19 October 2010

and this is how we know we are alive -- we post


It's been a while. I know. There are reasons. But before the year ends, I'll pick it up again, as usual. You know me.

In the meantime, an interim.



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Dip

Shatter the inkwell
Called my heart
And you get poems
Words strung together
As if they were meant
For each other, for a lifetime
Like how you envisioned us to be
Together, forever, that’s how it should be
Like the song said
But we know that songs lie
Big time.

Fill up the fountain pen
Called my sorrow
And you get stories
Events stitched together
As if they were meant
To stay sturdy, all the time
Like how you foretold of our future
Inseparable, that’s how we’ll always be
Like the singer crooned
But we know that singers
Are liars, too
Big time.

We are rock stars
A poet friend once said
We tap into the well
Of our grief
Turn them into tangibles
Something to hold on to
Since promises have no form
Since happiness has no shape
Since love has no volume
Since contentment has no weight
Nothing.

That’s what we do, we writers we
We try to make sense of our abstractions
After we have dealt with the blows
Withstood the fury of the defeat
Consumed by the wrath in our veins
Escape, retreat, recharge, whatever you call it
Burned by the sensations
Instead of hurling back invectives
We write it all down.

Write it all down.

Moments pass
Melancholy lingers
Regret hovers just above
Recognize, then ignore
Pack up the luggage once felt
Throw it to the river
Bury it on the ground
The wind will blow off
The scalding from where it burned
And soon enough
Pain is just another design
Decorating the armor of anticipation
Of whatever comes next
Whether it’s war
Whether it’s peace
It all looks the same
From the perspective of hurt
It doesn’t matter anymore
As long as you felt it.
You felt.
And you will feel again.
Anew.

This is how we know we are alive—
We feel.
This is how we know we are human—
We grieve.
And this is how we breathe—
We create.



19oct2010 Tuesday

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