Dead Roses and Clandestine Poesies

“What breaks in daybreak? Is it the night? Is it the sun, cracked in two by the horizon like an egg, spilling out light? ❞ —M. Atwood ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𝐢. Peachy margins of pale orange brushed fondly against sun-kissed skin, breathing out purpling speckles and pleased notes to sign the high in the middle of unnoticeable lows. As the night deepened, frigid mitts came in contact with her fervid body, slipping in between the soft caress of the mattress, and the hard of her back, mapping a trail on the ridges of her spine and memorizing every dip and curve of her flesh. Velvety sounds mixed in the air, trapped but freed inside the four walls of his sanctuary—a masterpiece he would've never produced without her warmth as the orange tucked them in tight. they collided like meteoroids entering the earth's atmosphere as he memorized every star there is in this found cosmos, incandescent when they came down from the golden, beads of sweat a...

Sa hapag ng panggap, Ingat sa yapak. Upo nang mabuti Tiyak ang handa'y matatanggap.  Inom ng tubig lagok, Mahimasmasan ka sa kinalalagyan mo. Bakit astang 'sang alipin Kung ititikom ang bibig na alam ang totoo.  Inihain sa hapag Ang plato ng henyo! "Kain! Isang kutsara ng kasinungalingan-" Bakit hindi matutong makuntento?  Nakabibinging katahimikan Sa lamesang timbang ang iyong kakayanan. Sa putaheng hindi tanggap ng lalamunan, Bakit lulunukin kung hindi kaya ng kalamnan?  "Tigil! Maupo ka't kumain." "Hindi ako ang laman ng inyong inihahain!" "Taksil! Rekado na tatak ng purong tanggap, Hindi ka biguan pag-upo sa hapag."  Tubig na lason sa isip 'di patitinag, Hindi na ako uupong muli rito sa hapag. Kung ang plato'y puno ng tinik, Bakit ipapalit sa sariling kakayahan na hinog at hitik?  Lamesang pinalilibutan ng upuan na yari sa ginto't pilak, Uupo ka ba para masabing ika'y tanggap? O, luluwas sa daang gugutumin kang tun...

Dressed like a daydream but soon danced with nightmares, showered with angelic wings, tippy toes to heaven when all along I was Lucifer and was running in hell—the phenomena of the gaping abyss. I could vividly recognize the (un)painted fragments of our masterpiece, but was it? As the sun sets and the breeze makes me shudder, your figure never shadowed mine. You're never that perfect love I used to write on my ripped-off diary back in vintage times. If I could just shift my pen away from you, if I could twist back my words so that I could wake up with someone better.  //I know I could've but I didn't.  Make the heavens believe me that I was so gullible about the sugars my mother spat out, saying that perfect love comes and it shouldn't be found. How ironically, after getting dressed with thousand cuts—I still stood naive.  But the world evolves, and the shadows shift angles; glistening above over every corner—leaving no space unwanted. That's when I (just) saw you. ...

It was pain. It was sadness. It was those disruptive echoes that broke her.  The silence that deafened her roses to dry.  It was the blank paper that ate her.  She did not understand what her ink looked like.  It was still somehow a blank paper— nothing new, nothing piercing,  but it was slowly becoming fragrantly disgusting.  She tried to push it away,  keeping a faint smile on her face.  Trying her best to live the day  to bleed stories not meant for her ink anyways.  It was when she realized that the words have rotten,  even if it was never her intention to dry them.  It will never come back or maybe it could,  but until then, she laughed sadness where everyone listened but never understood. __________ mayari ascribed. mayari ascribed.

We have this bittersweet thing called 'love', or maybe not, but I believed so. I have overlooked the rough gazes and dirty statements as I turn the pages and settle it with words like 'small arguments'.  I never felt neglected, thrown away, or straight-up felt like I was dead (horrible), or maybe that was just the first waves of my emotions. so, I once again turned my head to what was real and started to write a love story full of surreality.  It was damn easy to (not) doubt you every time I was away. While I was nearly hugging thin air, wishing for your embrace. on the other hand you were wishing for something I couldn't give you always—pleasure. I doubted the fact that she was taking off her clothes in the bed you kept me warm while I—I stared as I saw you painting kisses on a canvas that was more expensive than I was. I knew, 'twas as if I was never your rose or maybe I was never even yours. Maybe to sate that it was just a long hello and a quick goodbye.  I ...

Carving them out—one, two. Perfectly round, beating too. I have what he's seen about you— The images to where not anyone's to view.  How you kept yourself tucked up in something blue. In a house where your abusers will be souls soon Where was I? Oh. Three, four, another five will do, As I get painted in something not about you.  She ruined my shirt, she ruined my suit! All fine as long as no one has to pay a lawsuit. He tried to stop me, to pull me apart, Trying to flatten the curves from my wrinkled heart. Oh love, it beats for you! Not for anyone but you.  To this, all I did was sing to you.  A head shall not meet back But it's the only thing that I could do. Spare someone? Oh, I know! It will be you. Why fear, why push me away? Isn't my confession reaching your way?  Why else could I have let my creativity seize through, If you are not what I'm all about too? __________ mayari ascribed. mayari ascribed.