambiguities.

Don’t be depressed. Stop being depressed. Too much stress and depression can lead to cancer.

It’s one thing  to hear something that’s so wrong on so many levels. But worse than that is to hear them from someone you least expected to hear it from. I feel so bad hearing this  that I cannot even begin to articulate each and every wrong idea, word, thought, or concept from those sentences, I lost hope on the possibility of being understood when I heard, “Stop being depressed.”

And while this is a brief resurfacing from my frequent disappearing acts (including the resurgence of my poems), there still are a lot of things that are brewing in my mind.

Don’t be depres…

This Isn’t About You

This isn’t about you
And the multitude of faces I call ‘you,’
It’s not about me either,
So who is it for?– don’t bother.

It’s for the thousandth time I changed the verses,
It’s for the millionth time I fought the forces.
The endless time I longed for my saving grace,
The longest time I hurt, so long as I think it pays.

It’s for the days I hoped I will be saved,
Exhumed, unearhted, as I was engraved.
It’s for the nights I courted these shrines,
For the ‘you’ to come and finish all the lines.

It’s for the faith in this, in ‘you,’ in everything,
And the fact that all I can have is nothing,
The waitfor my deux ex machine to come,
The wait for all the voices to join a single hum.