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[surreptitiouslysatisfying]

[surreptitiouslysatisfying]

Believe.

I believe in love.

I believe in trust and loyalty

and reality and fiction

and proper diction and lead ammunition.

I believe in the worn magic

of all these and those less tragic.

I believe in the printed word,

of fairy tales and short stories

purged onto memory

longing nights eased to sleep.

I believe in it all as human conscience

accepts and denies it.

I believe in nothing that simply

disregards the truth in these concepts

which humanity had bore

and itself has left to rest.

I will believe all this, until you try

to make me believe otherwise.

And maybe thus make me believe,

that I had believed in something

far greater than we.

[surreptitiouslysatisfying]

They never said why

coal is to the naughty

and gifts are for the nice.

Ho-ho-ho, Santa knows

of all magical identities.

when in long wintry nights

warm crackling coal will be

the last heat of their lives.

and the nice?

hugging their presents,

dead and lost in the ice.

[surreptitiouslysatisfying]

The Once Kissed Box.

If ever you break this,

his clever veneer,

put him to tears,

have this done, at least.

Find a small decrepit box,

blow off its dust,

let off some musk,

a purpose will be served, at last.

Cut the hair he had loved so,

curled around his finger,

its scent soon to linger,

donned as black as his woe.

Finally, place in his shards.

On the lid, land a kiss,

the only lips he'll miss,

and curse inside that box.

[surreptitiouslysatisfying]

Words Mean Everything To Me.

Words are the unrequited outcasts of society. Regarded as easy, innocuous, trivial and elementary. As if any simple act of the body can undermine the skill of the hand and wit. That it is unmanly to belt out a line of rhyme, with face and all, tone and pitch, body and soul. I pity their bags of withering bones.

"Actions speak louder than words." I'm stinging sultry by the stiffening second. Have you ever wrote? Have you ever stayed up for five damning hours in the deafening silence of darkness, in your room, nothing but yourself to have company? Only to write a poem, a story, a prose to your liking? Or maybe to someone you care for? You don't know the stress, the incessant importuned impaling of your insides clamoring for instant satisfaction because of something you're having a hard time finding ONE SIMPLE WORD FOR. What mutiny to the repercussions of humanity. Those lines are there for what reality could not uphold, for it is limited, falling short by the crescendo, leaving a bitter, longing taste at the back of your throat. Which is why you choose the unbridled pulsing of writing it, to have your audience traverse yonder, without reins, to places and feelings not even the world could permit, let alone imagine.

I'm not here to change your opinion, only to balance it. The streaks of black on white fields you see now are at a losing race, though it is not too late to have a change of pace. The endeavor of actions have done their good will, there is no argument there. But to forget the written word... I can't even utter a metaphor to compare. And you will walk on life, never really having lived. That is much to be said, why waste the willful wonder of words for the woeful wistfuls of the world?

[surreptitiouslysatisfying]

A fisherman needs a bite once in a while,

if he's good the patient clouds will give him light

to the clear waters below, peering many times,

many fins and gills, the hook still sways to the tides.

A thug, a nudge, a quiver in the pond may be,

a thousand of those can appease, but not for long.

Do fishermen love to die at the very sea,

where they could not catch a single salty bone?

[surreptitiouslysatisfying]

Ode To The Muses.

The Muses traverse in silent delight,

rushing the halls in echoed symphonies.

Halls with liquid walls, pillars of the unfamiliar.

Remember, the curator listens only to good stories.

Gods clamor, toasting sweet ambrosia for the harbingers,

golden harps and strings knitted from lingering souls,

the orchids of Eden bloom—a jealous Demeter,

many a dead man died without one last song.

Heed the choir more than once, but you can't play them once more.

When the singers begin, oh how Olympus go still,

the deaf hears the moans, bore from the breeze as he grazed the skulls

of the blackened shores, steps away from Hades' door.

[surreptitiouslysatisfying]

Sand Still.

I sat by the shore.

When I missed how the sun sets, I remembered your lips' curve and pungent red,

I almost dozed and let off a snore.

held aloft a cloud of cheeks, soft to touch and waiting to be kissed,

I forgot what I was before.

As I swerved my hand through the blue sea, your waist around my hands—that is what I see,

But I knew who I was for.

cared less how the sun sets, I missed you instead.

I came back loving you even more.

[surreptitiouslysatisfying]

Filipino tv shows often have cliche and predictable plots too.

I couldn't agree with you more.

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Ambivalence.

She hits me with words I can't converse,

she plunges me in kisses I can't verse,

she kindles me in blazing pits of curses,

she stares at me when in her fiercest.

She makes me want to die and cry,

in that order, for a soul knows, in time.

She makes me search for rye and sigh,

beyond borders, wolves howl of lies.

She makes me want to steal hearts, have them gutted and killed,

I sat beside her, and stood did I, ever so still,

hers beat to another level, another rhythm of chills,

in the end, all she does is make me feel.

[surreptitiouslysatisfying]

By and By.

By and by,

the ebbing shores will draw night,

by and by,

eyes will grow fond of lucid light,

by and by,

you will behold wonders beyond worlds imagined,

by and by,

demons will rid a place as placid,

by and by,

despair will be your wuthering and withering companion,

by and by,

it must leave you, eons upon eons on your own,

by and by,

your soul will then heed for light as pure as white,

by and by,

the ebbing shores will again draw night,

by and by,

you will deem it be for it is due,

by and by,

you will know it was only just for you.

[surreptitiouslysatisfying]

Dreams and Broken Spleens.

Life is a train of pain while it rains

on baneful lanes veering for the insane.

The days wane, peering on ruined remains

of wailing people—left with shame.

Teetering between what seems

of dreams and their broken spleens.

Hope tethers with self-propped jitters,

love serves routined bothers in a wrapper,

trust hovers on lying—shadowing a cover,

and so, everything that shatters, matters.

[surreptitiouslysatisfying]

Orchid Below The Lake.

I must try, with an arsenal of wit and word I have acquired, at this short a time, to describe what I have seen with my own eyes. It's too beautiful to let the days forget it, by and by, hopefully, not before I. It was in a frosty November, by the counter with the bartender. The time I could not remember, but I was sure it was hours before December. Gin and tonic was the drink at the moment, my soul was parched but my mind took it as deterrent. And not before long, I made my ascent. First on my frail sanity, then upstairs I went. It creaked and croaked, those wooden steps, but no memory can be as whole, to what I seen next. The curtains were abloom, the wind made it so, the moon was a stricken blue, and oh how it shone. There I saw it, the two crescents that took my stare, it blinked to a beat, followed with a lashing whip at the end. It was her eyes, the glisten and glow of the evening grew bland, I uttered not a word nor a jolt, I hardly stood where I stand. My breathing denied me, I had to feel my inhales and force them out, but her face did not leave me, her swooning grasp dropped all doubt. And I thought this magical night was losing its dust, she smiled at me, those lips that put to shame the sitting dusk. In crisp crimson red, in perfect imperfection it was a bit agape, I could see darkness akin to the dead, I craved to die and soon be laid. Every part of her was in my mercy to discern, though my sight betrayed me, it was too late before I learnt. The very moon that she outstaged, right then and there, floated to her side as if a string had them entwined, a happening of no compare. She stretched her arm and opened her palm, like an orchid below the lake, she was gone before a breathless second could be made. I traipsed down the mahogany wood, to ask who I saw was, they said I was in a dream, this made me blue but this would always be true "She most certainly was."

[surreptitiouslysatisfying]

The Unusual.

Love how the dying leaves rustle in darkness' delight,

howling their wimping existence through the subtle light

of the lone moon, entwined with stars above farther than it can ever reach,

losing its identity in the invisible threads, not knowing which from which.

Love the flames ensconcing the trees, burying the thieves,

along with the men, from whom they took everything

but the faces they donned, the lives they fought,

they wail low and deep, withering, souls taut.

Love the poisoned houses, clad with crevices and promises,

broken hapless, denied by happiness,

flickering light bulbs swinging in the basement,

hope in lament, much more for what it's meant.

Love the unrequited, the real, though it goes forever

in one direction, no attention, only misconception. Sever

the ties you wish to be true, lest it all form for you,

learn fast, such things do not fall for its due.

Love the unusual, the misshapen shadows,

the glazed bitterness underneath, the unseen nervous toes.

Love how all presents itself in holy wreaths, as we go,

when you close your eyes, they're sure to bow and show.

[surreptitiouslysatisfying]

Star Girl.

Does the Earth wait for its favorite star

shooting its way through the void of space?

If so, can you fill the void in my soul

and have me kiss that beautiful face?

Eyes envied by gods held by clouds.

Lips struck with magic, cradled by a mouth

such as yours, oh how my pupils dilate in delay

when you're about to speak and face my way.

I go wincing and cursing the unreality of fate,

since it is a great torture for me take

a sight of you, then have me do nothing,

to make me stare at a being, inexplicably pleasing.

At first, I thought stars are meant to be

up above and only at a distance to see,

but lucky enough are the mortals of this world,

someone had to be born—it was this girl.

[surreptitiouslysatisfying]

Why do we think right, when it's already this late at night?

Why do we think straight, when it's already too late?

Why do we have answers, long before we have the questions?

Why do we go an obvious path, when we should be going in the other direction?

Why do we keep on pondering, then hankering, to detach ourselves from this bind and disappear?

Well, about the last one, it's not that bad to hear.

[surreptitiouslysatisfying]

As We Were.

And we were walking.

Muffled hits of cement and leather,

enough distractions at a time,

in cadence of conversations, swiveling through a bother

of people's dull rhymes.

And we were talking.

No urge to think nor need be verbose,

if words have thorns, among poignant forms,

bloodied hands stretched out—

crimson, holding our rose.

And we were holding hands.

Thy grip was enough to not let go,

and save some spades of chance,

looser than the grasp—which I forgotten fast,

"I hate holding hands".

And we kissed.

And if lips could speak,

it would have stayed as it is,

silent and soft,

bounded silent but with your softer lips.

And we went home.

The night dropped heavy,

we only felt 'till now,

how reality's gruesome antiquity,

carefully put us down.

As we were.