If your soul is your soul, stop treating every other human you meet like a rest station for a worn-out spirit and exist in your own temple, because men are not hotels and women are not shelters and people are not caverns for your broken self.
Some of these writers do not consider
themselves “potential authors”. Several don’t even believe fully that they are
good enough. They know they’re good, but they don’t know exactly how much.
These people do not aim to publish novels. To them, their blog IS their novel.
These are the writers that share not just their words but their souls. Some
people say “just because you lineate your bullshit doesn’t make you a poet.”
True. Talk to me about my standards on poetry, I have a lot to say on it. But
those standards are reserved for published poets. My standard for Tumblr is
soul. And these pieces emanate and shine from the words I read. It doesn’t matter how well
these things are written, or how badly; the heartbreaking beauty of these
writers’ souls - their tragic glories, their glorious tragedies - glimmer from
the pieces they share. And without the shadow of an “offline work” to put
pressure on their processes, these writers are more raw, honest, experimental
and unique. Not pretentious, but passionate. Not haughty, but overflowing with
the sheer magic of words. If I’m following you, I’m doing so for the magic of
your soul that you’ve chosen to share with me, for the colors you thread in the quilt I’m also sewing, for the universe you inhale and the spectacular ink of
He looked at me with his eyes asking me why. I looked at him too. We stared a little too long until he broke the silence.
“You didn’t say goodbye.”
It was an arctic sentence, like I’m the hot sunny day of April and his words are the cold snowy day of February. I looked down and twitched my palms. I always do this whenever I feel nervous.
“Tell me why.”
I knew it wasn’t request the moment I hear it. To avoid the upcoming wave of argument, I answered him.
“Back then, I gave you my love which means I also gave you the power to break me and that is why I left. I know you were going to break my heart.”
A long pause reigned. I took the chance to look at him and when I did, he was already looking. I can’t describe what kind of emotions he’s feeling after hearing my answer. Then he laughed: bitterly and brutally. He shrugged his shoulders and laughed again. He stood up and walked away. But just before he can really leave, he whispered, “So you chose to break mine.”
s.a.,the choices we make and the consequences stitched on it
If you ever leave, turn the lights off, be quite and go without a whisper; make me think that you were never here. Do not leave fragments of yourself. Do not scatter yourself on my welcome mat, on my favorite cup, on my bed. Do not abandon your favorite sweater just to make me think that I could always grab it in the cabinet and feel warm and swamp myself in melancholy. Do not vacate your pictures and post it notes in the bathroom mirror just to remind me of the love we used to have. Do not kiss my eyes and beg them not to cry. Dissipate, let the thin air fill the space you just left. Leave no echo, no mark of your existence, no backward pity glance at what might have been if we tucked each other hard on each of our heart strings. Fuck the drawn out goodbye, the soulful composition, the apologies for the inevitable. If you ever leave, deliver it simple. Leave me the most precious memory I will ever have, make me happy then cease.
s.a., if you ever leave me, please make it happy
They asked me what it was in you that I fell in love with. What made you the earth my moon revolved around? And my neurotransmitter started working. How do I capture your beauty in a sentence? How do I explain the way you tilt your head when you laugh or the way you kiss when you’re sleepy to people who are too mundane to understand? How do I begin to define you? I could say that you are the sunshine seeping through my shut curtains after a night of a hurricane. I could say that you are the feeling of the airplane rising from the ground and that you are the beauty of watching the clouds dance with you as you flew. Being with you is that blissful moment when you jump off a swing for the first time, oblivious to the fact that you are falling.
You are tangled among the loose threads of my thoughts inevitably lingering in my dreams. You are first to appear on my mind when I wake up in the early, hazy hours of the morning and you never leave not even when I fall asleep much too late at night. Although sleeping without you next to me is considerably more difficult than sleeping with you silently wrapped around me your heart, beating with mine, your gentle breathing on the back of my neck sending warm shivers down my spine. You are the fragment between awake and asleep, that state where dreams begin. Your name is my heartbeat but it is also the onomatopoeia of a heart breaking beyond repair. You are the stars and you are the storm and you are the calm sea with all its secrets. You are the moment of hesitation, looking both ways before I cross the street. The reason why I fear death and oblivion. You are the speechlessness of a poet, the girl worth a thousand words but is incredibly indescribable. And I guess that is why I can’t define you. Because definitions are often a conclusion, only for things that are constant and unchanging. And you aren’t that. You are the moon’s unending phases. The sea’s wild waves and boundless horizon; the ever changing boy who remains perfect. I know that the words I’m saying now aren’t nearly enough to suppress my emotions but understand that I’ve spent hours contemplating over the right words but no combination of twenty six letters could ever capture even a fraction of this feeling that I have for you.
“Baby, can you take my shirt off? I want to show you something. Do whatever I say, okay? Ready?” she asked him without her voice shaking. It took guts for her to say it out loud.
“Uhm, okay,” he answered while taking her shirt off. He is a little confused of what she really meant but he trusts her, anyway.
“I have a scar tracing my right rib, about 4 inches long. Lick it,” she commanded and again, it took every courage she has stored in every vein she has. Obedient as ever, he licked her scar. His tongue felt hot against her body but she controlled herself. “Lick it once more,” she begged him. And again, he did. He was silent but his silence was comfortable.
He looked at her intently like he was asking ‘why did you make me lick your scar’? “Tell me, did it wear off?” she asked him wearing nothing but her inscrutable love for him. He shook his head. She held his hand captive and kissed it, “that is how much I love you,” she confessed. “You may have hurt me but my love for you doesn’t wear off. I once tried to obliterate it but no matter how hard I try to, it’s still there, I still love you. My heart still throbs for you and only you. Just like the scar, it can’t be erased; my feelings for you can’t be erased,” she said.
It was minutes of deafening silence when she noticed tears streaming down his face. He hugged her tight and told her endless I love you’s until the end of the night.
He was the type of the guy who always reminds you to love yourself. One day, he saw her on the bathroom; knees pulled to her chest, hands on her face wet from crying. He smiled wintry and told her, “Always know your worth, okay?” She replied, “Are you my worth?”
I used to think that yelling is the loudest sound a human
could ever do; that when my mother yelled at me because I accidentally broke
her favorite figurine, it’s what echoed inside my head constantly—enough to
know how to be careful with my actions. Years ago, when kids yelled at me of
how different I was, it kept reverberating in my veins—enough for me to know
that different is not accepted on the society. When you yelled at me because
you want me gone with the wind, the sound was so caught up by my ear buds they
failed to make me forget it.
Then I thought, yelling isn’t the loudest; screaming is.
When I heard myself screaming away the anxiety and depression out of my body
like they are visitors who came for discord. When I heard my cousin screaming her
lungs out as she fell her head from the monkey bars, I thought I can never get
the sound out of my head. When you left, my subconscious kept screaming over
and over and I knew, this was as loud as it could ever be.
But then I found out that yelling and screaming are not the
loudest sound I could ever hear; silence is. That when my mother didn’t yell,
scream or anything, I felt it the most. When kids didn’t speak to me because
they don’t like my oddity, I couldn’t help but hear it. When you stopped talking
to me, every minute of silence is stabbing the hell out of me.
I’m tired of being hushed. I’ve been trying to leave echoes
inside your head and I thought, maybe leaving is the best way to make it louder
We were lying on the middle of the football field, gazing at the stars for they are too beautiful to be missed by our eyes.
“Count the stars,” I told him.
“How can I? They are too many.”
“Just try,” I said smiling.
And so he did. He tried counting the stars and he asked me why did I asked him to.
“Multiply it by a thousand,” I took his hand and entwined it with mine. I feel like the space in his hand are mine to fit. “And you’ll get a fraction of how much I love you.”
Love, here I am once again, writing about your eyes and not
the constellations containing them. I tried counting but I soon got lost in the
reveries tethered in your irises. I am not here to write about how the sun
rises because you give it a reason to, because it still spills its fiery art
before darkness come so it doesn’t have to hear your fast, shallow breathing in
the damned dawn when you want to own me but you cannot because of this breadth
between us and it’s infuriating—I want to go home in your arms wide open while
kissing my temple and telling me that five letter word that expresses your love
for me. I am here, writing, to tell you about how you have words that cut me
like a diamond cut another diamond—hard and raw—and how my filthy ribs are held
together with a cheap thread and my spine glued together. I am here to say that
you make my heart race at a pace that my body cannot keep up with, no matter
how cliché it sounds. I am not here to tell you that the waves are kissing the
shore every time you crack a chuckle because that’s not what your chuckle is
like. No, if the rusting of iron made a sound, it would be your chuckle. This isn’t about poetry I’ve read about the moon and the sun and how tragically beautiful their chronicle was. This is about how some constellations find your existence so captivating that they begin to fall from the sky and that is what most people wish upon. This is about calloused heart and bruised lips muttering words formed into spring notebooks and bloody fingers tracing the smooth, unused paper. This composition is not about love. This is about you.
I am done writing
cliché compositions about love, done pouring my heart into an infinite buffet
of possibility. Buoyancy has never been my thing, therefore I can never really
pick the positives or any kind of authentic reality, only uncertainty and small
cracks in the foundation. I am proficient in holding to tiny, cheap threads
with the mindset that it will hold me strong. Too many times have I abruptly
tied my own noose using my over analyzed thoughts and greasy hands. My soul is
anxious to grab whoever arms shoots out towards me, justifying the
imperfections in their clutch with the only alternative being private. I used
to avoid solidarity because I am scared that isolation was only a trap to
individuals made undesirable. I now know that those are just stories, that
being alone does not crush your infinite chances at finding love. Love is a
word that I have never really defined right and I have spelled it out on
boundless occasions, without knowing that my definitions were unsound.
Romanticizing the blatant error in every episode, believing that love is just
about pain, engraving it into my mind. I have thrown myself towards blisters
expecting nothing less than escape only to find that every road has an ending.
I have learned that happiness through another cannot be created nor be defined
by metaphors or analogies; it can only be made genuine and sincere. Therefore,
I could say I am done writing compositions about love through creating stanzas
to people like throwing a ball to a varsity player. Words can kindle a sensation but it does not make an individual to really fall in love, with the aspects people should really look at. So, I am done writing
these until I find someone who is willing to write me a novel.
I know you don’t believe in the saying ‘love is blind’ but please, love, watch my back. There is no severe demise than the one brought upon myself from being too lost in the galaxies of your eyes. I was craving and quivering in your wake as though you’d locked me in an immense cage; how could I not get tingles as vast as the sea down my spine when the wind was blowing your rusty ribs like dilapidated swing set? I have spent most of the nights pondering if your heart could weather the storm. I spent even more time listening to the ticking of my rusty, tattered clock my grandma gave me until it slowly starts to sound a bit like you, and I bet no one has ever told you that my heartbeat speeds up like I’m driving 150 kilometers per hour in times when you tell me I am beautiful even though I am not. On some days, records will skip and deride me like you sometimes do. On this day, there will be storms, and they will be named after you.
s.a., the history of why storms are named after people
At first, I was scared to death that you are just like him— fleeting; someone who will temporarily patch the void I have been trying to conceal for a long time but then, maybe first impression lasts because now, you will just be a name carved in my heart— a scar, a history. That night, when you let me let go of you, I think I heard the church bells ringing. I think I heard the song we could’ve picked if we ever reach that state in our lives as a couple. I almost uttered the vows I have been trying to silence every time we go through hard times because that makes me want to envelope you in my arms, be strong for you and me and not let go of you. I almost envisage you in a tuxedo wearing that panty-dropping smile of yours and that look in your eyes that keeps my feet tethered to the ground. I almost felt the touch of a cold, gold ring in my annulus finger and it made me flinch. Tears started to run down my face and I can’t breathe. I pushed you away because you gave me reasons to, I pushed you away because I don’t deserve you, I pushed you away because I always think you would go back to me like a kid on a trampoline but baby, you surprised me. You never came back. But I waited. Thinking that was just spur of the moment kind of decision and until now, I am still waiting. If coming home ever cross your mind, my door and windows are closed but remember that you have the key and access through mine’s so I’ll be at the sofa, drinking a sweet caffeinated drink, waiting for you. Do not be afraid to come back. Swing the door open, embrace me with your cozy arms, kiss me and I will not hesitate.
He found her on her favorite swing set and he already knew something’s wrong. He saw her tracing the lines on her left wrist. “Hey, angel. Are you okay?” he cut off the silence. She looked directly at him and he saw nothing but melancholy. “Come on, you have to tell me what’s wrong,” he told her.
“I regret making my body an outlet of the pit out of every vein pulsing inside me. Look at my wrists,” and tears started falling on her beautiful face. “These scars won’t be fading. What if my future daughter sees these? She will just think that being is sad is okay and taking it out on herself is definitely fine because her mom also did it,” her breathing hard and deep. She’s hating herself more than ever and the vision of it tears him apart.
“Angel, you know you’re not the mistakes you did, right? Make her see that—those scars— that can make her realize you survived one of the hardest stages of your life,” he replied with a voice full of care and genuine hope. “What if she thinks I’m weak?” she asked. “That’s the truth you can’t escape. You have to let her know that being weak doesn’t mean giving up; being weak is actually about being strong because there you are— a living, breathing evidence of the world’s cruelty and unjustified judgments yet you survived. You’re not just existing, you’re surviving,” he replied as his hands softly stroke her back to make her feel at ease. She started sobbing harder and he embraced her tight; as if he was protecting her from everything that could hurt her.
“What would I do without you?”
“Don’t worry, you’re never going to find out.”
He asked me if I have a tattoo and I stared at his moonlit eyes, petrified to answer him that the only tattoo I have is most likely 5 inches long with his name on it stamped on my hollow muscular organ that pumps my blood.
was 10 years old when my parents registered me to a swimming class. At the
first meeting, we were taught how to breathe through our noses and let air
through our mouths to refrain being full of water. I listened attentively
because I don’t want to miss any step for I don’t want to found myself
drowning. Now, it makes me think that maybe I did miss an instruction because
why am I here, in the midst of your ocean, having my lungs collapse every two
minutes only to seek for you help? If I really learned how to swim, why am I asphyxiating?