of peculiar flowers/like sound of laughter/fluid in words you could spell/only after lettering down/libations on territories/virgin with mystic bites/of your footsteps/creating gardens/of hope beyond tales

Wednesday, February 23, 2011

Trying to catch my mind out of the margins of my fears

I found this “thing” not sure I want to call it a poem yet. I spent the whole night trying to remember what stage I was in my life, gosh my me memory stalls or maybe I just don’t want to tell you…;-) I will share this “thing” as I found it in my old and I must add favorite notebook. Be the judge or more beneficently be a seer and tell me what the hell I was feeling in my girlhood. It had no title so let’s call it “this thing”, no I think we should call it “Let’s call it this thing” what do you think? Yes!

Let’s call it this thing

Forgive me, remember me not for leaving but for the time I stayed.

I am eating my fear of loneliness so I can be with you when you are with me.

What I eat is not baked, it is lithe salty of my tears, that is the only reason why you are not invited.

Forgive me, remember me not for being certain of the length of your hair or did it grow longer?

I see my crony plant hedges and I know it grows like my shamelessness

Last night, I told the man I slept with that it is you I love.

Forgive me, forget me, I foretell how we would meet in poems again and again, sometimes at the mall, confused toward a hug or a handshake.

You know we kiss even when we stand apart we kiss, you know we kiss when the ocean laughs loud with the night on her bust I see you too.

Forgive me, forsake him, he is just our fear,

We always walked side by side even when we weren’t sure…

This “thing” is certainly deficient of attention and craft but even as raw as it stands it affects me… maybe someday I will spend some time with it, connect with that feeling that prompted my writing and then we will see what becomes of it. For all the things I am unsure of, I know this “things” makes me feel a little uneasy, I am afraid I might open up a few hidden sores if I try too hard to remember.

Today, fear would win any marathon because I don’t have the energy to cripple it speedily as it runs. Maybe tomorrow, I can and I will.

If life were a cup, a clock, iced block or a car with a new engine. Then we would have a clear index to measure when it’s full, half past the hour, melting, or cruising right. I am not making sense because again, I am coping from my note book. Nothing in my not book makes sense…:D


  1. Everything makes sense. You were in love? Nice to read some youngish lines. I love what I read and something would come out of it.

    What I know is that a novel from you would demand my fullest attention because it would be fresh. Besides, it would also be challenging.

  2. oh thanks Nana! was I? well. seer no.1 :-). Now, stop trying to set me up for a novel...:/ your compliments warms my heart. I thank you for your support and kindness always. medase medase.