Purpose of Poetry

Poetry is putting a diaphanous veil over something unappealing, speaking regarding it just subdued enough to put into oblivion how abraded and festering and suppurate the wound is.

It’s a language of emphasizing inspiration, subjectivity – of Romanticism and painless augury, full of fanatical sentimentalism and compelling twists of the tongue.

Metaphors are hazardous travesty, using a sort of transfiguration to turn wordless sentiment into imaginable circumstances.

The way the anguish rios through yoyr body and flusters your every bones compelling you to envision misery as it pull you down to great depths and choking breaths.

The truth is, poetry is a deceiver, a fibber, an equivocator. Never fall for its exquisitely crafted stanzas causing slips into the dense fog of nostalgia.

Skeleton in the Closet

Let me tell you a secret.

It doesn’t matter how bad you think you are at something. There’s always going to be someone who loves what you create. In the same breath, it doesn’t matter how good you think you at something.

There’s always going to be someone who hates what you create. You don’t need to be everyone’s cup of tea. Everytime you pick up that pen or that brush or whatever it is, you’re improving. There’s no way for you to get worse.

So there’s no absolute point in quitting.

If you’re in it to please everyone.

You might be doing something wrong.

And I kept drinking …

“I kept drinking because it was the only time I felt alive. I kept drinking because I needed to stop thinking of jumping off the edge. I wanted to drown myself in something other than the melancholy feeling that surrounded me. I kept drinking to forget about the scars that covered my body, sometimes I think there’s more scar than skin. I kept drinking because sometimes I didn’t want to feel alive, I wanted numbness. I want to feel numb and blurry all over.”

#Excerpt

I.

typewriter-typing-i-promise-writing-inspiration-animated-gif

Somehow

I write to an audience that doesn’t reply (but I always keep receiving reviews which is really overwhelming). I don’t get much shares or reblogs. But I like the idea that people read them regardless.

It’s okay if you don’t post that button, but I hope my writings give impact to someone, whether good or bad, it’s good to know that someone out there was moved by my words.

I just want to make you feel the spectrum of emotions.

Wish

If I could wish upon a star

I’d wish to be taken somewhere far

Away from people who pretend to care

Away from people who want to love but don’t care

If I were to find a four leaf clover

I’d wish to start this life all over

Rewrite my mistakes of the past

Rewrite mistakes I learned to regret so fast

But all I have are broken mirrors

and innocent black cats

A mind full of antique memories and old acts

An empty space with no love to share

And people,

People who pretend to care

words

one is made of letters

properly sequenced,

in an order

to be able to deliver its meaning.

layered with tissue,

capable of breaking

and while a heart that can beat,

look alive

and still be empty

at the same time,

there are words that sprouted

from metaphors,

rhymes,

that are nothing less than

ironies.

beautiful

yet

meaningless.