Remembering is Killing

I kill you in my mind,
But I always tell myself that I shall not do what my heart only asks me to do when I am hurt.
Hurt people will always feel the need to hurt back.
Killing is the utmost dream.
Seems the only thing that would satisfy
And make up the pain that has been felt
Down to system--epidemic thing.
The only way to somehow ease the impossible scars
They say time heals,
But the brain remembers and it can be the most mean.

Comments

IHY

The hatred is piled up, enough to orchestrate a crime and to hide it in nightmarish metaphors. I have imagined you getting piercing through the fragility of the roof of your mouth, until you beg for forgiveness with your really untamed spirit. Perhaps, flaying would be much better, but crying will be reverberated through every corner of your long shattered room, as your annoyingly pleading voice will still be heard. An unforgivable, hell-bent serpentine, you always are, caressing the man’s ego extracting his exhaustion, and me against a fiend in your presence. Such a soft way to demonstrate hell to you— as it was not even a flinch, or a poke. You deserve heaven appearing reverse, so the gods you have known will forbid your salvation.

24?

"Twenty-four seems scary," I tell myself. Sometimes, I tell jokes, or mostly, it was conveniently told, like how a laugh returns and introduces itself as villainous friend, but an enemy is the positivity that takes. It is so much scarier when it visits me: a quicksand brought by faux geniuses, a peeking sock-made puppet, I am a whole drama— a ventriloquist of his own dreams. Delighted by my father's cake: "Happy birthday, son!" I still know how to stay still when everybody sings me one. My Mom gave me bills: Money is an angel. Indeed, for it lets me fly out of the reality— out of reality that everything is still made of infinite loops, as in manmade experiments, and how they can be destroyed by one gentle blow.

Lualhati

Lualhati sa ama, ilawan ang ina ng mga batang lumalaban sa lansangan. Lualhati sa mga anak na mula sa dekadang sumupil, sa kanilang bukang-liwayway ang naging sandigan. Babae ang dangal, lalaking iniluwal; lalaking hinugot sa tadyang, ang kaniyang hiningang pagál. Walang-saysay yaring libong dasal-pulang láso man o kalimbahing asal ng dekadang pinipigilan sa pag-usal. Sa bukang-liwayway ang kalayaan; Ang nakaambang pagdatal ng daluyong mula sa rumaragasang dugo at ang lapot nitong nakakubli sa mga páhina ng mga dustang aklat. Ang wikang tinta, tonong pagsamo't pakikibaka, ang aking taál. Lualhati sa mga ama, sa mga anak na hindi pa naluluwal; legasiyang sumibol, higit pa sa mga pilas ng mga akda. Lualhati sa espiritung sa kanya'y tatahak, at sa sansinukob niyang walang magtatangkang yuyúrak.

Papier-mâché

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