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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.

Poison in my skin

She’s so pretty it scares the crap out of me. She speaks so fine as if every word that jumps from her tongue took a dip in an oasis of poetry before it could reach our threshold of hearing. Her laugh, I try to mimic. But like art in a museum, she had her own tone and signature. And when she walks, her perfect locks bounce in rhythm, bringing commercial ads to life.

She’s so beautiful it scares me.

Because I know what he and I have is as fragile as a snowflake in hell. I know the minute I let the strings snap, he would run as fast as he can, put as much distance on his beating heart from my broken mess. I knew like a fleeting sunset he would go. I told him I was a rose with torns that could rupture his muscle with just a touch of the hand. But he stayed anyway.

You know, loyalty is just a word now. I always feared that when I close my eyes and dream, she would be the angel in his nightmares…wooing him with her gentle songs. I always feared that one day I would look into the mirror and only see every bit of my face that wasn’t her.

But she doesn’t even exist.

You know, insecurity is a poison. It sinks into your veins and makes it up to the brain, clouding our judgment, impairing our ability to delineate the difference between reality and mere speculation. Its like a drug, when taken in excess, results to paranoia. You flip through the pages of ‘what ifs’ and you try to argue for each statement..always building your guard up, even for the people who have proven their worth.

I know, sometimes it makes you feel alert. Insecurity is a defense mechanism but what we don’t realize is that insecurity is a spear with 2 sharp edges. You try to kill of anything that messes with your vision of Utopia, that you don’t realize, you’re stabbing yourself in the process. And by the time you’ve killed all the things you think are gonna mess with you, you’re gonna be drowning in a pool of blood. You would realize the murderer within you.

So maybe this girl im talking about, is just a monster in my head, in the shape of my own skin.

The Love of a Gentleman

Friend: Why’d you leave her?

Guy: Because I love her.

Friend: I dont understand.

Guy:  Because you’ve never been the guy who loved a girl so much you’re willing to give up everything for her including your sanity.

Every night between all the paperwork and thesis and exams, I worry if the new guy she loves remembers to call her and say good night.

I worry if the new guy forgets to walk her home and warms her with hugs and interrupts her with light kisses and showers her with honest words.

I just cant bear the thought of her alone in the rain with no one to run to… I dont even want her to be unhappy.

She deserves someone who brings her ice cream when she’s on her monthly period, someone who’ll get to see the different sides of her being but still love her at the end of the day..someoone who drives her to Mcdo for midnight snacks or carries her books and sings her a lullaby.

Friend: How do you know she wants all those things?

Guy: Because I used to be the guy who does those things for her.

Friend: So what happened?

Guy: Love ran out of fight. Love left us. Love left me.