Why couldn't I forgive you, you ask?
Because you broke me.
Because along with every broken pieces of me
lies all my dreams and hopes.
Because now the happy memories hurt
and the truth became wretched lies.
Because the soul has already departed
and what is left is a trite and hallow shell.
Because you twisted meant-to-bes
into a nightmare of regrets.
Because you clipped my wings.
Because of haunted laughter.
Because of stained innocence.
Because of friendship burned.
Because of shattered worlds.
Because they sting.
Because I bleed.
Because I feel.
Because I am real.
Because the moon sing requiem for love.
Because these tears flow.
Because of lost hopes.
Because of sob-lulled nights.
Because of forgiveness forged.
Because of a marred reality.
Because of mediocre words.
Because of dash-less tombstones.
Because of soul-less songs.
Because of bleeding pens.
Because of muse-less poems.
Because of deception.
Because of lies fornicating with truths.
Because of stolen bliss.
Because of empty promises.
Because hate isn't apathy.
Because of time-stained letters.
Because after nakedness
and
stark baring my soul,
you still lost faith in me.
Why?
Because my Love,
forgetting is not forgiving.
(And I have almost quite forgotten you.)
after all the glory, wealth and fame
a time when no one would even remember your name
after today and tomorrow has long been gone
even past the time when light and warmth
can no longer be expected from the sun
when the waves would no longer rush back to the shore
when the moon will be gray and is silver no more
a time when a child's laughter will be scarce
and dreamers will no longer find comfort from the stars
when all dreams are forgotten and all memories are bleak
when every foundation of mankind has gone weak
when every lips have lost their prayer
when all falls to regret and contentment is barely there
when the word friend loses its meaning
when faith is impossible to restore
when beauty is superficial
when grace is no more
when hope is but a mere word used
when talking of long-forgotten dreams
when love is not commitment anymore
but just a spark in a seemingly mystical whim
when memories offer no comfort and the present is cold
when tomorrow is a frustrating dream that you cannot seem to hold
when the word is spinning old, so slowly faltering on her course
when the lightning loses its majesty
when thunder is but a whisper that's tired and hoarse
ask me again if I'm going to love you until when
don't be surprised if I'm going to say until after then
05/28/04
03:12a.m.
~djf
*Picture NOT mine.
She trace her fingers along the sheer delicate cloth that has been chosen exquisitely to embrace her sensuous body. Boxes of partially eaten chocolates are strewn about everywhere, discarded in graceless trivial mess. Flowers that's failed to impress her are crushed, some joining in beds of ashes the discarded invitations of petty men in their foolish trance of admiration.
She goes about painting the beautiful lie on her face with nonchalant charm that exudes both confidence and grace, arresting and deadly. She bats her thick eyelashes in a flirty flutter of sun-kissed fringe and cocks her head sideways, watching her reflection in the mirror. She flashes a cold reticent smile and contentment settles on her face. Her eyes, a ravishing film of loneliness and pride.
Every sway of hip can arrest the very committed of hearts and she does it in blatant arrogance. Her heels crush and pierce every dense and wayward heart that dares an ambition to stand before the presence of her ruthless charm. She bathes and relish in every kill, vainly quenching an embittered raging wreck.
She is the very epitome of desire and every ideals. The generous lips bleeding a promise of unbridled lust, hungry and consuming. A touch of her breath can send a fully composed man to frenzied appetite for carnal bliss.
She is ahead of every game and she treads on superficial nonsense people call dreams being thrown at her feet. What need has she for such mediocre things? She cares not for religious admiration and passionate abandon of declaration of
love for her. The other girls are no competition. She knows she rules and her subjects are as blind as they are severely foolish.
She doesn't need the allegiance of a thousand valiant knights nor the wooing tongues from veneering poets. Their praises all fall on deaf ears and their useless shining beauties are all rendered bleak and ashen. Not worthy of a moment's notice. Not deserving a fraction of a sigh.
The world is her parade and she is all alone. She win hearts and blind devotions but comes home to a choking barren house. Her bloody lipstick stains the hands that cradles the muddy over-flowing eyes. When the world is shut and she is left
alone in the confines of her stark reality, no dazzling dress can be too sensuous enough to cover the bruises of a dying heart.
Alone, she rids herself of every superficial facade and slips inside a shirt too big for her and crumbles down to a pool of pillows that still smell of him.
*picture NOT mine.
Of dreams recurring
and longings deterred,
a helpless quiet sigh escaped
fleeting and bare.
Could it be
a paradise void of bliss?
Can a sun weave ribbons of light
barren of warmth and life?
I wonder
is it deceit?
Reckless hunger,
hateful heedless lust;
how can a passion drive dreams
to crippled senseless satisfaction?
If perfection cannot be secured,
how do we tame
unbridled hopes?
Where do we find
an enough that is enough?
Where can we nurse
a burning desire that won't ever age?
If nothing is certain,
how will my heart learn to believe?
01:25pm
05/20/08
~djf
We are all in someways, dreamers.
None of us can deny that
we have been waiting for a love to keep us warm,
to wrap its fineness around our crude selves.
For what would we all be without it?
Pathetic creatures that we are
needing globus hopes to keep us afloat
the choking waters of reality.
We'd all be consumed by our vanities,
we'd all be always half-way there
if,
not for love itself.
