Wednesday, July 27, 2011

Hello Death



Stress dawned on me like a silent wolf
ready to pound, ready to howl.


Tuesday, July 26, 2011

I need to go ogle


I watched the pale sky took over that once upon a time sunny day. The purple clouds were like mushy marshmallows, good enough to eat, but too far to reach. I binged over a cup of coffee and a packet of 'patatas' -no, not potatoes, but the commercial types they sold in canteens that lie about having high nutritional content.

But I wan't babble about nutrition. I for one know that it won't kill me right now. Instead, I'll whine about chemistry and matter and its different properties and the fact that I will report in less than fifteen minutes without even knowing what those things are. Yes, failing to prepare is preparing to fail.

And i know I will fail.

. . . . .

I'd like to believe that Chemistry is science fiction.

. . . . .

The gush of wind blew the paper cup.

Thursday, July 21, 2011

King for a Day


It is daytime
but the darkness spreads
over the horizon.
The distant birds came
and flew in flurry,
panicked and prepared
for the storm
that's about to come.

He raised his hand
and the sunlight shattered
bathing, soaking
in tinted pigments,
the sky
the sea
and everything in between.

The gloomy clouds
made way for wonder
as the King of the Day
commanded yonder.

Saturday, July 16, 2011

Senelfa

I know this girl from a previous memory long forgotten. Her mousy hair was short then, a delicate bob with bangs that complemented her features. Her doe eyes were brown, I think, or was it the light? I can't clearly remember. All I know is that we were classmates in elementary. She's the typical flower on the wall, one of those girls you didn't care looking twice at.

Eight or so years later, I saw her on a store near our college. Much has changed since I last remembered seeing her. She's taller now. Her hair longer, but with the same bangs that stapled her in my memory. Her eyes were still the same color I couldn't recognize, but they're different. They were sad, insecure, defeated. Her hands were calloused from years of toil as a working student and a student helper. The little bruises and dents on her fingers all testify to how hard life had been on her.

We're classmates now-again, after those rudimentary years. Sometimes when I look at her, I can't help but pity. I wanted to tell her that everything she does is a stepping stone to her future. Every drip of sweat, every drip of blood, are sacrifices one must make to achieve success in life and that maybe she has greater sacrifices because she will have greater victories.

I wanted to tell her. I want to tell her. But I didn't.

. . . . .

She remembers me for she smiles when I look at her. I smile back with a silent prayer in my head. For her, for Senelfa.

Friday, July 15, 2011

Previous Dilemnas

I've always hated my course. Accountancy was always and still is too difficult for someone like me who thinks that the English language is far more romantic than the Mathematics (point justified through past observations and comparisons between both).

As evidence of this public loathing, I wrote these two separate blog entries from my past blog. Here they are:

. . . . . .
WHERE I AM IS NOT WHERE I WANT TO BE

Blank pages (in this case, blank screens) are blank canvases waiting to be painted by the master wordsmith. I can depict the stars, the moon, the universe with just the tip of that trusty old pen. I can create riches, food, emotions and things people envy. I can even make a world of my own!

Unfortunately, I have lost the Midas touch. I have been suffering from writer's block for two years now and i have been unable to create compositions that ponder the heart. I need to freshen up a bit. I miss the world i once belonged. I miss the feeling of contentment after i place the last period of my works. I miss the joy of spending endless nights just to come up with a fitting tittle. I miss writing in its entirety. I miss ME.

Oh Reimond. Where are you now?

. . . . .

REGRETS. CONTEMPLATION.

Autumn evenings my lovely screen. Today I realized that doing something without your heart is laborious. Of course I learned that in the 17 yrs of my life and I'm sure you have too, it's just that today, it seems more profound.

Studying accounting has it perks. And like all things, it has it's cons too. The first pro is the of pride you get when you hold those thick books. It immediately elevates your intelligence first-impression-wise. Secondly, you mingle with intelligent people and have intelligent friends. Third, you enjoy the privilege of being a part of the "cream of the crop", the most brainy among the courses offered in your school (in our school at least). Aside from those three, you also have the chance to become a Certified Public Accountant if the Fates favor you.

But when your heart is elsewhere, you never enjoy the goods. Everyday is a struggle. Everyday is regretful. Everyday is a contemplation of not following your dreams, of not being brave enough to stand on your own, or not defying peer pressure, of being afraid to fail.

Sometimes I wish I made the right choice. I look at my past now and there I was lost in the whirlpools of time.

I'm just happy that I'm over both of those phases. I've learned to love this course but that doesn't mean I'd give up on my dreams too.

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

The Lone Feather


Disclaimer: It is a mere natural occurrence for writers to be inspired by other people's works. This is not to say that the following paragraphs are unoriginal, but to simply state that this is an evolution, if not an alteration of someone's ideas.


Time is an Aves that flutters endlessly towards eternity. That bird of majesty congests the air with pastel nostalgia and reminiscing. Its haunting flight, a continuous motion of forwards, is a force man nor machine can repel. It therefore encompasses every being.

You, but a feather on its wings, plunges towards the abyss below. Understanding was never your virtue, so you decided without thought . You should have seen how much of a mirage of poise and confidence you are compared to the infinite wisdom of Time.

Tell me little feather, what lies ahead? Will the gentle blows of the zephyr reattach you to Time's limbs? or will it push you down, further into endless oblivion? Why did you fall little feather?

You continue to flutter without breaking a wind, swaying back and forth. And with one last blow, you fall, trampled, dusty and tattered at the bottom of a bird cage where the feces of Time drop.

Of course, your expression was placid. Nobody expects a feather to converse.

Monday, July 11, 2011

Don't Read

I am a mess.
School issues. Life issues. Bad Karma-I think,
I really really need a major confidence boost.

Thursday, July 7, 2011

The Shadow




Boredom is a shadow
stalking its prey,
awaiting to engulf
in monotonous slumber;
A devil in disguise
with sheer demise
to tempt or tamper
or do a dare.
Beware of the shadow
it brings doom
watch your backs
someone stalks.

Epic Fails




A collection of unpoetic poetry that I've scribbled these last few months. Forgive the horrid writing. It's a little different when you're uninspired.

Senseless phrases black and blue,
why are they all about you?
Crumpled pieces on the floor
watch me burn them at your door.

. . . . .

Faint moon, like a
hazy balloon
Blue night, I'm
afraid of flight.

. . . . .

I walk through life
like the air that moves around.
Invisible. Colorless.
A substance unknown.

. . . . .

I need an apple
for which my eye will bore through
My heart is full of love
without an object to give it to.

. . . . .

We're two loaves of bread
toasted together
smothered with butter
sprinkled with sugar
garnished with pickles
hugging sardines
or bacon, lettuce
and tomato,
eggs and bacon
or simply cheese.
whatever's in between
we're culinary heaven.

The last one would have to be the most extreme among badly written poetry. It's cheesy and disturbing at the same time. I mean, hello? Who would want to hug sardines?

Tsk. I'm not a poet, nor am I a great writer but I do hope that I channel my inner scribe better next time.


Sunday, July 3, 2011

Over Coffee and Cookies



Four hours before midnight, I sat glancing at the half empty cup in front of me. The black aroma permeating in the air would've warmed me, but it didn't. How distressing can a cup of coffee be on a cold July night?

I reached for the papyrus and began scribbling-hoping to find solace in the written art.

I have trust issues. My mother won't-

No. No. That's too direct.

How does a butterfly, let go of it's shell
when the fig twigs tangle its freedom?
How doth a flower bloom
when winter in it's bleak glory,
brings about it's doom?

Superficial, I reckon. But that is enough for tonight, at least. I stared once again at the cup and dipped a cookie. I watched it dissolve into mushy madness.



Friday, July 1, 2011

Forlorn



No longer
will I define feelings
for the depths of the oceans
are hard to anchor.
No longer
will I let water fall
the cascades of which
are difficult to wipe.
No longer will I glide
for flying is for happiness.