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When he asked me for advice

I’m that friend who’s gonna tell you to chase the girl. I’m that friend who’s gonna tell you to hold on to her as much as you can. Trust me, it’s gonna be worth it. She’s gonna be worth all your patience and frustrations..

Trust me, exactly as much as I never trusted you.

Everything you’re doing right now is gonna win her over.And you’re gonna wake up to her smile and you’ll forget the beauty of the sunrise you saw with me. You’re gonna look back at your pain, and know that every hand hold after is a band aid to every harsh word she let out whenever she doubted you. Every hand hold is gonna feel like victory. And you’ll find your special hand hold. It’s gonna be different from ours. And I promise…it’s gonna be better.

Do not love.

I hope you look back and know that I did love you. I hope you look back and realize that I never meant to say goodbye to make you leave. Although I did make you leave. But not because I wanted you to. I just wanted you happy.

The irony, I know. But I can’t pretend to see how you mistake my morning frustrations with your lack of care. Baby, you always care. You never fail to recognize the frowns I try hard to hide. You never fail to ask what’s wrong, to which I respond “Nothing, I’m fine.” And I see your face when you hear me say that- I see the look of pain followed by a sigh that says “what did I do wrong this time”. Dear, you didn’t do anything wrong but to love me.

I should’ve come with a warning sign that said: depressed, lonely, anxious, a big pile of emotional mess…do not love.

We will never run out of love.

Here we are again, right? Rewriting the same old goodbyes, keeping up with the same old tiresome chore we call life.

Wake up with nothing but a tiny voice in your head that tells you ‘Don’t you just wanna stop.’ I chuckle. How brave are we? How brave it is that we can still silence that voice..

But we don’t ever stop. We keep living on and on and on, we rest for awhile. Step back, fall into vices- drink, smoke, drugs, kiss, cry, break, throw. But we love again.

Always, do we never run out of love for this world. Because that’s our beauty as humans- we love the travels, cliff diving away all the worries. We love new people, listening to stories of every culture because that is as close as we get to living a life beyond what we have. We love the rain, the sympathy, the silence. We love possibilities, shooting stars, a new season of Game of Thrones, a friendly hello that turns into something much more. We love the smell of a new book- of freshly written poetry, the cry of a baby, the world’s mysterious big foot. We love a cup of coffee, a fleeting sunset. A single second of chance.

We will never run out of love.

The usual mornings.

I remember writing this from random stories from random friends. And I remember their smiles, I remember the criticisms, I remember the anxiety and pain behind it all. The question was, what did I see in them…No, I didn’t see ‘sluts’ and ‘drunkards’. I saw broken. And I saw warriors.

When will the universe stop staring?

It has been one hell of a night. The stench of vomit and alcohol lingers on, street lights keep getting dimmer and dimmer. The night escapes away. I can see the sun now.

I am late.

I am light years away from looking presentable. Smudged eyeliner running down just above a slight bruise on my chin, a hickey, I think from God knows who.

I am on my way home, so early in the morning. I stride pass the busy students who have probably earned the bags under their eyes from the long night caressed under the weight of thousands worth of back-breaking books. I have had days when my muscles have given up from carrying these. I still carry them today.

I am late.

The morning just gets worse with drivers honking on, not giving a damn if they only miss me by the skin of my teeth. Has…

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The Drunk Poets Project

Drunk on life’s madness

Curing hangovers with poetry

The Drunk Poets Project is a collaboration between my high school friends and I, who just love to write. Were hoping to reach out and connect, but mostly tell our stories in our own creative command of poetry and fiction. And we’d love to have you as an audience

Jan. 1

And the timing was just perfect. As every firework blew up in the sky, pieces of her heart exploded rapidly against her scarred chest…wrapping this beating organ into nothingness.

And soon the night fell silent. Just like her mornings without him.