If you listen to jazz, they're lovely as the lights, If you peek between the blinds, and witness a kiss, that is love, you tell yourself the world spins on the other side, here I am, you tell the world, but the world is quiet and still, it knows how you are, so this is sorrow, you tell no one and this is life, holding yourself close at night, listening to jazz, witnessing a kiss, and looking at sadness
I am looking great in my new clothes, My hair is a messy bun, My eyes are a deep shade of brown, The air is mildly cool and sweet, With the scent of rain and flowers, I am out; it's a lovely morning, Children stare, Old ladies smile, Lovers pass me by, I remember why I don't work too much, I remember why I don't play too hard, And for once, I don't fool around anymore, I don't say things I don't mean, That is why I'm mostly quiet, And people wonder why.
the night is just starting to get real they clutch at their heart and rock themselves to sleep they see the sparkle of the moon behind their eyes their thoughts are white flags waving on high in a storm their bodies are empty logs washed out by the shore outside is the empty street that leads to other places they are in another world in a different time no one asks about them, no one knows about them in the morning, they rise up and squint at the sun as if a stranger is asking them for a light except that they did not know what that meant what they are supposed to do with their hands mapuon na naman magbanggi, kapot-kapot ninda an saindang lawas, nagpipirit makaturog sa likod kan saindang mga mata iyo an laad kan bulan an saindang mga naiisip garu mga puting bandera sa tahaw nin bagyo an saindang mga hawak mga gapo sa gilid nin salog sa luwas, yaon an solo-solong tinampo yaon sinda duman sa iba man na kinaban sa iba man na panahon mayong naghahapot sainda, mayong nakakabisto
the moon is a red gash on the sky's face stars are the delicate moles in a vision near a kiss darkness leans into the grass, lowly beside the trees a forgotten root slips into the water close to the land as if dying for love or hope there's nothing else but a kiss beyond the lights the wild signal of time the sound of crickets and the blood in my ears
love, what it truly feels like by StephanieLeeMira, literature
Literature
love, what it truly feels like
when you love, you believe it is forever, at that single moment, everything resonates you do not resist faith nothing is as good as hope when you lose someone, you believe it is forever, it probably is, every reason to love fails because your heart is breaking you lose hope for a while and then, every day, little by little, you miss having faith, nothing is as good as hope, you reach for your old self, you ache for the things that were, so you try to love again this time, you know it is forever, the love you give stays even as you fade away all the love that were, they are for always and the lover knows it, even if they lose the beloved
I want to be free, but the silence keeps me, so the moment stays, and the quiet is all there is my heart aches for something, as deep and ancient and unnamed, so why do I fear at the last minute, all of the universe is for this world a thousand times, a hundred ways, I am back to where I was, making tiny motions of living, to add to some pent-up meaning I want to be free, yet there is nothing to be free from, I watch my life as if it were someone else's, but I remain the same I go back to the beginning, the air clears, the vision of the night is perfected by the moon, life is here to stay
the heart is a deep shade of blue by StephanieLeeMira, literature
Literature
the heart is a deep shade of blue
I. once young, I would look at myself, to see how far I have come, to see if I have changed, to answer what all of it means then my mind would fill with the moon, how it stretches the sky with light, that I feel hollow within its reach, my thoughts cling to shadow underneath II. the same sea has been crashing around for centuries, I clutch at my heart and inside is the same feeling, the boat is steered towards the sea, the same men keep sailing for the moon the waves crash around me, the night is faithful always, the questions remain the same, only I have erased the answers
bicycle, rusting in the rain by StephanieLeeMira, literature
Literature
bicycle, rusting in the rain
someday, when I am old, I will regret having lost at so many things only because I have lost so much of myself trying to win at things and then, I will tell you about them, and you will listen, then I will know that I am not alone, except that I will be alone, with the regret of losing you, after so many things but then, I find myself now, brave and young, alone, with all my regrets, of losing you, before so many things that someday, when I am old, I will regret, after having lost at so many things
amidst this life, the center that contains a glimpse of what is not chaos but not peace the moment that stares at the eye that holds the entire gaze is futile in its reckoning of time that slips becoming something else as soon as the change is realized in the becoming, life turns abrupt and it's not just those days before the years, to hang one's hope, to frame the meaning before the scope of what I can behold between the spaces of old judgment the predicament of life is that devoid of a heart it stays the same, first and last lines what is there to love even with the best of us what is there to see, even with all eyes open, and what is there to say, what is there to say? what is there to say...
she holds the unfurling of desire in her heart her mind carefully holds still in the flowering dark they are aware of one another, but keep silent as if the forthcoming of a thought the foreboding of a feeling would mean the end in sight of something meant to stay hidden and cannot be helped at the same time this, her upturned face towards the sky that signals rain in the loom but floods her insides with warmth the trampling and banishment of dirt and stone underneath the stratum enclosing itself from the trespassing streams of perfect imagery her naked form from beyond the copse of trees towards the ceiling, the banisters, unto the last columns of the light of day, and the rows of minute black lashes, from where flesh and blood transform to the sprays of indignant presence she longs to hold still in the trails of her mind