Thursday, March 17, 2011

What's in a name?

So after watching "A Crazy Little Thing Called Love" for the second time, I wanted to write your name on the stars but it was cloudy so I settled on putting it on paper. I guess I've had too much TV.

I know you'd think it's silly, but I wrote my name besides yours. I smiled as I realized how much I knew your name and how good they looked together. Do you think we'd ever get that close? Like only a millimeter of space between us?

*sigh. I guess its time to use the good old method. It's time to FLAMES.

I can hear you chuckle. Hell yeah, laugh all you want.

"Roses are red, violets are blue, may crush ako at ikaw ang clue"

Tuesday, March 15, 2011

It Is All Untrue

I am
The russet leaves of fall
Incite the bitter frost of winter
Sing me a song
A vivid lullaby, similar to a swan's
Last song
Lingering in its essence
Unhidden, bare, but
No doubt daunting. A
Tribute to an animal's
Resurrection. Is death
Untrue? Or is it


Me: Secretly, I'm a bitch
Ashboy: I know, since then

. . . . .

Ashboy: Malandi!
me: Hindi ako malandi, lapitin lang talaga ako ng mga boys. Hahaha.
Ashboy: Hahaha. Ew.
-Oh Ashboy, you are so straight
. . . . .

Me: Patience is a virtue.
Maria: But time is gold, so why patient?

. . . . .

(Sir comes in class carrying a Tropicana can and a sandwich)
Me: Sir, makaya jud nimo sir nga nagkaon ka dira daun kami wala? (Sir, aren't you guilty that you're eating there and we're not?)
Sir: Eh di mugawas. (Fine, I'll go out then.)

. . . . .

Reporter: ...Raymund B. Cattell
Maria: Di ba cattle kay sheep? (Cattle is sheep, right?)

Thursday, March 3, 2011

1. The Beginnings

This is just a random list of beginnings, be it poetry, short story and even an attempt to write a novel.

. . . . .

Tonight I wrote your name on the stars.

. . . . .

Muse, where are you?
A scribe seeks you.

. . . . .

Behind the mask
is a dead face
withered flower
tattered old lace.

. . . . .

His hands,
thickened by the callouses of labor,
were the darkest of chocolate,
the same hands that he used to plow the field
and yield wheat and barley,
the same chocolate hands he used to hold his wife and children,
the same chocolate hands that killed Mrs. January Jones on November 1973.

. . . . .

Lions in a cup
Of vivid blues and reds
Vale knight, contoured top
Enjoy the bliss of

. . . . .

like the gentle pitter patter of rain,
rests profoundly on my cheeks.
Its pinkish blush,
a curious blossom, that embarrasses,
flutters my visceral butterflies
and trembles my knees.

. . . . .

The sun's rays seeped through the blinds of our window. Its light, a performance of dancing dust particles tickled my eyes. I woke up and once again, I felt the glory of the morning.

I reached for the pillow beside me and enveloped it.

. . . . .

Maybe someday, I'll put an end to all these beginnings. :)