Tag Archives: Ynca Ann Eve Duerme

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.


A Retrospect: Tragedies are stories meant for those who do not have what it takes to beat the hands of destiny.

My time is near and I have to wake up before you die. If this serves as a suicide note, I’ll die by your side. This is not being romantic nor am I being such a show off for death. This is a letter that I hope will keep you alive.

I have so much metaphors in my head that are waiting to be said until time fades along with our being. If poetry is the thin line that connects us to each other, let us pave that neural pathway, expand it with more that we can do together and synchronize the beating of our hearts. I’m keeping everything, condensing every single detail to create an impact. To crash the bulletproof window to your world and disturb the still air and anger the waves to your sea. We need this. We have to live by the ugliness of the world reeking in absurdity. We have to die, and rise from our own ashes and start anew without erasing our memories from the past, hold on to it and let go of the present. Our death will be silent. It is a cause. A cause for a better future. A cause for us to live. A retrospect.

I’ll be good to you. Speaking my words through your ears and rhymes. There is so much that I could say and we’ll be the sower to our greatest achievements that will follow in the future. If we were a mathematical equation, we’ll always divide our memories and add labels to each. Happy, sad, painful and true. Just three words that are never ordinary because each are always multiplied by the power of two. The equation doesn’t end there. We are lines on a graph representing only one true point of intersection. There will be no parallels, no leaving, because such things won’t be ever enough to make me love you less. Just say you’re not into it. Stay.

The Wonderland and Oz has been so overrated. We have what we have and we can still have more that we can. But we’ll keep the stress and misunderstandings. We’ll keep everything that can hurt the both of us. That can eat us alive, burn us to the core and succumb to the illusion that we both love…or maybe I am the only one…

This is not a time for sweet words. We’ve been so vague. I can’t say nothing more to encourage you to suffer with me. Surely, I am such a burden. I am such a burden that you haven’t carried for the past seventeen years. And all this time, I’ve brought pain in my DNA. It is encrypted, flowing through my veins. I am a vessel of a spirit contained waiting to explode like a dormant volcano.

I’m not sure if this is what you have hoped for. If I’m consuming everything that you desired. If I caught you, kept you under my veil of darkness that you once wanted to uncover.

We have time. So much time that we can do to survive. We met so early in this age when everything has been fast-paced. People meet and split up the very next day as if nothing happened. But we, we’re a different story. I’m sorry if I can’t be ordinary. I’m sorry if I’m not what you had hoped for. But this apology will never remain as when I gave it away. If we shall be ordinary, we won’t last. We won’t be as someone we dreamed to be, or only I did…

I thought you’re ready to face everything. This is not a momentarily love affair. We are not temporary. If we hold on to our dreams we can make it. We must make it. Tomorrow will always be the same sad story. Tomorrow will always be the day when we’ll be separated. Tomorrow will always be the night we’ll sleep on our own isolated beds. Tomorrow will always be miserable. Everything is miserable. But we have each other. If we have each other, being miserable is a choice. We can always be happy in our own sad pathetic ways. We can turn it all against everything. Tomorrow will be the day that we’ll be closer to each other. Tomorrow will be the very next moment that we’ll have the chance to talk to each other. To finally fulfill this word on a page in our own story. A day is twenty-four hours. This is something that we should think about. The hours. The minutes. The walk by the hallways in school. Holding each other’s hands. With the person you entrusted your heart. To be broken, to be hurt, to be vulnerable, to be loved.

I see the sunlight pour down every window of the car I sit. And I always wonder, do you see the same sunlight streaks the way I see them? The way it illuminates your face every possible moment that I have the ability to see such wonder unveil itself, the mystery I once dread to uncover is just what I dreamed to see as if everyday, I have a gift from you that I never deserve.

These tiny details, these strong emotions of care, hate and jealousy in simple and little things is a proof that I never would want to lose you. Because I would never have to feel these if I haven’t love you first.

This is a story of air and water drifting into each other. Can you feel the friction? The heat that sways to every wave. I am a bubble under the sea.

Same memories like these were tagged in our minds as something we’ll think of in the future as the things we’re so dumb to come after. Let us not dwell.

Tragedies are stories meant for those who do not have what it takes to beat the hands of destiny. And we’ll continue to live to tell our story.