Tag Archives: memory

You just don’t


This is from the time I got broken-hearted. The situation was complicated. I was young.
I don’t remember how I finished and what I felt when I was writing this. Angry – obviously. But, I don’t remember exactly.
You don’t get to call me in the middle of the night,
you don’t get to ask me you need a friend;
oh that ended the day you let go of me.

You don’t get to love me,
and not love me at the same time.
You can’t have your cake and eat it, too.
You can’t have your cake and eat it, too.

I know I was pathetic,
I know I was weak,
Holding on to bonds that we shared,
Saving everything we had.

You don’t get to ask me if I’m alright.
No, I’m not alright.
You broke my heart, shattered it to pieces.
You chose to break my heart.

I see you when I close my eyes.
Much more when I open them.
You don’t get to haunt me in my dreams.
You don’t get to hold me in my sleep.

But it’s time for me to make a stand,
and start moving on.
I’m building my own dreams without you.
I guess you already did that a little ahead of me.

I see you everywhere.
try to purge you out of my system,
but I want to embrace your memory even more.

And yes, I’ve already forgiven you
but no, I will never forget.
I will never meet someone like you;
Cause I’ll meet someone better than you.
I deserve someone better.
I deserve someone better.
Am I right?
Am I right?

Too sad? Too bitter? Too.. what? Do tell me what you think about it.
I’ll be waiting.
Peace out!


Would it?


I wrote this when I was ‘past the point of no return’ and started noticing that I still liked the things he liked even after we broke up. I know some of my friends hate certain things simply because these remind them so much of their exes. I saw myself not hating these things at all, no matter how much I wanted to, if only to forget him.

Would it matter if I still love the things you made me love?

I still love the coffee down at the bakery where we used to share a cup. I still love the book you bought me at the thrift bookstore when I didn’t have enough money. I still love the film you made me watch because you said it was amazing. If I still love the things I associate with you, then does that make me still love you?

I found a place that serves better, and I mean way better, coffee than that bakeshop. I bought a book and have actually read it more than a couple of times. I watched a film that made me laugh, cry, and love my life even more when I got out of the cinema. But I still love the things you love, does that make me still love you?

Would it matter if I still love the things you made me love? Maybe. Maybe not.

I’m with good company, if ever you’re wondering. Nope? Oh, my bad.


Peace out!



I wrote this when I was cleaning my room and I found le ex’s hanky. dun dun dun dun….

Handkerchief. That handkerchief. That red tribal-printed handkerchief was all he left her; was all she kept. She threw everything away; those gifts, those letters, those poems, those promises, except for that handkerchief.

To tell you honestly, he didn’t give her the handkerchief. She stole it form him. Or maybe he knew she took it. He just didn’t bother getting it back from her.

That’s what he did. He stole her. He robbed her of her innocence and she gladly gave it away. Was it still stealing?

Memory. At some point, a stimulus will cross her path and activate those neurons in her brain to tap the black box of forbidden and ill-forgotten dreams. Like a movie reel, the past plays before her like an unstoppable force of reckoning.

That handkerchief. That red tribal-printed handkerchief. She is burning it.

Have I ever written anything not sad? I dunno. I suck at writing happy things. >_<

But what do you think?
Peace out!

I have a lake inside my mind


                I have a lake in my mind. It’s been in there for as long as I could remember.

                I go in there whenever I do mundane tasks like washing the dishes, cooking meals, riding a jeepney  around the city, taking a shower, or often when I’m dropping a deuce. (Sorry. Have to put it here because it’s true) I just wade along the shore line. There, I would see these words and sentences turn into paragraphs and stories. Lines and stanzas mingle with melodies and rhythms and turn into songs. I see my own fictional characters talk and argue and cry and laugh.

                I write down the stories, scripts, and songs immediately after these ‘visits’ lest I forget them if I take too long. I’ve already finished a couple of scripts and a few dozen songs and stories but they have yet to be performed in a much wider audience.

                Sometimes I go knee-deep into the lake. There, I would see the future. Or at least, the future I hope to have someday. I see road trips with my friends, the hot romantic kiss I’ve been to have atop the Eiffel Tower, my own apartment, a six-figure monthly salary, and a couple of cats to keep me company when I’m alone.

                I seldom let the water reach my chest. Its depth makes my breathing a bit labored. There, I see a little girl crying her heart out.

 She sees her Kuya beat the life out of her Sangko (third elder brother) with his own fists. Her Sangko cowers on the floor and blocks the punches with his scrawny arms. Her Sangko turns into her DIko (second elder brother) and draws a knife out of the kitchen sink. Her Ate talks him out of what he is about to do. He drops the knife. Her Ate picks it up. She turns into her Mama and now she is leaning the blade against her Papa’s neck. Her Mama says, “Walang hiya ka! Nakuha mo pang magloko at buhayin ang ibang pamilya samantalang sariling pamilya mo naghihirap?!” Her Papa just cries silently. She turns into an adolescent who falls in love with a slightly older boy. They promise each other forever. It lasts for four years, six months, and ten days. She mourns the death of her dear friend right on her 21st birthday.

I’ve been somewhere much deeper for just a blip of a second. I see nothing. My eyes, ears, hands, taste buds, and skin fail me. I am insubstantial. I become fully aware that my body is just an empty vessel. I am empty.

But somewhere in the recesses of my mind a voice calls out and says, “You are going in too deep. Come back.” I reach inside my pocket and see this small box. I open it and see the persons I love; my family and friends. Holidays with my family, trivia nights with the gang, milk tea sessions with friends, meeting deadlines with colleagues are all in the box.

The box makes me come back to reality.

Oh, Dear


My favorite playwright reminds me of you. You practically introduced him to me. My favorite play reminds me of you. We practically played out the same story.


I’ve written an alternate story out of it. It’s not some sort of literature where you’d get to unlock the private events of my life. It’s my way of overwriting your mark in his work of art. 


My muse inspired me to write this. Up until now, he probably doesn’t know he’s my inspiration. Or, he’s that good acting oblivious.


I’ve possessed my muse before. It was you. Look where we are.  I’ve learned my lesson. I cannot possess him.