The Death Of Butterflies Is Hopeful.

The butterflies faded into blue on my skin. It’s been over a year now, and I’ve kept up the black marker butterfly trick as a habit. I can’t kill innocent butterflies.

The butterflies faded into blue. They’re nearly disappearing, and maybe that’s a good sign; it’s a possible sign of belated recovery. Recovery is good, belated or not.

The butterflies faded into blue. Maybe that’s how they lay eggs and bring on caterpillars. Funny how life is blue.

The butterflies faded into blue. It’s never too late to keep them immortal. But then again, some habits are simply meant to die out. Let them.

11/03/2015 – 13/03/2015

Challenge

Dip me in gasoline and set me ablaze, bet me on a game of Russian Roulette and make me lose, spray my eyes with toxic fertilizers, shoot my head with a gun barrel empty or full, kill me with your words and your violence, but I’ll only be announced “passed” on official records, not truly; my soul will always live on in the hearts of those with spirits indestructible as mine. I am recognized, and I say this not out of arrogance, but out of self-appreciation and respect. I will not allow the memory of me to die with my body; I will live on and on for decades and centuries to come, because I might be damaged, but damage is a critical element to make one unforgettable. I will be a memory people look up to someday, and I do not await your approval or permission any longer. I am a free spirit; I won’t allow myself imprisonment. I am free.

22/12/2014 – 11/03/2015

--Untitled--

Dew's the envelope of newly sprung leaves and the sky's a pathway to a heaven intertwined with fallacies and denial. It's a long ride with the warmth of the summer sun in the morning on one side, and the chill of the shivering winter late at night with a white luminous moon on the other side. It matters not the destination, but the beauties in which we please our sights with on this sempiternal road. There are daises and lilies rising below our tires, and through we step on them, the vines grow out to protect them and show them mercy. Beyond the windows the sky is light and dark, and we are in the midsection of the transition; we are the change, we are the hope, we are the future which lives inside our marrows, unplanned. The winds blow on either side on our faces as we drive on midst the fog, and we smile endlessly as we continue being enveloped in the many wonders this world offers us. We smile as we get closer to the end of the cracked yellow brick road. We smile as we make our way to being content, because somehow, even though we’re still on the road, we’ve already reached our destination. 

30/12/2014 – 11/03/2015

Adventurous To The Marrow Is The Mask Of Cowardice

Velvet drops of blood on the white carpeted floors, splattered like a painting gone horribly wrong and attempted to being demolished for a reason unknown to its ignorant audience. Velvet drops of blood on the white painted walls, blotted like a shrink’s twisted tests to figure out the state of mind of an absent minded patient. Velvet drops of blood on the white stoned roof dripping onto the scar wrapped around my neck and tucked into the collar of my snug navvy sweater. Velvet drops of blood giving color to the unturned stones of the setting, one I am unfamiliar with; a place with yanked chandeliers and broken wooden flooring, apparently of a 60 year old yew tree from glance of an eye of expertise. Velvet drops of blood on every inch go this indecent castle plated with forgotten fortunes of gold and memories. It’s a slaughterhouse, and that thought is affirmed as I walk further to find wallpapered hallways and checked floors guiding me through into several rooms, the first being of a child, a girl. Baby pink duvets and lace curtains make up the main design go the space. Aside from the faded pink, there are broken dolls, a broken mirror, carpets torn by claws of what seems to be a wolf’s; the blood is everywhere, dry and of revolting stench. Petrified, I considered the option of looking away and forgetting of the very existence of this house, but something pulled me into staying: a force I never understood to this day. The next room was of simple tapestry and a silk covered king size bed. The master bedroom. It smelled of dead rats and a week old’s rotten meal, aside from the smell of blood of course. This is a site of genocide, it seems, but how was this not reported before? I walk deeper into the room, approaching the balcony. The glass had layers of dust, which I wiped off with the hem of my sleeve. Beyond the barrier, I saw light, radiant and intense, and in that light was a family of transparent physiques, but they had no heads, only bloody chopped necks. They’re happy, the married couple embracing, the children playing “Hide and Seek” blindly, and the nanny caring for the infant crawling on the yellow grass. They’re happy, but how? My skin shivers. A mass suicide? But why? I shut the curtain and fumble to the stairs, almost tripped as I haste towards the exit doors. I push the double hinged doors, only to  find the horse lying hoarse lying corpse of a man in a well-fitted suit of black, butcher’s knife in hand, throat slit and still soaking wet. Fresh blood. This is recent. I cross over it and rush off to the pavement in my minivan. Lesson learnt. 

30/11/2014 – 10/03/2015

I wake up with clear eyes. No blurs at all.

Maybe I wake up every morning not remembering my dreams any longer simply because I have no dreams anymore. I used to dream of your love, but now, I'm just empty. There's nothing inside me anymore; no wanting, no craving, not an ounce of desire. Maybe my dreams are now nothings floating in my mind as I put my body to rest, while my mind needs no rest anymore; it feels nothing at all.

05/03/2015

maybe you're the brave lion heart, not me

May life never do us part,

And if it does,

May the Sun be your guide,

And the Moon be your hope,

And the stars be your smile,

And your heart be your pride,

Because it has been so strong

To have enough dash

To love me. 

05/03/2015

Lung Cancer

I'm blowing out turquoise ash and fuchsia cigarette smoke as I sit by the ocean and think of your aqueous eyes. You've become my main cause for the lung cancer that I constantly breathe in and out, and there's no stopping its infectious spread. My vital signs drop by the day, yet all I do is take puff following puff every moment I am given the chance. You will not be the death of me; you already are the death of me, but I don't mind it one bit. I don't mind it at all because I'm sure that with my death will stroll my dreams of shine and glamour; with my funeral will come my fame. I pull in the poison into my system, yet I feel no intoxication; I feel only freedom as it hastes alongside my nerves. You are my lung cancer, you are my distress, you are my death, but nonetheless, you remain to be my love under all circumstance. You are my lung cancer, but dying because of you is an honorable cause. You are my lung cancer, but when I was diagnosed, the physicians mentioned nothing of sooted muscle or black cells; they detected only colors of the light spectrum being reflected even under x-ray emissions. You are my lung cancer, but it seems that with you will not come death and an end; it seems with you comes life, even under a surgeon’s table, or even underneath soil. Perhaps I will grow out to be something beautiful. 

27/02/2015