The Nine Year-Old Kid Inside

Close thy eyes.  Gray and moving in a slow pace. Bricks turned into ashes, flags once raised are now burning in flames, it wasn't defeat, was not a win. It wasn't fair, it wasn't the flipside of prejudice. It was bullets after bullets planted in the seas of blooms and augmenting ivy. It was an act of surrender, cross-relating back to peace.  Hang on tight, walk back home taking the path of ruins and the bridge coming undone.  Red was the fire, turned blue as the riddance of weapons was the last assortment to embrace. Saunterly strolled between the fog of blindness and the gloom of letting it free. Bodies after bodies I once battled with in forbidden battlefields, will it resurrect? Will it come for me? A frustrated phoenix looking through the burning woods envisaged a mockingjay. It was cold and they were dead. Fell completely out of armor as the steels clatter in puddles and muds of regret. In sickness, in risk, and in threats.  Flashbacks of war while b...

The chasmic cavern of my heart always knew that where I am now is not the place I belong in.  The moment I took one step outside of purity and manipulated ignorance, I always knew that someday, I will fly. Higher than the fall. Farther than the doubts. Stronger than the agony of hope and doom all at once. To live for the bliss of forget and release, tucked in the single sized bed I bought downtown, turning off the nightlamp I chose, the piggy bank paid blanket, whilst surrounded by the faint smell of roasted tea and almost burnt sourdough.. ain't that the pot of gold peaking at the edge of colors?  A thousand and a half days. Counting on my fingers. A tick-tock sound from afar. Terabithian bridges constituting themselves one brick at a time.  It's almost here.  Seconds after seconds.  Look at how near.  I took a deep breath and the spur of whirlwind familiarity kicked in. This might be it. This might be the endmost pre-august breeze kissing my f...

Do you feel like being haunted?  Are goosebumps covering your skin or are you around me?  In a slow pace, I fill the place with sporadic and odd soulless talk. You find me funny at times and a whirlwind of chaos at most, do you feel like you're being touched by a mundane ghost or am I caressing your arm? Longing for a magic fondle, the kind I haven't experience since residing in this haunted mansion of empty mugs and broken doors. Somewhere between those rooms, I sleep in a casket laid with regrets and incertitude.  There are handful of days where I wake up in sunshines and the moving picture of ether with unexpected aeroplane visitors flying over my head, the ghost becomes a little kid, smiling and waving farewell.  And there are days like this. Where the sky is gloom and rain on over, and instead of gigantic flying mechanical birds carrying hefty bags of daydreams, I wake up in my torn bed, the playlist of mid-June became splatters of heavy cloud teardr...

I had it all until everything fell down the rabbit hole.  I had the pats on the head and the applause worth every disturbed days. I lie at night tucked in by their validations and wake-up at dawn thinking how can I make it last. How can I retain his delight? How can I make her keep looking at me? How can I be the center of their envy and the object of their expectations?  I thought I had it all figured out until everything fell down the rabbit hole.  At the ripe age of nine, I established and fully-furnished the statue of my academic triumph, a thing most people do in the edge of their collegiate path. I was picking up bricks and painting the skies in colors they want to see, as a kid who's not even tall enough to reach her own shelves. I used the most resistant cement I could find to build their residence in warmth. To make them feel comfort. Relief. Solace in the thought of me, not walking astray.  I painted the greatest picture inside the auditorium un...

I grew up reading novels.  Romantic ones to be exact. There is something about the goody two-shoes and the worst guy in school unearthing love within each other. There's something about the neighborhood enemies who later on became one's waffles for dinner. There's something both magical and peculiarly ignorant about it.  Ignorance. A barricade I may had built-up too high to save me from the truth that I don't like reading romantic novels because I find them genuinely compelling. I like to read fairytale-like love stories to escape the fact that my parents' marriage isn't one. I grew up not knowing what it's like to be in love in a real life locus, all I had was my silly little books and the silly little dream that someday, I might find my own prince.  The perfect man, carefully crafted just like the ones in between the faded yellow pages and hard covers. The happy ending, the kissing in the rain, the throwing rocks at the window, the passenger se...