37 writings

37 writings have passed between me, my laptop, and my best of friends.

4 years of writing and I have been sending them to new people each year, or even less.

And that’s how it goes, the change of the weather from the warmest august to the craziest monsoon, a dream.

A dream I had of being a poet since the first time I heard that divine melody in 2013.

From the beginning of my consciousness and I knew that art could give souls a purpose.

And the art living within the wrinkles of the constellation that brewed my body on a cold night in December hasn’t failed me once.

The beauty of the obscene or the craziness of the unseen.

I lived through them, cherishing each one of them and adding them to where my identity is, and the name of my birth country lies.

37 writings and I still can’t be fully understood but how foolish of me to assume that it could be done?

I won’t matter anyways as long as I have my fairy tale’s song:

“The dying days of the unjust has risen to a fall and I won like every time by the grace of God.”

No more insecurities and much more to come.

No more worries and the worst are yet to come.

No more resilience, what was said was said and what was done is done.

Thought I began my journey with nothing in my cup, I was mistaken.

Just as people misunderstood my music, I misunderstood life’s muse.

the muse of a lilac flower in the craziest of them all monsoons.

The lily of my valley is a Babong flower both calming, reassuring and yet evil and cruel.

But you just have to embrace it.

And never get the cave man inside makes you look like a fool.

37 writings while my colleagues doubted my work I sat and crafted my name, a persona.

The child of a loving sun, the warrior of a beloved tale.

I was them and also those who betrayed all the books and burned the libraries till the death of their verses.

My sun is in Sagittarius and so is my Venus.

Both tired of holding all these dried monstrosities of men.

The result of lithopedia.

My cup was never empty with my loving mother.

With my family triad holding my back.

Sucking in every rage episode just to pour me up with love, I’m the cup.

And the liquid.

And everything that’s beautiful yet wicked.

I am the result of life and death fighting in a dance of a demonic stance.

Mistaken to be as fair as the beauty of a cruel forbidden romance.

Between the days and the night and everything in between and whatever is hidden and unseen.

Between what could never meet, a moon and a sun, and me and being done.

I am like fire and just like wind free floating, a feline with a body of fluids.

Never squeezed where my whiskers told me to flee.

Never reached for something that never belonged to me.

And will never hold on to someone, period that’s the end of my phrase.

37 writings and I will never hold on to those who sold me away.

37 writings to forgive and forget and to never witness any dread.

Again, in the life of my pearly heaven’s den.

37 writings and I still pretend.

That the arrows would leave Sebastian alone and that he could live.

And that my pastor lied when he told me that I have no friends.

37 writings and they will never end.

And here I am writing my 38^th, my mainsail following my wind.