It’s A Certain Sort of Sadness

It’s a certain sort of sadness
That wells up inside–
Here now; gone tomorrow,
And here again unannounced.

It’s a certain sort of sadness
That all I could do is stare–
Wonder why, and how,
Is there something I found wanting?

It’s a certain sort of sadness
That fills my palm with pain of loss–
A stab to the heart and numbness down my feet,
Will I ever get used to it?

It’s a certain sort of sadness
That I’ll never quite get fond of–
Not the kind that makes me seek solitude,
Recourse or rest.

It’s a certain sort of sadness
That sends chills down my arms–
A coldness in my core,
A flame burning in my heart.

It’s a certain sort of sadness
That fills me with nothingness–
Not choler, or ire,
Not melancholy, or despait.

It’s a certain sort of sadness.

26Jan2016

Naniwala ako.
Sa lahat.
Sa lahat lahat lahat.

Ginawa ko.
Ang lahat.
Ang lahat lahat lahat.

Pero bakit ganon?
Bakit hindi?
Bakit?

Hindi ko alam.
Hindi ko na alam.
Di ko na malalaman pa.

Sisi.
Hindi ako nagsisi.
Bakit hindi.

Sakit.
Ang sakit sakit sakit.
Bakit?

Mahal.
Kasi mahal kita.
Higit pa sa sarili ko, alam ko yan.
Alam mo ba?

Pili.
Dahil sa lahat lahat,
Ikaw ang pinili ko, alam mo yan.
Naaalala mo ba?

Hindi.
Baka hindi.
Siguro hindi.
Sana oo.

Hindi.
Tila hindi.
Sa dulo, hindi.
Hindi naniwala.
Hindi ginawa.
Hindi nagsisi.
Hindi nasaktan.
Hindi na mahal.
Hindi pinili.
Hindi.
Hindi na.
Hindi na.
Hindi na.

When All.

When the anger that fuels the passion dies down,
When the boiling blood thickens so it can write no more,
I’d lie as the husk of my previous self,
Devoid of all words and ink,
Used up by flame that consumed my mind,
Hollowed up, with nothing behind.

When all hate leaves and nothing stays,
Not even one comes to replace,
I’d be lost with no purpose– what now?
Trapped in the limbo of my own making,
The mediocrity of the mind, and hypocrisy of the heart–
It leaves me hurting;
I’ll live hurting.

When all are but stories to tell someone,
A dismembered you, known by none,
It’ll be the air that makes you look back,
And the dark that’ll hide what you’ll never unpack.
And you’ll wish it’s over, but it isn’t.
Is it, or isn’t not?
I probably have missed it.

To Live Is To Write

To live is to write,

And to write is to relive what marks your life,

And what mark our lives– often times– are what kill us inside, and so,

To live is to write,

And to die inside,

Again and again.

 

To live is to write,

And to write is to unearth the dead in your memories,

And what made you bury them in your thoughts, and so,

To live is to write,

And to exhume what’s buried,

Again and again.

 

To live is to write,

And to write is to show what you desire to hide,

And why you’d wound yourself ’til the truth bleeds out, and so,

To live is to write,

And to bleed through words,

Again and again.

 

To live is to write,

And to write is to live beyond the skies and seas,

And to weave through thoughts and words, and so,

To live is to write,

And to wander the realms across what’s real and what’s not,

Again and again.

 

To live is to write,

And to write is to speak of truths through lies,

And why the unwritten must be read, and so,

To live is to write,

And to speak through the unheard,

Again and again.

 

To live is to write,

And to write is to shape your thoughts into words,

And why one fails to do so in one work alone, and so,

To live is to write,

And to write– is to write,

Again and again.

I Would No Longer Write

I would no longer write

For what good does it do

If it kills those long dead,

And plead the love that’s come and gone.

 

I would no longer write

For what good does it do

If it makes me long for tragedies,

To write about what pinches the heart.

 

I would no longer write

For what good does it do

If it fills my eyes and stains my clothes

With blood and tears in endless streams.

 

I would no longer write

But I know it’s a lie,

For as long as the earth is moving,

So does my pen in writing.

That One Word

It’s hidden behind the careful lines–

That one word that’s never written here.

It’s laced between the thoughts that curl like vines,

That one mysterious word we often hear.

 

It’s the core of it all–

That one word we’ve all written of.

It’s the cause, the means, the end, of each rise and fall,

That one elusive word we suffer for.

 

It’s what makes us move (or stop)–

That one word we wake up for,

It’s what makes us soar (or drop),

That one word we hope is waiting behind each door.

 

It’s what makes the world stare, or leap, or weep–

That one word that makes all things make sense.

It’s what we look for up above or down deep,

That one coveted word felt through its absence.

Song II

I let the melodies speak for me,

Give it my heart, my soul– everything it could carry.

I let the words flow right past me

Afraid that if I listen and take it to the heart,

I’d hear the truth I refuse to see.

 

I let the voices weep for me

Not with words, but with the shouts and sighs, unmasked and free.

I let the notes, faltering, sail through me,

Afraid that if I remember and let it come to mind,

I’d see the truth I refuse to find.