#8 – About last night

And then to see the ceiling a bit too high,
To feel the floor sinking deeper,
And to be unaware of directions.
Insanely aware of  memories,
And unaware of their narration.
Waking up, adding two and two together,
Feeling the symmetry, and my head again.
I buried those memories,
And buried their narration.

Advertisements

#

There are circles in my mind,
And an angst, for I can’t sort them.
All the whiskey in the world won’t help,
My heart’s on fire but  bruised by treachery.
And love was all I had.
Seasons have passed,
and I can’t love again.
And if my mind erupts like a volcano,
I can drink in peace.

Poem #6: Hopeless Romance

Under the moon, I wonder if you’re looking at it too.
Hoping you’re listening to the same song that I am listening to,
Hoping, you look at me the way I look at you.
Someone once told me, “Hopeless romance is poetic.”
And I am a lover of poetry.
Is there any depth in unrequited love?
Or this hole in my heart is just a mirage?
Falling and failing, falling and failing,
does it end? Does it ever stop hurting?
To romanticize the idea of him,
To think of all that could be,
To write with my blood and sweat,
To stop my heart from beating my chest,
Does it stop?
I want it to stop.
I want to raise a wall so strong it can’t be tumbled down,
A fence so dense that it can’t be sneaked into,
I want to throw my heart in the corner and fill it with void,
A void so deep that it feels no emptiness.
But how will I ever write poetry then?
Someone once told me, “Hopeless romance is poetic.”
I am a lover of poetry, so I became one.
Isn’t it beautiful? Being a hopeless romantic?
I can imagine all sorts of things and believe them to be true.
Your smile,
Your laughter,
Your voice,
Your touch,
and weave them into words, make it a poem,
exploiting my emotions shamelessly,
sharing it with the world.
And hoping that you read it too,
Understand that it’s written for you.
Someone once told me, “Hopeless romance is poetic.”
I am a lover of poetry,
and my poetry is you.
 

The hearts that can’t console

She never spoke much. I remember
her subtle relapses in the past,
like she was alone and had no one around her,
amidst the gazing eyes, poking her and asking
if she was Okay.
I wonder how she must have felt. Blurred, maybe?
They talk of love as an unbearable pain,
if it isn’t meant to be.
They say it takes a heavy toll,
the one you can’t pay.
They say the pain is worth it,
if it’s all happy in the end.
If it’s not? What if it’s not?
I would look at her and would turn away.
That’s what I do, I turn away.
This winter is too cold, am I too cold?
I wouldn’t know.
Her sadness would deepen sometimes,
I wouldn’t know, I turn away.
I once wanted to be there for someone,
and wanted to tell her, it’ll be okay.
I couldn’t. They tell me, I couldn’t have done much
for I was a kid. How do you convince your guts?
Now nothing’s the same.
I would sometimes see her laughing out loud,
her laughter would cry its heart loud,
It was there, I could see it.
I saw a kid once, trying to entertain people by telling stories.
Nobody laughed. He sat down a little later,
He didn’t like it and I stood there looking at him,
never telling him his stories were good and I enjoyed them.
It could have made him smile, but I turned away from him.
Once she told me about her sadness
and I couldn’t muster the right words;
She must have thought of me as apathetic.
Once I laughed at someone’s misery.
It just came out of nowhere!
I was deeply saddened within… was I?
I was. I was. I know, I was.
People would imagine me cruel.
I’d like to know if he is doing fine,
for I feel he is not.
But I will never say a word,
I don’t do that.
I laugh with her all the time,
that is something I can do.
I can laugh. I laugh.