Fork, spoon, bowl, plate, paper, glass, porcelain:
disseminate. This court is in session; let the trial be--
(Oh, the pain. Nevermind that. We will continue,)
--begin. What did you see the other night?
Behind the pristine counters and knobs,
behind stiff waitresses with braces twice removed.
I saw on the glass door, upon walking in,
a snooty badge of hypocrity--two lines
converged and attached at the hip.
(Oh, the pain. Nevermind that. We will continue,)
Who handled you in the ostensible shine,
fit for the obsessive; glistering metal, flawless glare.
Tell me now; my mind begs of pencils and pens;
my body? Of bananas and bread.

Dear Friend (zone),

A little over two years ago, I fell in love.

(At least I think that's what love feels like. I was seeing in color.)

A year and a half ago, I decided to let him go.

("We're better off as friends," I told myself.)

A year ago, I found a window of hope: he said hello (again).

(What a pleasant thing to experience: to see in color--again.)

Six months ago, I was in darkness: she said hello.

(He was seeing in color while I kept my eyes shut.

I didn't want to see.)

And now I'm (still) in the gray.

But through all this, my dear, you've been there for me.

Tom had 500 Days of Summer; I've had 822 days of spring.

(Yes, it's because I've been sprung for that long.)

Oh, friend (zone)... my very, very, best friend.

I know you'll be with me until the very end.

Thank you(?), my dear, for all of the above.

Written with love (and a bit of hatred),

A companion (and victim)

Conscience

Two pidgeons slurred in pinwheels,
churned their voices into bubbling chyme
against the inviting and fuzzy coat of morning's light;
they spieled on different reels,
spewed wars of illiterate songs,
rampant at the threat of the afternoon's deathly heat.
They dropped music notes onto the concrete,
which broke in halves, wholes, and quarters,
and debated the duet they thought to be innate.
And, crusted by the dawn, flapped on, and on, and on.

Gypsy

You've heralded me
"The Sojourner,"
doomed to transient fame.
Every situation calls for
miniscule feats--
tiny success stories that
I hold so dear
with such fleeting promise.

Call me
Wilted Tulip
or Decomposing Flesh;
something that was once
lavishly assumed and consumed;
decadently spoiled and cooed.

DNA strings weigh me down

DNA strings weigh me down:
An Anchor in the blue
abyss of nothingness,
except conniving grudges
that stack up (like sand sediments
crinkled over the ages).
Never again can I
wobble to the consent
of my indecisive curiosity.
There is no such thing as
a liberty to concede to;
only stillness (as instilled by Nature
and sojourn faith), that
dictates everything.
Oh Tyranny; I balk at the thought.
Yet my heart is charcoaled, and crispy.

Cravings

To all my "ladies" out there.
(Yeah, that's right! LADIES!)

Taken aback by your eminent beauty,
Your obvious curves and your luscious scent,
I linger at the foot of the door,
Waiting for you to walk out with someone else
Just to get a whiff of that fruity breeze
That you wear oh-so carelessly
(And practically naturally).

Stalker status much?
I don't care... Here's why:
"Damn, I think I love you,"
I whispered under my breath.

Inside, my heart melts,
My brain crumbles,
And my stomach churns.
Inside...
I wish that you were inside me...
Right here and now...
Lord, please hear my prayer...

The Almighty knows how broke I am
And I debate whether if I should make
My fantasy into reality.
I constantly fantasize about taking you out:
(Actually, more like taking you in)
How I would carefully try not to break you or your exterior,
As I peal the covers that protect you,
How I would gently move my trembling,
Overly-excited fingertips across your body to
Unwrap the masterpiece that I already see you as.
I drool over the thought of you
In your almost-rawest form,
Becoming mesmerized by the image
Of your imperfect (which makes you perfect) layers
And all your bare essentials which makes me crave
YOU all the more.

"Damn, I think I love you."
Again, I whisper under my breath.

To think of all the goodness and happiness
You would bring to me if you
Just let me hold you...
If you just let me have you
Completely
All to myself.

And then I get that one moment,
That opportunity that I've prayed for
Over and over again.
I get the chance to have you.
Hallelujah!
Salamat na man! (Oh, thank goodness!)

Now...
We can take it slow and savor the moments
And the flavor of the oozing juices that overflow
From your succulent exoticism,
Or we can do this fast, quick and simple.
I can start from the top and nibble my way to your bottom.
I know that you'll leave it up to me to decide.
But if I were to choose right now, I don't care.
All I'd like is to have the best of you
Before you melt under the heat of my touch.
Mmmm... I can't wait to taste you on my lips.

"Damn, I love you. I love you so much."
I finally say it out loud.
And suddenly all eyes were on me,
But I didn't care
Because I finally had you with me.
And as I looked at your bright complexion,
I realized I made the right choice
To stick with my decision to invest in you:
A strawberry-banana with vanilla ice cream
And Nutella chocolate spread,
Japanese crepe from Genki Living.

Shall we go out?? =)

Say it!

Youve cut my string
and lanyard
and now things are set
to roam about and freely
and free from your intricacies
and my delicacies
and free from your bemusement
my bad influence
tie me now
I guess somebody
so flying won't seem too fake
for new heights and zeniths
such that walls and gaps will be
sealed forever

& Ill tie the string &

My list of "You Are":

MY Prince-of-Peace, My Idealized Soldier clad in snowy-white brilliance:

You Are:

Dashing,
Smashing,
Exuberant.

You Are:

Ticklish,
Diabolical,
Phenomenally (cool).

You Are:

Enigmatic,
Bemusing,
Peculiarly eye-catching.

- - -

The narrator is a woman listing down all the expectations she has of her lover: she expects him to be a perfect "prince", denying any flaws he might have. She overlooks his faults by not including these imperfections on her "list of YOU ARE" and chooses to continue her relationship in ignorant bliss.

I can't take it slow

You,
of whom I felt loved to death.
Upon our first meeting,
You
embraced Me like a close friend,
when I was still unfamiliar to touch
and grossly deathly afraid of the
skintoskin.

Oh
You.
I loved that,
and I loved how I met
You
under no special circumstances.
When
I was I,
and Me was Me.

You,
of whom I was drawn.
But you discovered the secret of Me.
(MeplusMe)
It was no lie; I couldn't hide it.
My contents spilled and leaked,
and I was there limping
on the floor of the counselor's office,
drenched in foreboding lingering regret
etched onto a memo pad:

Your Sophomore Schedule,

and it was done.

You
and Me split.
(we split kindly; the way that lovers do NOT do.)

You
discovered my secret--
my name is anonymous;
unknown and devoured by Your sumptuous lips.
my heart spilled that day,
and it rained of purples, greens, and reds.
and personalities, and characteristics, and apparently
our forgotten memories.

Your
mind had been reset;
and
You
asked me years later,
about how we had met.

I am sorry that I told You.
And I am sorry that I really know now,
that all that we had in the past is perfectly null.
Because...
You
can't notice me.

- - - - -

This is not a love poem. (Hm, I hardly ever write love poems...) This is a friendship poem about someone I've known for a few years. This is also about the difficulty of finding my identity (in the most obvious of ways). And the capitalized "you" is NOT making a religious reference. I make a play on capitalization in this piece. Everything (grammar, spacing, punction) is important. At all times.

It's always about you, isn't it. You can't even remember...

Your Window

You walk around with your head held high,
Expecting to be adored, patronized, loved.
You walk into the room knowing that I'll look at you,
Because I've haphazardly fallen for you and your
Incessant, annoying and persistent late night phone calls,
Your jerk-ish attitude but calming laughter,
Your brutal honesty and your
Fresh-from-the-laundry scent.
Gosh--I hate you...
I hate the way the corners of your eyes form wrinkles,
And the way tears drop when you're breathlessly
Bursting in a booming laugh.
I hate the fact that I know how you think
But I don't know your thoughts;
I can predict your every move and
Logically explain your every excuse
For doing (or not doing) what you're supposed to do.
I hate the way I look at you from across the room,
To assure that you can still drive home,
And you catch me.
Then, with a bottle in one hand,
Leaning up against the wall,
You wink and smile and act like all is fine and well.
What I hate most is that I expect that from you,
That I can't pull away from your stares,
That I actually want you to see me--
Even if it's only as a friend.
Because those winks,
Those tears, and
Those wrinkles,
Are what opened me up to see and love
Your innocent, oblivious and vulnerable soul.

She wears the perfume

I labeled this poem to categorize the different works submitted in Scribbles. You're more than welcome to label your submission to help readers identify the type of work you've entered. Labels can also help clear any confusion, content-wise.


- - - - -



She wears the perfume,
and she wears it nicely.

It's hard to tell at first,
but there's definitely something

beneath initial wafts
and first impressions

of her.

I don't know how to describe it--
(let me gather myself, let me gather my thoughts).

She's an interesting person...
someone beyond her years.
I really see her differently,
and it's not just the scent that defines her.

Her courage to question a system
that she thought could be so flawless, and so
unshakably, unmistakably

Perfect.

She wears the perfume,
and she wears it well.


So well, in fact, that she's choking
on the illusions that the witches have brewed,

contained in a ... glass
ever so lucidly.

the drugs have synthesized with oxygen--
circulation running amuck in her cherry "snow white" heart.

And it pumps--beats--pumps--beats--,
all the way to her feet,
and her arms and her legs and her stomach.

Slowly, she's ingesting the surreal,
digesting the unreal,
and protesting the real
and learned.

She wears the perfume to cover all this. lost in
figures and places that used to be familiar, but
are really just trapped in foreign vortexes of her once
familiar mind.

And this is how she copes with it,
on the real,
dressing herself for false attention and
setting herself up for a dinner date with
disappointment and heartbreak and stomachaches.

And this is just her countenance,
her cathedral facade--perceived as high and mighty
and royal and INVOLVED.

The truth could not be so distant.

And she's crying, begging to me,
to ME,
to help her through this and to mend her
sprained ankles over missing these
FOUR IMPORTANT STAIR STEPS
to identify, and
to reach that achieved state of mind.

Minus the truth.