Category Archives: Poems

Insomnia

“Soon, this will be just an awful memory.
Will I ever be able to sleep again?”
 
– Curse of the Virgin Canvas, Alesana
 
 

Last night, you didn’t sleep.

Your messages were answered

by mechanical silence.

On the day of the first

when people bring back

the memories of the dead.

 

Last night, sleep was a poison.

In which I slept and fed upon

and it crawled through your anger

and ate our soul like a knife

splitting everything in two

and blurring our sight.

 

I’d thought of taking pills

but remedies aren’t solution

to this scene of motion-sickness

brought upon the rides we had shared

up and down to sides and all the way around

in a fun fair of roller coasters every night and day

where the air muffled our screams and cries

six-feet deep below the ground with

one of our feet beneath the hole

as if we are trying to crawl

in our respective caskets

and ready ourselves

as our hearts break

for one more time

again and leave

ourselves

at piece.

 

Last night became a summary

of emotions, of laughter and cries,

longing and goodbyes. Indifference, to flight

as I was high above the sky and you

pulled me close after listening to the music

woven by metaphors of day and night

and of suns and moons.

 

Last night was a living dream,

a disaster and a night mare

that could put us both in an

endless startled gaze.

Stunned and motionless.

Eyes unwavering

as we looked into the distance

That kept us apart

and brought forth

the sleepless nights you’ve had

and come into an argument

I wish I never lacked.

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Self-induced Comatose

Let us not try to uncover

The idea behind this poem.

Such words elude meaning

As if a potion for death

After our very last breath.

 

This could be something else entirely.

Doing away with your interpretation

With nothing, not even my perception

Is gullible enough for these words’ misdirection.

 

This could be an explosive

To the door of your world of thoughts

Being in itself the meaning

In your own definitive scale.

 

This could be a pause;

A living poem in a hiatus

To the world we despise

Along with my anguished cries.

 

This could be nothing

As it’s supposed to be.

However, being nothing

Is being like anything.

 

Anything this could ever be

Like water taking the form of its container

To be something more than it already is

Escaping from the imagined reality.


Home

As I pass this familiar street

Never has I been so keen with the houses

The architecture, build and space

Like a vision of our future

Confined and safe inside those walls and bricks

Of stones and unchanging wills,

Of ourselves and of promises kept,

A vow, of passing of times sailing the sea

to eternity.

Nonetheless, these houses

Are only containers to the very thing

We’ve built.

It is not love that made us vulnerable

To invincibility, nor the essence

of our very being that coexist with one another.

It is us that was once were two

Separated by distance and lived as fools.

Star-crossed lovers that defied the rules

Unpacking the words and turning them to visible hues.

Everybody can live in a house

But these things we dreamed of,

We already have the chance

Not only to live in a house

But a home – a hope to shine upon.


Same Formula, Different Variables

Constant, unimaginable
Same flow, different road.
The traffic, the lights
The intersection and signs
Are all the same but the day.

Different cars, faces and voices
Echoes bounce back
Different waves, intensity and direction.
The breeze is still but never the same.

Yesterday, today and tomorrow
We walk the same path and follow
The same moments of the past
And thinking the moments would last

But it’s the same thing all over again
Like the hands of the clock on the wall
Circling and circling ’til the end
Telling the same, right but different call.


Phantasmagoria

A poem is like a memory of a dream after waking…

 

A fragment…

A vignette…

A story marginalized by frames…

…captioned by time.

without a beginning…

a middle…

or end.

 

And as the river of time passes by,

the strips of memories

scream to                          f a  d   e

yet, it echoes

bouncing back

incompletely

from your mind

and curiosity, leaving you

wondering about how things

could have transpired.

 

But you will never                                remember

since it never really matter

and you’re back to this ugly world

because we are bound to                               forget

but never                          surrender.


Catharsis

I see it being built, in the eyes in a mirror

reflecting the house inside made by bricks,

woods, and stones replaced by

the fires of guilt. Caught in the echo

of the phrase remained unsaid,

keeping me trapped inside the burning

house that was never a home.

 

Now the ashes are falling

and the the fire lines began to recede

as the rain starts to pour, washing away

the mess and turning it to a solid slate

of rock that I threw on the lake, disturbing

the calm waters, forming ripples that gradually

elevated itself from the shore, rising in itself a wave

of revenge upon the instigator.

 

Entangled

by wires of the thoughts like threads of silk

spindled and shaped that of a spider’s web

leaving me suspended on the ground of the

forsaken, forgotten and free. My skin

touches the angry waters like a breeze

of the wind. Weightless and unmoving

and I realized it is the water that I am breathing.

 

Let out the light of obscurity against my skin,

constantly covering me as a comfort, a cushion,

a solace of embracing silence. 


An Ending with a Broken Rhyme

My home is the ocean. The waves and the collapsing

of the bubbles without certain figures. Of nothing

but ever-changing, amidst the stillness of the vast emptiness

underneath the surface of these waters. The darkness

echoing below, surviving in itself as a form of necessity

to build and rebuild, to invade and succumb to the sanity

of searing shackles of my mind. After each cloud that fills

the sky leaving me transparent to the passing boats, still

unnoticed, provoked and left undiscovered, unknown and feared.

Refined and understood to be a place of calm yet closed and stirred,

sacrificing the depths to unbroken promises

placed under the dark of hidden spaces.

People are right only in one thing in this life

that monsters lurk in the veil of the unseen, inside

were the secret keepers of the truth leaving a stain of pain

to anyone who dares to catch a glimpse in the flame

hidden under this deep trench,

and fail to reach every feeling,

forever weeping

and the seas are

made up

of my

tears.


High Walls and Open Spaces

This is for the forgotten and bloody, yet unbroken.

We keep our hands up straight, unstained

Under this skin, we find that conflict of nonexistence

Treading an imaginary path of notes sustained.

 We will never get tired of searching

of things we cannot have

When pain takes a whole different meaning

as something we can’t live without.

We feel alive with each time our hearts broke

and letting us die as our minds choke

in silence brought by the chills of open doors

curling the wisps of smoke with unfair scores.

Then everyone around that sees couldn’t believe

leading to be ridiculed for everyone to see

the pitiful image of a coward’s weep

as the tears fall beside the people’s spits.


Calm Before the Storm

It starts in the dark, of impending light

to the feet of the waves and the calm of the wind

until the birds from the sky crossed out on the free-willing seas

conserving the haze of an inclement beast.

 

Then let out a smoke from the flames, we’re breathing in fires

destroying our homes with our deepest desires.

The smokes creating a form of a still-eyed lion

holding a stare to its prey and a move will trigger a riot.

 

From the tongues of the liars and the words of the kings

we’re wading above the waters of the truth that they bring

when in fact our minds were tamed by their horses,

sending our hopes to their homes and drilling them with fear.

 

Ignorance played its best going far,

through the caves of people’s wooden guitars.

Crawled out to their insights leaving the doors ajar

that led to the death of the family’s slumber under the stars.

 

An army of ideas are marching in

following the rules of the kingdom then breaking in

and splitting the walls with their bare-footed kicks

leading the coward king retreat to their anchored ships.

 

Dropping their armors that leave the mark

of steaming eyes hungry from the dark.


29 October 1936

Dearie Ann, 

 

I haven’t heard from you in almost a week. I hope you’re doing fine because I’m not. I’ve been having trouble breathing lately. I don’t know why and what this is or is it even a serious disease? I’m not sure. You know I’m not fond with the doctors. They’re too bossy in terms of drug prescriptions and in almost everything about things that I must and must not do. I can take care of myself. I’m not doing anything stressful lately so maybe this is just normal in aging. Though mother’s a nurse, I don’t talk much with her. Sometimes I just act normal or leave slowly from her sight before my panic attack kicks in. She won’t understand me. She won’t. She’ll always blame my writing and rant about why would I stay up all night writing my novel and not do it during the day. It’s really disappointing since she’s my mother. Sometimes, I wonder if some writers share this problem with me. I mean, the way she’s so focused about health that she’s gradually forgetting about me. She doesn’t care about me. She cares about my well-being and from my point of view, those two are different from each other. It just increases the gaps between us and the fact that I can view a single thing from several different perspectives suggests that I should be the one to understand. And I hate it.

Sometimes I wish I could just go back to my ordinary life. And maybe you’re tired of hearing this over and over again but…I don’t know. I just can’t unsee things that are not there. Everything around me just creates its own new layer of meaning. As if I can see through things and I am not sure if what I see is what it really is or is it just what I want it to be. It’s like everything has gone personal.

I keep rereading your letters. Every night and it’s what keeps me awake and I may have memorized a dozen of them. I just want to hear your voice over and over and it is what I hear everytime I read them. I just want you to be here. I want to talk with you because I know you’ll understand. It’s been months since we last met. I know you’re busy. I just want to know you’re safe. If you’re well or are you losing that blush on your cheek, hell it’s driving me insane. Sometimes, I look at the stars at night and think about if you’re seeing the same pattern that I’m seeing  And I heard that tomorrow is going to be a full moon. And it’s your birthday. You may receive this letter later than I expect but I just greeted you a day earlier. I guess that makes sense.

Along with the envelope of this letter are poems I’ve written for you everytime I take a break from writing. You know it’s a relief to pour my emotions that block my mind to a paper. And it’s all about you. I just hope you like it and take it as my birthday present for you. Though I may not have much anything to say but feel free to find it inside these poems. I hope you can see what I refused to write and you might be amazed about the things that you can find but is never truly there.

 

Yours truly, 

Cheshire

 

P.S.

I can write more long letters if you will. It’s just I have nothing to reply with.