I think of you and I think of you as a memory.
Something I can brushed off of my mind
when I’m all full of hurt.
The sky is festive tonight.
I guess just like me, it can’t wait
for the moon to turn blue. Blue.
Feelings have colors, I figured out at a young age.
This is why I can make an art out of it.
I can make an art out of you. See?
You are a poem now.
I will paint you tomorrow.
You will live forever.
I will sing you tonight, 
sing you tonight.
—  irishjulienne, an art out of you
Mas maganda na na-reject ka, kasi sinubukan mo. Kaysa naman hindi mo sinubukan ang 50-50 mong chance. Tandaan mo, ANG PAG-IBIG AY ISANG SUGAL. TATAYA KA MUNA BAGO KA MANALO.
Luhang nabalewala

minsan bigla na lang akong makakaisip
mga bagay na gaya ng tula
hindi man tugma
sa mga naunang kataga
ang alam ko ay hindi ito mahalaga

ang alam ko ay ang saloobin ang importante
walang itatago
walang huhusga
ako’y isang taong nasaktan
ngayo’y humahanap ng paraan

upang ako’y makawala
sa kulungang alam kong ikakamatay ko
isang silid na punong puno ng paghihinakit
bakit nga ba ako laging may bitbit

mga sugat na aking nadala
sa mga pinagdaraanan kong mga pagdurusa
nasan ang hustisya
laging ako na lang ba
ang nasasaktan kahit mukha ko ay masaya

tatapusin ko na ang tulang ito
dahil wala na rin akong maisip
sadyang ako ay nandurugo
mula ulo hanggang paa
ako ay ubos na ubos na

You showed me your palms and I only saw a graveyard. I feel like I could bury myself in those hands and nobody will come and dig me up. Nobody, even you will treat me like a weed worth uprooting. Sometimes I look at a person and I don’t see another life. Maybe just another place to hide, like an island or a cave under the sea. But earlier, you’re too busy preparing the eggs and luncheon meat for our mini breakfast session and I knew I could stare without making you feel a little conscious. I suddenly realized I wasn’t on an island. We are no cavemen. We’re young people who are unexpectedly adults now and our apartment may not be the best but it’s clean because you’re hella good at scrubbing and sweeping and soaking everything in soap. I love your cooking. I love your fascination about spices and how you told me we’ll travel the world just to gather those perfect spices that could make this egg extra special. You are my very own Magellan. I realized one more thing. That I was not hiding. Not at all. In fact, you’ve explored my body often enough to call it an ocean. You know the tides very well. Where the mermaids gather their pearls, where the tornadoes form and break. You know I’m home and I’ve reached the shoreline because you smell seawater. Everywhere. I bring sands and pebbles in the living room and you don’t mind cleaning up. You don’t mind because you know very well that there are days when I’m calm once again. Not a single roar. That I’ll take you again with me and you don’t have to unlearn drowning because you’ve memorized my depths. You know I am an ocean and I get angry too. I swallow the sunset sometimes and when I throw up, I burn you in the process. Yet you still paint me full of whites and blues, skies all clear and dreamy. I appreciate it. It’s not lying. You dive in my water and I’m so glad this is all just a metaphor because I can’t imagine not being able to touch you back. I can’t imagine this kind of love and not being solid.
—  irishjulienne, oceans and metaphors
Sometimes you tell someone to never call you again and then the phone rings and you hope it’s them– it’s the most twisted logic of all time.
—  John Mayer