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Hey Guys :3
7 min read
It's been a tough few weeks. I've been dealing with my mental issues and it's not been easy. Reactions from my loved ones and closest friends have been varied. It's all been overwhelming. But surely and slowly, I'm getting better.
You guys know I don't usually post journals or updates, so this is pretty kind of new-ish.
But there are better news. I have submitted 6 of my poems to Aleola Journal of Poetry and Art and am currently awaiting for their response. I may get rejected, but it was worth a try. To other poets or writers out there who would want to submit their work as well, here is the link: aleolajournal.weebly.com.
For those who are wondering, the poems I sent were:
rain, rain, don't go away"To belong to you for an erstwhile;
a million flashbacks for when
we forgot and remembered;
elisions on cut-away smiles
and first sight first loves
because just because.
Planets have always been
more stagnant than stars;
and better apt in phagocytosis.
Now our immensities could fly
from our teeth; desuetudes
on denouements.
But how're they half a penumbra?
Petrichor hello's not reaching home;
though rain is rising in earnest.
Further and farther
and found and more lost;
the frailty of downpours
is falling too raw.
But I- I stole the sugar on our plenilune;
mellifluous tacendas too dulcet
and too undone
on overly written palimpsests."
AcrophobiaThrowing stares on aquariums must be fun;
fins resemble birds well enough.
If you squint and walk on tiptoe,
air quotations could be more than wings.
Trust me.
You’d be lighter than steam.
And with seven continents as your runway,
you can forget about rockets;
the clouds would look like buildings.
Just invite me for a little sightseeing,
because the wrinkles grow on my adrenaline.
Let’s not look down.
There are no kite runners waiting for us.
This Side of the Moon is DisproportionateI left your scent
on the talons of
explosions;
I couldn't trust voices
for safekeeping.
Do I prolong you
with every hyphen
I choke; as if I were pulling
a cord and untying
ink blots?
She never really did bother
with the clean-up.
I counted one
two
three
bruises on your eyebrow,
has anyone ever told you
you could stop hitting yourself [now?]
The scabs of your travels
to midnight streetlamps
don't even come close to the
psithurism of your laughter.
You are extrasolar
please don't drown
as a meteor.
How many hesitations
am I
in the span of eight o
A Telescope for PolarisThe strands of my percussion strings
turn dull in the sight of
your subconscious bearings.
You are like the hail
who threatened to come;
an itch
I can’t quite place.
And I write letters
to the archers
and the mermaids-
hoping they’d bring me a swallow
to hunt the raven-like insect
whispering nevermore
in the recesses of my hair.
[So far they haven’t replied yet.]
Thus I’ve found
I could distract myself with pastimes
I’ve come to name as habits--
like drinking the tepid water
of other people’s drudgery,
while I ponder on what sorts of poems
you wrote
when she called herself yours.
It must have been quite nice,
while the coffee was newly brewed.
And I see how clouds
could pass for stars some nights;
why cicadas sing
and nightingales don’t.
I see your eyes
and how they see things differently,
how I want them to know
a little part of what they don’t.
And in staring in them
as if I could knit my universe
straw by straw, I’ve reali
Stars Wish on People TooDefine me when you take swigs
the number of your hair.
The unmoving frames
of your Sunday musings
whisper in caps lock;
they want to be forgotten-
they told me,
like I could save you from myself
somehow.
I’ve always wondered
what it would be like
to play the piano
with my feet on an acoustic run;
the shadow that isn’t friends
with the light like a body part
I’ve always known,
always had,
but never quite seen.
I sugarcoat myself
hanging by mere fiction,
a pendulum and a metronome
coming home.
What are we but allusions
to the people behind us,
ambivalence to the rivers
that never meet the ocean.
It’s frightening how
we’ve been lost for years
but no one’s come to find us.
Dusk it seems
is the lesser of two evils,
midnight is just too mysterious.
2.54 centimetersI admire the way small letters shout.
How a voice that’s both mine
and isn’t-
touches the skyline of every tear
of every crevice
of every line
where my bones and muscles kiss.
I’m an explosion of noises
that’s too much
all at once;
a collection of sundials
praying for the moon
with just a cupful of made up constellations
in her pocket.
The way my feet pirouette
to the sunflakes of summer
assuage the assonance of a sonder
of souls-
and the sillage of a million laugh lines
are more than enough to make me
tremble.
Had I known all the songs
we’ve carved with our clefs
on my fourteenth birthday;
I’d trade all my blown out candle wax
for my skin to be papyrus;
and my body -- poesy.
I want to look at his blend of colours,
The instructions for submission state that the work to be submitted must not be published anywhere prior. I took 'published' to mean on paper, which is why I still submitted my work. (Is that right, do you think? 030)
The reason for my sending my work to an official entity was something that came to mind randomly. Growing up in the Philippines, with a background for pretty much a normal family, I never thought of becoming a published writer. This was something my mom suggested, and I thought, why not? It also serves as something else to think about while I'm getting better with my personal issues.
Hope you're having a good day, thanks for reading this post, and stay awesome, you!
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I want to write. I want to write. I want to write.
School says no.
And I thought I was busy in high school.
School says no.
And I thought I was busy in high school.
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Here we go
1 min read
NAPOWRIMO day 1.
Let all hell break loose.
Let all hell break loose.
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Hear Me
1 min read
Do you like the voices in your head?
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