I have always been honest

except for the times when I have to obscure

emotions into lines like these.

The amount of poems I have written

are also the number of times I lied

by fitting half truths into shells

of acceptable excuses.

We both know my words are dead

Bodies at the bottom of the lake

Without soul, without ships to anchor with.

They stare back at me, eyes without light

I couldn’t look away from them.

Tonight, I let the waters claim another victim.

Flushing blood from veins, disintegrating organs

Into solubles. I bathe into my own essence

Sweat and fragrance carried into ripples

Briefly glistening then disappearing

Preserving a memory.


To Oedipus, Future King

Oedipus and Sphinx by Gustave Moreau

Oedipus and Sphinx by Gustave Moreau

Everything is only an expression
of what we really want to say.
speak of digits that I could barely understand.
And I
respond in letters that barely mean anything.
When transposed, these conversations turn into
strings of equations
where a slight invariable
would mean an automatic 404.
We try our hardest not to tip the balance…
Or at least I do.
But does this change something? anything?
In the long run, the figures will run on its own
Like irrational numbers.
No process could stop them
From adding more and more complications at the end of its line.
But are you still there?
I don’t know whose equation is this, by the way.
I don’t know if you are just one of the many numbers that will pass my way,
Or if I am just an unknown variable that you might encounter
As you search for THE answer.
I don’t even know if this is the answer that you are looking for
Or if this confuddles your worksheet more.
I couldn’t speak in Math
the way your ancestors taught you to.
Hence, I couldn’t be objective. I couldn’t be systematic.
I couldn’t be rational.
I am only at my best- a riddle. A line from one of the many ambiguous poems
You’ve probably given up on.
A sphinx thrown into your way
Who would probably let you pass.

Andrea Gibson: A Letter to the Playground Bully, From Andrea, Age 8 1/2

I came over this poem while I was mulling over this. In case you’re wondering why I haven’t updated for such a long time, it is because I am busy being a student teacher (If you want to know the other side of my coin, you can check my other blog). Irony is, I’m supposed to teach Literature but since there are no intern openings for a litt-teacher-wannabe, I end up teaching language. It is kinda fun though the curriculum is bit dry of good ol’ poetry. I mean, the closest touchdown I had was a  run-down of sonnet structures. So it feels good to have my first love back, reading/listening stuffs from other poets. And obviously, Andrea Gibson is my current favorite.

I wasn’t too much appreciative when I first heard her- she has a style of talking too fast. But I guess, everything resolves itself at its right time. In case you also have a problem catching up, here’s a written copy of the piece.


The Morning After Pill



Waking at 12 in the morning, aching from a heart cavity.

Logging on to social platforms just to see that pulsing green button that does me more yellows than reds.

Decrypting the folder that I’ve once locked with strings of far-fetched passwords, cursing myself everytime I had it wrong.

Biting my tongue for every ultimatum, every finality that I’ve said. (Recurrence is a cruel bitch, I should have known better).

Letting everyone know how desperate I am- heaving years worth of sighs without any respite of exaggeration.

Realizing that aside from swallowing futility as a bitter medicine,  I’ve used a wrong preposition somewhere…