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Beneath the Ice
the ICE is floating with the freezing breeze
beneath it
...the chilling stops
...the heat goes up
...the water starts to boil
for there dwells her heart.
There, the ice melt into tears...

I hate materialistic people...
I am materialistic...
...I hate myself

I don't believe in second chances

Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Three years have past since my last entry. Though it's hard to believe, I cannot remember the person that wrote the poems and stories here. Even writing already felt like a strange skill. All forgotten after a choice to take another road. A road that is very far from writing. Now, I don't have the time to leisurely read any book I want or focus on a thought that I would like to paint with words. A book, that in the past I might have finished in one sitting, is beside my bed unopened for three months.

Floating with the freezing breeze, where the chilling stops, where the heat goes up, and where water starts to boil, her heart melted the ice into tears...

Tuesday, November 23, 2010

Saturday, October 27, 2007
Playing Safe

I learned how to play safe
when I was a just a kid of 2 years.
I watch each step
and try to catch my fall with my arms.

Still, I slipped with my toys,
bump on the walls,
fall from the chair,
and bruise everywhere.

All I need to do
to alleviate the pain
was to cry as hard as I can
and help would surely come.

Twenty years have passed
and I still practice playing safe.
Now not with toys, walls and chairs
but with people I meet.

Still, I slipped, bump, fall
leaving my heart bruised.
Feeling pain greater
than a bleeding wound.

All I could do
was cry as silently as I can.
So no one would see
how helpless I could be.

Saturday, October 27, 2007

His poem for someone

He speaks about a certain girl
A girl he said he loves,
he wants to protect,
and keep his promise to.

I listen to him
A guy I barely knew,
someone I just met
about two weeks ago.

He speaks, I listen.
Wishing the poem,
his confession of love
is for me.

Somewhere, someone
receives his poem.
The true owner
of his heart.

Beside him
I'm still listening,
eventhough he already
stopped speaking.

Saturday, October 27, 2007

Sunday, October 21, 2007
I don't believe that love is blind

I don't believe in second chances
Because I only need to be hurt once
to wake up from a nightmare

I don't believe in love at first sight
Because its not fair to the blind
sight is for attraction

I don't believe that love is blind
Because if its true, I would still believe
in second chances and love at first sight

Sunday, October 21, 2007

♥♥♥... How many more?

I thought I would only love once
because I only have one heart
I could give it only to him
While his will be mine

But that was when I still thought
that my heart could only be broken once

Twice, trice...
Trusting, falling and still trusting
How many times should I love
To find the true owner of my heart?

Sunday, October 21, 2007

Thursday, November 23, 2006
I miss my passion

I had just finished Anne Rice's "The Feast of All Saints." It took me several days to reach the back cover. It has always been hard for me to do something else when I opened a book. Just like now, a line-up of several research and writing was set aside to accommodate the heartrending and still triumphant novel. This is a simple time-off from work, just similar to this bookreview-like essay. I missed the times when I could write my heart out on several pages of paper without minding any deadlines or formats that constrain my style. They might love those constrained essays that lack the emotions that the writer should yield. Yes, I hate those 1-inch margined articles that are now waiting for my attention. Yet, I need to face them since they help me survive my materialistic life.I bought the book for the author and not for the title. The first few pages made me think that it is just another story of racial discrimination and hatred. How could I think of that when I only found myself crying with each character’s grief for the time and people they have to live with? It’s not just a story of a white, a black and a man of color. It touches different aspects of life such as love, ambitions and blood. It’s hard to imagine a time when a person have no right just because of a judgment made with his skin color. There’s nothing realistic when I read that women of color were more respected if she became a mistress of a white man than facing the church with someone of her people. I should remind myself that this is a historical novel and that these situations might have really existed in that far from fictional town.I should feel grateful for my life because I did not have to endure such brutality of those times. Still, I spite myself and envy the young Marcel St. Marie who faced his fate and still survived even with the crumbling of his dreams. He was born of a white father and a colored mistress. He could never pass as a white with his features. His father promised an educated future in Paris. This was reverberated while the monsieur would stay in their home saying “send him in style.” All of his childhood, he readied himself for that time. A moment came when he was called to his father’s attorney’s office to learn that nothing of this would ever happen. This event was followed with several miserable incidents with his family and the other people in their community. It almost destroyed him but in the end, he followed his heart and eventually found happiness in a rough life he had not experience in his childhood. I wish I could also have such strength to keep my life with purpose. I am not contented, I need direction.I am jealous of Marie St. Marie for having a man like Richard Lermontant. A turn in the story that I thought would lead to the estrangement of the couple because of duty to family, pride and reputation. I love the man’s character wishing that someone still exist who could personify him.The novel touched me more than the tedious telenovelas and movies of repeated themes. And now, back to reality. So much for the break, I need to get back with the three more articles I should finish. I need to go back to my one by one margin and pressuring deadline of the weekend. Wish I could have another opportunity to give in to my passion and away from this dead writing I call my job.

Thursday, November 23, 2006

Thursday, May 26, 2005
I should be happy
Yes, it is finished. It happened just like how I fancy it to be. This is what I want, to finish it and start a new life, Or maybe continue what I have left for him. Many times have I tried. All efforts, fruitless. Now, I have finally done it. It took less time compared to my past attempts, easier.
I should be rejoicing. I am free now. I have survived something I know I can't last. I should laugh my heart out remembring what I have gone through. I should celebrate that I wont need to think of him. Of how is he, if his fine, what is he doing, does he have enough sleep... or who's with him. I should not care what he is thinking now.
It ended without me knowing it. I have just learned it this morning. Here at the office. I checked his friends list and my name was not there. oh... I can't be his friend. We broke up, the end of my suffering. I expected that I would shout and jump with joy, not caring what my officemates would think of me. But why can't I move. Only my fingers are restless. They want me to realize what I really want....what I really feel.
Where are the sounds of my laughter? My shirt has wet patches. My face is even more wet. I'm a mess. Why am I surrounded with my officemates. Of course I'm ok. I'm not sick. Wait, just let me finish with my essay.
I am happy. I love him. He is the first and I don't think that there would be a second one. I am happy that it is over and I still love him even if he hadn't love me........ I won't cry, I can hold my tears. I'ts over now.

Thursday, May 26, 2005

Wednesday, May 25, 2005
Don't want to live like this

I woke up at 5 am, I want to stay in bed by my alarm urged me to stand up. go to the bathroom, turn the shower on. Whuuu! cold water struggled to freeze my nerves. My blood starts to boil in the coolness but my head still freezes with my dreams. the water becomes cooler. ok, thats it, enough with this bath that tries to steal my dreams. eat. bread plus sandwich spread equals breakfast. dont forget your vitamins. enervon c plus... brush your teeth then start to get dressed. 6 am. where's my bag. ive thrown it here last night... under the bed. not here. in the closet. neither here. there it is, beneath the dirty clothes. set.

bus. P36 fare. I have a P500 bill. not my problem, they could not throw me out. sleep. Ayala! bus stops. people rush. 7:30. up the mrt overpass. go down the other side, SM. Glorieta.RCB. ofis.

open computer. surf net. friendster. mail. ym. 8:00. ofis hous starts. go to cubicle. make an article. research.9:30. break. interview. type.12:00. lunch. wait for instructions. photocopy. fax. answer phone. 3:30. break. wait. wait.wait.wait. wait.wait. 5pm go home. landmark. park square. wait in line. ride the bus. sleep. 6:30. at home. throw the bag. change cloths. lie on bed. no need to eat my blood calms down to sleep

Wednesday, May 25, 2005

Wednesday, November 17, 2004

There are gates that I should pass through before reaching you.
Tall, strong, numerous gates.

Some have guards guiding it day and night.
With guns on their hands, marching to and fro.

Some are hard to open.
Squicking with every push.

Gates... all, made to separate me from you.
Gates... all, I intended to pass to be with you.

Wednesday, November 17, 2004

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