lettersthatburst - Tumblr blog

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i dont know what this is but it seems kinda cool

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"Pledging to the future, 80's the number Although the 20 is there, but that we don't consider Because it's you and me together for one another forever"

7.27

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I feel like if I don't start writing or doing something creative soon enough, I'll probably waste the whole month of break with just lounging around around the house in this corner or there.

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Found this again. Drew this at 2 AM due to the stubbornness to sleep. If it doesn’t look obvious, it’s an owl. Personally, I think it kind of looks like a muppet.

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take it in moderation

It was a desperation

in the midst of fixation.

The need,

the want

to get back

to the mean.

The pulling,

the drowning

of the you

that had meaning;

the entrappings of the

current as if

it knew you weren't

the you that was then.

All substance given

for nothing

in the end.

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Led By Passion

The girl with the star-studded white dress Rose up to the night sky; Her hands reaching into The galaxy of the unknown Filled with glaring hope And of tomorrow’s premonition Of a happy ending.

She reached into the abyss And her fingertips stung. ‘T was the contraction Of a failed lung That she began to realize That she was suffocating. The hem of her dress Was blazing With deranged fire Desiring her entire being. And yet, The feeling was fleeting.

Her eyes saw clarity In the midst of smoke And charred innocence. Never before have her eyes Opened with an indignation To only be satisfied With the renewal of her ambition.

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the missing proxy.

The protruding knuckles on her fist was in lust for something to shatter; a seething voice was bellowing to escape her breast; the thougts that used to be in line with each other in her skull soon now crack and form trenches into the void where wings are cut.

To soothe her worries, she longed to accept Sleep's gift --but alas, Sleep has taken the last train; leaving her now to her own sufferance.

She considers buying from Death.

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Once in a Cafè

In the pointless jolly chattering of patrons, there sat a hobbit trying to master mnemonics. Making a sour convulsed face as she sipped the Caffè Americano, she struggled to find purpose of the Now.

Abiding to the quote of her conflicted hero, she persisted to make seemingly pointless attempts of meaning and the ethos of her being.

Alas, she failed yet again --but yet she stood to resound with the success of trying. The hobbit decided then to nestle her tired head in her arms and thus began her voyage to the world of lucidity.

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The Self-pity Entry

Someone told me that the only way for a loaded ship to move on and forward is to leave all the anchors behind –if that certain someone did exist; sadly however, there is only me.

I always try to be the most poetic/creative person I can be; but it seems as though, however, that what I can only  "be" is in mediocrity. For all this time, I have struggled with this issue of mediocrity. What is it, really? It’s so abstract, as much as each human’s mind can have an individual perception of it. For now, though, let’s focus on MY perception on the word. 

Mediocrity is something half-assed. It’s a thing, an idea, a verb, a being that was not made and united with the absolute certainty of its purpose. In short, mediocrity –for me– is the state of being where one is acting but without the faintest idea of why one is doing so. 

We have or had these ideals in life. When we were young, we’ve imagined  a hundred of things that we wished to become once we’ve grown older. Once you’ve arrived –or, in my case, once you find yourself on the way– to that certain age, you realize: When have I stopped imagining? At what point have I stopped aspiring? Have I even started? Dreams and aspirations come and go but they never stop, or do they?

The time that I started nurturing my intellect was the time that I stopped believing, I guess. The harder I think about the things I want to do, the less things I gather for possibilities. The harder you think, the harder it is for you to break your own boundary of yourself and to the aspiration of what you want to become. I got to a certain point where I was only left with logic –ignoring space for any more magic. It was mortifying. It was sad. I felt like I was only conforming for the sake of surviving. Surviving what? Society? Probably. More accurately, I ponder, surviving the living. “Life” is given so much importance. We’re put into a world where we have to breathe every second, blink 3 times a minute, conform with the norm –but the most irking: to survive with what YOU have. Some were blessed; a couple were left to desperation and shunned. People have gone to other means to satisfy themselves –to gain self-acceptance. But gaining self-acceptance is sad. It’s accepting that you can only amount to this certain gauge. Acceptance is limiting; but acceptance is what makes this world sane. Acceptance is mediocrity.Acceptance is that you’ll conform to society –flow with the status quo; ignoring what you can become. 

When is the point where you start ignoring your aspiration? I can’t be too sure myself. I guess it was the time when I started growing older. I guess it was the time I realized the limited possibilities. I guess it was the time I gave up trying. I guess it was the time where I just sorted to scrolling through posts and not writing. I guess it was the time that I got too confused of what I wanted to be that I just stopped…and paused… for eternity. And felt satisfied in mediocrity.

(Or you know, I guess I was just really lazy.)

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Girls are so whiny.

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I am most jealous of today’s younger generation because they will get to binge watch the entire game of thrones series

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My former nature detoxed; got rid of all the pleasantries. Now I'm but a sour bottle of vinegar.

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I’m sad to say I have nothing to say. 

Thoughts beget new thoughts;

contradictions contradict 

each other.

I dig up for words

with nothing in return.

And I feel dismayed.

Blankly staring down on my confused

fingers as I find the right letters

to form words is

awfully nauseating. 

But a girl just died.

I reckon she would have been my kind.

Because we have the same musical in mind.

Had

I’m caught up now. 

My only wish was to know how

the turns of her mind began

to drive itself to the edge.

I could’ve been her.

She could’ve been me.

And so how other alternate realities work.

But I hope she found what she was looking for

in that other place.

I hope she had more courage.

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The Story of a Matryoshka

“Do not sink. Do not blink.

Nor do not break. And fake.”

The matryoshka chanted the words as if it were a dear lullaby; gradually becoming unaware of its heeding reminder. She nestles into a catatonic state –her painted eyes looking directly at a scene to which she cannot entirely see in its obscurity.

Blotches and patches of color –some more blissfully vibrant than the looming cast embracing it.

She was depleted enough to have not even the time to observe the young boy splattered with freckles as he grasped her plump figure. Her cognizance prevailed only too late as she finds herself confined in the dark space inside a ribbon box. If the matryoshka were more human, beads of sweat would have formed and her chest would have broken. It was too soon that she bade goodbye to catatonia, and welcomed paranoia.

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I wonder if other writers too had the problem of comprehending the figures formed by their own pieces of weaved poetry.

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stabilize yourself

...and breathe.

With the carbon that you release

let go of the apples & emeralds that hold you back

Maintain yourself.

Do not stale your core

But just breathe

And create.

Let the glaring picture pale,

and see it for what it really is.