The Ten-Second Love Story

(Inspired by someone’s story. ūüôā )

 

You might be wondering  what you can witness

in a short period of time.

Well, I have this sort of episode in my life

that makes me create a rhyme.

 

Inhale. Exhale. She’s there.

Just a meter away and she’s astounding.

I can hardly hear my heart beating..

She traps the air in my lungs, I no longer know how to breathe.

 

Breathe. I need to breathe.

But looking at those ebony eyes like depthless pools in moonlight,

I think I’ll be drown‚ÄĒ and that’s fine.

To be drown might be another reason to live.

 

Live. I want to live in this very moment,

Where I can see the freckles in your face,

Where I can smell your hair with no haste.

I come to this point where I want to pause the scenes and delete the cuts.

 

Cut. The most hated part of this story.

Now you’re getting closer as if you’re an inch to hold me, as if you’re about to embrace my totality.

Then you hold a pair of hands‚ÄĒof someone else’s hands..

Once again, I tap myself, comforting my own shoulder, hanging there to linger.

 

Your ten seconds might be sipping your blackest coffee,

watching your favorite TV commercial or laughing at your friend’s joke.

But here’s mine.

With my bare sight, I witness her walking towards me.

 

In ten seconds, I see a future, a possibility, a chance to taste a lifetime…

But a sudden slap hits me hard, real hard.

Well yeah, she might be just a dream,

an illusion, a polaris I can’t even reach.

 

Time’s up! It’s done.¬†

Another ten seconds has just gone by…

 

Blank Stare at the Window

I’m afraid to write sometimes

for I might ruin the thoughts —

not able to have the justice when

I scribble it with my pen and paper.

 

I’m afraid that my ink won’t bleed

as much as it wants to shed;

My paper might have some nonsensical words,

that won’t last on its surface.

 

I’ve written thousand of words,

might be countless just like the galaxy stars,

But it doesn’t validate what lies in my head if the words I have

counterfeit the purpose of these thoughts.

 

I’m not a poet who knows the magical words to represent his thoughts.

I don’t have a good rhyme that’s why I’m on free verse.

My lexicon isn’t that rich as my dictionary has,

but what I have are words pulled out from my old pages.

 

Those pages were stuck like scrolls from the ancient‚Äď

they were dark, torn, and ruined.

I write probably about things defined me before;

I’m still writing prolly because I’m still in search for what I really want to be.

 

I write by the experiences that made me who I am today.

Yet, I still don’t know where my words will bring me.

These words might just stay in somewhere else

Or can be dumped in nowhere at all.

 

Sometimes, the hardest thing in writing is when I want to write a lot

but my words do not fit the ‘masterpiece’.

Writer’s block you may say but it could be something more‚ÄĒ

something deep, something unknown.

 

Maybe it’s hard because I don’t want to write at all.

Maybe I lost all these long time before;

Logic, idea, feels, the urge to be more.

Or worst, there’s nothing left of me.

 

Maybe, I’m just writing this for nothing‚ÄĒ

waiting for the words to come, to devour me again.

I want to be consumed by their passion to be written,

Or maybe the words don’t like me anymore…

It’s your day

One day, I would meet you in an unexpected way. 

Perhaps clueless, in what would I say.. 

But I will dare to look intensely in your eyes

Where I may find some truth in the midst of lies. 
One day, I would hold your hands tightly, 

Like I am gripping on a rope desperately

To feel that I am not falling apart in a piece 

Well, atleast, I still have reasons not to cease. 
One day, I would kiss you with full lips.. 

Exchanging breaths, sharing the same bliss. 

I’ll touch your face and satisfy my sight

With you–near me, this feels so light. 
One day, I would embrace you with my full arms.. 

Then I’ll let my self touch your chest with my palms

Let me feel that heartbeat– your inner song

I’ve been yenning for that to happen so long. 
And one day,  i would let you feel my flaws and strengths

I’ll  let you see me through all my depths

I’ll let you hear the echoes of my yesterday

And I’ll let you to be my present, might be my future– I pray. 
This is all my deepest thoughts that I want to say…

To the man who’s reading this poem today…
Love, 

Your futuremate
 

Time Speaks

 

Time speaks pain

When endurance can no longer be felt.

Time speaks wrath

When ties are pulled by dark forces.

Time speaks death

When you’re at the verge of a breakdown

When you’re speaking yet gasping for air.

Time speaks emptiness

When spaces cannot be filled,

When vacuity shouldn’t be occupied.

Time speaks curses

When a single word explodes like a super nova,

When lies excruciate the deepest flesh,

Like razors so hungry to ravish.

Time speaks darkness

When light is nowhere to be seen,

When it hides like a mouse in a hole.

And time speaks itself,

Telling when to feel this, to say that, to hear these and to see those.

 

Yet,

Time speaks revolution

When you surrender at the battle with no weapons in hand.

Time speaks reconstruction when everything had vanished and be left with fragments and debris.

Time speaks revival

When you no longer memorize the breathing patterns

When you barely taste the saltiness of tears

When gripping to something is dying entirely

When pain feels like joy

When wrath diverts to celebration

When death coincides with life

When emptiness suddenly overflows

When curses utter promises

When lies unveil truth

And when darkness reveals the light.

 

Yes, time speaks time,

A time that cannot be restored

A time that cannot be saved

A time that cannot be created..

But time speaks time that can be spent,

A time that can be made by memories

A time that can be settled on its perfect place.

DEAR, MAVOURNEEN

Desperate I was to find the most
perfect words.
Earnestly, I roved the deepest corner of
my thoughts.
Again, words scribbled and they
collapsed– in an instance
‘Rude!’ I said. Forgive me for I cannot
write in just a glance.
Making some fourteen lines for you is
like finishing a puzzle,
All pieces should be put on their right
places and shouldn’t look
like a riddle.
Versifying someone like you is
like twitching my pen out
of the paper.
Odd, you may say, but a person like you
is more than a poem or a letter.
Understatements really fit for
something but not for you.
Rhymes and rhythms to orchestrate
you aren’t enough nor to fill you
a shade and hue.
No one and nothing can complete you,
yet I know Someone…
Eternal, infinite and endless, Who can
replace what is gone
Encompassing you is the Blood
that is full of life and love.
Never you are worthless, for He created
you with an absolute uniqueness.

Nightfall’s Stanza

   In the midst of this wearying eventide,

       a storm rages, galaxies clash,

        an inner pandemonium awakens.

                      However,

a lulling whisper touches this tiresome ear.

drifting this soul to a dreamless slumber.

      A curtain drawn before this chapter.

Welcome to the Trash bin

It was empty.

Those pages were empty.. as well.

I could write, but it was tight.

The chains were too tight to bear.

The coldness

was tearing every fiber in my core.

Impulses

could not control every snap.

I wonder

how many bitter tears should I shed?

I’ll wander

to the end of horizon, 

to the height of hills,

to the depth of seas,

to feel the only thing

I’ve been wanting for…

numbness.

The “Poet-Wanna-Be’s” Feedback for the Spoken Art

Here comes the so-called ‘gateway drug’

Nearing to be a forthcoming addiction.

It’s like a warm caffeine in my mug

Brewed into perfection.

I might forget my words,

so I have to tattoo them by my sword.

There, I’ve written my forever,

obviously, it’s not my page-ender.

Wanting to be a wordsmith

who can strengthen the power of words.

Crafting every thought with no filth

is I want to swear

so these smithereens could go somewhere.

Presenting the thought of a ‘wanna-be’

dreaming to a ‘to-be’.

Preparing you may say,

Hoping I portray. 

Being Not Her

She’s here in the corner,

staring at the lifeless skies,

counting every gloomy stars.

He’s there, somewhere,

setting benchmark in his passion,

stamping his name in everyone’s illusion.

She wants this and that, these and those.

He has this and that, these and those.

She has a dream, he is the reality.

Her eyes may hide it,

but her core’s shouting it.

His eyes can express,

his lips may cast spells.

She’s dreaming for a reality

he’s real but almost a dream.

Yeah, this is her..

shedding some ink in a paper for him.