Not A Fairytale

Princesses with long hairs and crowns on their heads,
wearing floor-touching nightgowns,
while being guarded in lavish mansions,
attending classic dance balls,
crossing paths with anticipated kings from certain kingdoms,
and ending up marrying one of them—
oh, the cliches of fairytales.

But if I was to believe in fairytales,
and the beauty in the stories;
if I was to avow my conviction toward the idea of a magic lamp
and the wishes it could fulfill;
I wouldn't ask to be a princess,
for I would rather be the evil queen.

The evil queen who hides under a black robe of insecurities, but seeks egoistical pleasures;
chases after an innocent heart, yet despises the power of true love;
building walls and destroying bridges as far as she could go—
because just like her,
if my happily ever after is never meant to deliver into my hands,
then nor should anyone else's be.

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The Ghost in Distance

Had I never pressed the playback button, I would never have to find myself crawling out of the pain caused by the absence of the figure I used to consume day and night—the pointy edges of your shoulders, the messy hair strands of yours, and the pair of lips that goes in accordance with the motion of your beautiful but piercing words.

Had I never laid a hand on the camera, I would never have to find myself digging through the memory scrapes of the pictures of you in my head—because although you were no longer the object of the photographs I take;

still, the fear of my eye capturing the constant shadow of your being keeps me looking back—for I miss the adrenaline rush of being in direct confrontation with what scares me the most, instead of just being haunted inside out but only from afar.

A treasured ghost to me, is what you are.

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Why Did You Ask?

Why did you ask me to explain everything in detail, when your mere presence already brings me into a state of loss for words?

Why did you ask me why I was acting weird, when your attentive stare is what makes me wonder how should I behave?

Why did you ask me if I was sleepy, when I would never want to close my eyes with you in my sight?

Why did you ask me to rest, when your shoulder is where I would lie my head onto?

Why did you ask me where I would go back to, when right by your side is the only place I feel at home?

Why did you ask me to sit next to you, when I would rather be in front of you to look right into your eyes and say all of these thoughts out loud?

Why did you ask me if there was anything you could do to help, when you're the reason for this helplessness I'm feeling—of not being able to control nor hinder myself from falling faster and deeper in love than I have ever been before?

Why did you ask me?

Why did you ask?

Why?

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It's A Who

They say only a fool would fall for you,
but I know I am not.

Because of all things—
every move you made I observed,
every step you took I followed,
every ally you had I approached,
every outfit you wore I remembered,
every place you hid in I discovered—
—with my entire ingenuity had I succeeded in performing all those,

but still I failed;
in bringing every piece of your heart into my world,
and escorting every piece of you into my arms.

If I was not a fool who fell for you, then what would that make me be?
A genius who deemed other worldly obstacles unchallenging, except for the idea of chasing after the impossible; what I knew was never meant for me and could never be in my possession?

Oh wait,
it's never a what.
It's a who.

It's you.

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The Theory of Gravity

Gravity is not responsible for people who are falling in love, they say.

If that is the case, then I should be floating in the air right now; not knowing how to stand on my feet and instead trying to grip onto something rigid that sticks to the unshakeable wall in order to find the balance between my physical body and the atmosphere—but in fact, the only thing that I wish to put into balance is nothing but my heart and my mind. 

If love is truly an exception where science does not work, then I do not know what kind of emotion this is; because as far as I am concerned, the force of gravity is pulling me down like never before. Each and every step I am about to take feels heavy with doubt and potential regret lingering in it—of whether I should listen to my heart to run after you, or stay hard-headed to keep my pair of feet planted in the ground while letting the sight of your back disappear as you walk away.

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Boundaries of Ego

If houses were created with no roofs, the beautifully patterned constellation of the stars in the dark night sky would be what our eyes would see before we close them and lay down to sleep.

If rooms were created with no walls, privacy would be no more than a hallucinatory fantasy that we would possibly risk higher stakes merely for the sake of detaining the deadly secrets we own to stay in ambush.

If lawns were created with no fences, warm talks in between shared afternoon tea time would be more common among neighbors instead of worrying about and envying how the grass might be greener on the other side.

If geometrical shapes were created with no borders, the art in abstractness would no longer be taken for granted but rather be understood as the sense of its familiarity would grow stronger.

If everything on this earth was created to be unified as one with no separating barriers;

if humans were created with no disputable distinctions of thoughts, values, beliefs, or any other different upbringing between one and another;

and if feelings were created to be felt with no restrictions;

you would be everything that my heart would've fallen for, my mind would've longed for, my hands would've held onto, my head would've leaned on, but not my life to sacrifice for—because I and my entire boundaries of ego would rather spend the rest of it together with you.

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Of An Ashtray

Because there is so much more of an ashtray than mere garbage for used cigarettes. The burden from holding another person's leftovers and the disgust from keeping all the dirt deep inside its soul, relates to me in one way or another. Always absorbing the dirtiest trashes of life with no one to cleanse the mess inside; is it like an ashtray how I am supposed to live?

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Blue

And if the color blue was created beautiful, then what makes being blue so sad?

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The Ocean

You are like the ocean

Your waves drag me deeper

Crashing me far into the middle

Where I begin to lose my grip

That I can no longer stand on my own feet

It is only when I start drowning

I realize that I'm tired of trying

To find a gap for me to breathe

In between your ebbs and flows

I swim against the current

Heading back to the shore

But I find myself

Stuck in your rip currents

Over and over again

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The Clearwater Well

You were drawing some clearwater from the well when you, by accident, scratched the formerly flawless palm of your hand to the craggy stone of its mouth, and you bled. You were so hurt that you dropped your bucket hard and spilled what you had collected earlier, leaving the bucket empty again, as it was in the first place. You fell to your knees with your tongue bitten by your own teeth, trying to control the pain you knew you couldn't contain. You, with a grimace on your face and tears dripping down your cheeks, looked so weak. You then froze, with your stare fixed at nothing but the air and your vocal cords voicing neither a scream nor a screech, though your eyes pleaded for help. You thought no one witnessed what calamity had struck you, but I did.

You pressed the other palm of your hand to your forehead, assuring yourself that what you came here for must be finished. You, all of a sudden, acted like you were as tough as a man made of steel. You, still in so much hurt, reckon yourself as unharmed as a surviving World War II soldier, perfectly armed. You got up on your own and walked back to where you were last, getting back to fighting for what you wanted to attain. You, now with a full bucket of fresh clearwater in the grip of your wounded but numb hand, stood straight on your feet, proud of how you rose from your downfall. You thought you were celebrating your victory by yourself, but you were not. You, in fact, were the one person I had always commemorated for, far inside the bushes I had been hiding in, only to be able to gaze at you, or to be precise, at the back of your shoulder. 

You, with an exuberant countenance I had never seen before, hopped alternately on one foot and the other, heading back home. 

You, with or without your triumph, had always been the one I would like to congratulate merely for being who you are, but never did, because I knew my utterance was despicable in contrast to what you were waiting for. You, roaming free, were the one whose steps I had always dreamed of walking by, but never did, because I knew yours would be used to run to what you had aimed high, far beyond what mine could go after. You, your head, and your heavy thinker mind were the ones I had always wanted to lend my shoulder for, but never did, because I knew you would not need mine to lean on. You were the one I had always been willing to share my final spare stock of drinkable water with, but never did, because I knew it would not be sufficient for your daily dose of need.

You, clearly, are destined to belong to that perilous but worthy clearwater well; that is not of mine.

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Drops: Blood or Water?

Drops of water for those in drought
And drops of blood of those who fought
Both powerful to put one into thought
Of doing a thing one was never taught

To throw away what one has brought
To finish a sentence, not with a dot
To let what is still alive rot
And to never worry about getting caught

Harsh is the world, yet do not be gnawed
Tempting it is to willfully miss a blindspot
But may we always give ourselves another shot

For a mendable pit in the heart does not make us a fraud

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A Love That Forbids

Either this is freedom or trust
This isn't something on my list of must
It's something as irritating as rust
And as unwanted as dust

I'd rather live under the power of rules
And to be limited only to my to-dos
Because as much as it turns my rainbows to blues
It still brings me closer to the clues

The clues of what it feels like to carry
An emotion so magical like a fairy
Which The Son received through Mother Mary
An overflowing love that forbids when necessary

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