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.

 

To whom it may concern

Fabrication only lies when I look into those eyes. The way it fascinates me is in such at an exemplary level to marvel upon my own thoughts and stir it by yours. Even so, it compels me to abandon clarity and face the unknown emotions filed up with every single feature you resonate. The vibrant colors you possess marches in a way that it keeps me from hanging on for nothing. Just observing Nature’s organic wonder embellished in your name that captures the beauty so unique yet far from my reach.

You leave a trail of amazement that I consume yet turning my excitement to grief. There were too many people that see you for who you are, yet I can compare it from what I see. From who you are to me, and it’s what matters most because you were with me everytime a broken clock tells the correct time twice a day. What I could make of you without limits and it’s already on process. I am immortalizing you through words and I wish you’d appreciate that.

For a story told in verses and paragraphs, of death and rebirth, of beauty and madness, of loneliness and hopelessness, to visit the good despite my suffering from lack of spoken words only to be filled by an imaginary cowardly voice, that speaks of nonesense for all people except you. And this is for you alone.

A work of terrible fiction based from my experience. So I must apologize for every wrong choice of words and for every unbelievable nightmares this could possess in order to amplify the things I feel.

In other words, where you are, even every night where you sleep. Lying on your bed in between those warm sheets, I exist. Through memories of indirectness and whines. I want to be as discreet as I can be until we see each other face to face. And this written work shall serve as the bidding for every night, to watch you sleep, remove your fears and wipe away all of your tears to sing you a lullaby and kiss you good night.

How it’s been different

I want you to make me feel un-alone

and not leave me with this on my own

and tell me that I’m not knocking on a heart made of stone

because of those things you left and took

were the things I’ve been living with

before you made it harder than it should.

 

How it’s been different to breathe

without your air grazing my skin

every morning as I step down under the rain 

and ask you how you’ve been doing.

 

How it’s been different to feel

again after everything you said

and they asked you things that could kill

something as vulnerable as this kid.

 

How it’s been different to see

that we could never be

but I’m holding on to a branch of a tree

and seek out the reality to this fantasy.

 

How it’s never like me

to willingly step onto your trap

and be happy after you caught my hands and flee

as easy as if I’m a dog on your lap.

 

How I strangled up myself, forming a crease

to these wrists I used to walk to the fire

alone but not sad.

Just don’t mind me, really, because I’m mad.

Receding In A Negative Narrative

It’s not the time to seek refuge

to the fulfilling peace brought by razors

and delicately harness the pain from my thoughts

until I cry out your name in anguished voice.

 

The words are cutting deep

to my chest and the heavens felt

how pathetic my state have become

yet you’re an angel surrounding me

inside this hole of uncertainty.

 

My life is hanging on a balance to support

the weight you’re placing on one side

as those feelings weigh a ton

and I spring upwards to the sky

and fell down with scraped knees and broken bones.

 

But I wrote this piece in cheap words

to better exemplify the pain

along with the sound of the rain

and its waters running along to the path of your name.

And it’s not easy to see

how everything I feel could be

resonating inside your head

and realize how drastic I could get.

 

But I keep hoping that I’d see you again

and if the seraphs forbid, you would sweetly look into my eyes

and slowly melt the thing I held close to my limbs

and quickly look away after seeing my deluded dreams

and I would never utter a word.

I’ll walk past by knowing that

second glances don’t mean anymore

unless that it’s something that I am yearning for

such as that of those pair of eyes you own imbued with glamour.

 

You could have me as I am.

As of someone that would be there to understand

and I may not have anything that most men have in common

but I’m always be here for a shoulder to lean on.

How I can always be an open novel

that you could rip and tear its pages

that doesn’t care if you broke its spine–

or have its cover resigned

along with the title that is screaming of more than just words

passing meaningless to your course–

that could be sold in a cheap price on a store

and leave me for someone that deserves you more

as to how a child replaces his toys, outgrowing them of bore.

 

These dying words shall tell you how I keep struggling

to keep pacing with the signs you’re making

visible to my heart’s blind eyes

impaired by the night’s confusing lights

that once led me to your presence

and turn me to this monster’s statement of defense

as a story no one could ever understand

and possibly the last thing I could say

before I start to let go of your hand,

because the music never stops from making you sway

from the melodies only you know how to play.

But I’ll keep listening to the pattern of the tone

and mess with the chords

and compose my own

and sing to you the madness

you won’t forget to ask me how to perform.

 

Amidst of all these pain, I’ll stay

even I’ll live with a life, forever feeling gray

of these things that are purely inside my mind

won’t cease to manifest as you crawl back and forth in this head

that could shatter almost everything that I own

because I am used in to being torn

and after all, I’m just a lost boy

with scraped knees and broken bones.

The art of never letting go

And if we’re stranded inside this solace

of rhymes woven by yellow bricks of maze,

I’ll hold your hands even beyond my reach

if my words fail to catch what I beseech.

As I write, the wisps of your breath are far,

so I’ll place these phrases inside a jar

and preserve the letters this heart once felt;

on the sight if your portraits, I have crept.

And in times of despair, I’ll still suffer

from the words I imposed upon myself,

when all of these, it’s you I remember

to cast your soul off my enticing shelf.

This won’t be the last time I’ll write for her,

and even now, for ever and never.

Liaison

What is it like to know the depth of your thoughts?

In every corner I kept waiting and wasting

wondering, deciphering words that probably mean nothing.

As hopeless as it seems, I write

for tonight fills every halls with your portraits,

hung on the walls, nailed by my fears,

condescendingly smiling at me with those eyes

that captured my reality leaving me with the void

of emotions beneath these ribs

in between my lungs

bidding every futile beat–

an abstraction of my own mind

stuck in your memory.

Drama Queen of the Staffs (Scorpius)

She’s dancing with fires underneath her feet,

Shifting gears in her mechanistic world,

Adorned with the trees, her forest of smiles,

Walking on sand, kicking the dust from lies.

 

The show starts, the curtain begins to rise,

The scene is filled with a girl’s hateful cries.

As she looked down in utter disbelief,

Looking at herself with pity and grief.

 

Watching her tiptoe down the stage searching

amongst the crowd, for Orion, trembling

arms shaking to the vagueness of his face,

lost in the picture, mind falling to haze.

 

And until the time she’ll no longer weep,

I’ll walk to the scene, her sadness to keep.

Fetter

These scars won’t last forever to contain

these memories that will vaguely remain

in ourselves to the closed doors of your heart.

For better or worse, ’til death do us part.

 

We’ll dive down the tears from your sunken eyes

to the illusion of the sky tonight.

Reaching to the depths of these unseen lines,

Remembering the lights that once burn bright.

 

After these stars hide and die, so will we.

Even Time can’t take you away from me.

The moon sets marking the dawn that awaits,

as we walk past together through the Gates.

 

In this place of solace, we’ll both shall be

contained in repose and tranquility.

Mirror of Sanity

I swore on the stars.

You left me to die.

You cut through my skin,

And twisted the knife.

 

With bloodless vein, I breathe.

With each vain breath, I glimpse,

A face of perfection I loathe,

And died for to see.

 

Scratching my eyes out,

Wanting to be free.

From the grasp of this demon,

Inside that’s pushing me in.

 

So cunning, he is.

With each moon that pass,

He is free.

Someone I’m afraid to be.

 

Such beautiful face,

He lured me inside.

A face of another,

Whom I used to love and never defy.

 

She walked closely, bringing me in.

Yet, a fool I was touching her skin.

There was a spark,

A knife,

At my throat.

Where she,

My devil and myself, 

Left me on my own blood to soak.

 

Different Perspective

Walking with one eye open.

Holding on to your name.

Staring to the wall I’ve broken.

Your face is still beautifully the same.

 

Breaking the memories with flooded tears.

Clouding your smiles with searing pain.

Suffocating your voices with muffled cries.

Smashing your eyes with pitch-black stain.

 

I’ve gone through a bridge of ice,

Seeing as you go.

You laughed until you cried,

And set the fire to show.

 

The dark in your sleep.

The poison as you speak.

Has been walking through my dreams,

Waking me up and dancing me to sleep.

 

It’s crazy, I know.

How you turn on the lights,

And catch my attention.

How you pull me under myself,

And put worthy thoughts in my head.

 

But how was i supposed to be found?

When I only want to be lost in your eyes.

I never realized it’s pointless,

And you would never shed a tear when I die.