Stairwell endings

As trouble bids farewell
We’ll wish it didn’t go
And like endings on a stairwell
Fear is all we’ll know
We’ll never know tomorrow
We’ll never see it grin
We’ll dig this empty burrow
And fill them with bitter gin
But, it won’t end all gloomy
No, It won’t end sad
It’ll end how it’s suppose to be
Like forgetting what we had
We’ll forget about it too soon
Like winter in our pockets
We won’t be haunted by the moon
And her wretched sonnets

Sorry moon, for calling your sonnets wretched. I just need a bad excuse to tell myself this is legal. And your sonnets are not wretched, many great poets give ode to them by weaving scenic words to describe their radiance but they always fail. I guess words will never compare to the real thing. Just give me this juncture to say what I feel, thank you. But if what I’m doing is a fusion of stupidity and naivete then please send someone right away to reprimand me. My tito said that poetry speaks so much of what the soul wants to hide, maybe it’s the reason why I’ve been writing about them lately. Then again, I just might be bored (again).

Anyways, if there’s one thing I’m bad at it’s appreciating people. Ever since I was little, I was taught not to trust anyone and with that comes the thought that people will always be expecting something in return when they’re being nice to you. That’s why I always have “winter in my pockets” and “autumn in my heart”. I was taught that risk is dangerous, that things out of plan are meaningless expectations of the feign-hearted. Ironic isn’t it?

I’ve met tons of people who fail to say “thank you” or “I’m sorry” when they should. They’re a sober personification of fear. And at times I’m ashamed to be related to them but that’s just a hyperbole. I’ve never been reckless? or maybe I have been but I regretted it too much that I vowed never to do it again. It’s a tragic picture of a little girl trying to eat too much cake but she couldn’t because her relatives say she’ll have diabetes or something.

Oh yeah, I’m also good about forgetting people but I’m bad at forgetting what I felt for them. It’s like forgetting the name of the candy but not forgetting what they taste like. Maybe I shouldn’t have remembered it at all, the past always anchors itself to whatever junction just not be forgotten. I guess the past wants to be remembered because it desperately wants to be the present again. I don’t know, maybe it wants to crap up things again.

I’m also bad at being honest, but it doesn’t mean I’m not honest. It’s more of like, I’m not gonna tell you this but I think I want to. It’s a jam-packed cataclysm of maybes and what-ifs. Fun, isn’t it? As of this moment life is giving me a million reasons to give up everything good but then comes this little but dense book in my table (my bible) that gives me infinite reasons that everything, and by everything I mean everything, happens with great purpose.

I’ll rest my case on that.


Our candid maybes
Caused time a century
It tore out love’s laces
Only to find our hearts empty
When bliss gave us a chance
We coyly turned away
And like autumn and its dance
We vanished with dismay
We refute the thought of night
As we watch it pass us by
Slowly, a flickering light
Accompanying a dying lullaby
We won’t be lovers
We were never friends
Just a memory of an afternoon
That’s sweeter as it ends


So sweet the hour, so calm the time,
I feel it more than half a crime,
When Nature sleeps and stars are mute,
To mar the silence ev’n with lute.
At rest on ocean’s brilliant dyes
An image of Elysium lies:
Seven Pleiades entranced in Heaven,
Form in the deep another seven:
Endymion nodding from above
Sees in the sea a second love.
Within the valleys dim and brown,
And on the spectral mountain’s crown,
The wearied light is dying down,
And earth, and stars, and sea, and sky
Are redolent of sleep, as I
Am redolent of thee and thine
Enthralling love, my Adeline.
But list, O list,- so soft and low
Thy lover’s voice tonight shall flow,
That, scarce awake, thy soul shall deem
My words the music of a dream.
Thus, while no single sound too rude
Upon thy slumber shall intrude,
Our thoughts, our souls- O God above!
In every deed shall mingle, love.

By Edgar Allan Poe


I still have this bad habit of comparing you to with everyone else. Sorry.


To compare to is to point out or imply resemblances between objects regarded as essentially of a different order.

To compare with is mainly to point out differences between objects regarded as essentially of the same order.


“In our endeavors to recall to memory something long forgotten, we often find ourselves upon the very verge of remembrance, without being able, in the end, to remember” – Edgar Allan Poe

Edgar Allan Poe is one of my favorite writers. His macabre theme has capture the essence of unjust reality and sweet defeat. I held my breath when I first came across Evening Star. An unlikely depiction of love unfathomably explained by the stars, it gave me sleepless thoughts.

What is so good about pain? About a painful memory? Poe in many of his writings often associated pain with the loss of a love one, the absence of insanity of the betrayal of a friend, but is that really what he’s trying to do?

Far from a sober demeanor, Poe knew much about something I can never comprehend. His writing is far superior from mine. In fact a lot of people can write better than me. The thought doesn’t sadden me but the realization that I can do better is a wake up call.

I still don’t know my niche in writing. Where I excel the most, I like editorials but I must admit speaking your mind too much distances you from yourself. I enjoy writing features but my pen lies whenever it plays favorites. Don’t we all?

In our pursuit to write something we neglect the reason why we have to write in the first place. I love writing much as I love reading but there are times when my pen refuses to work. I have never underestimated the power of words but I have doubted their motives, their unrelenting lashes to silence the minority. Yes, we do write to express but in the process we say things that are detrimental to our own hearts.


“The distance between insanity and genius is measured only by success” – Bruce Feirstein

We try new things for the purpose of many alibis. Some to forget the past, others to have a break from the mundane qualities of life, a few for the reason of passion. What we do speaks so much of our ordeals and perceptions. However the exemption to the rule comes to the rule itself when the demand for action is but necessary to our acceptance of the principles we believe in.

History speaks of so many crazy people who changed the world because they wanted to or simply because they had the thirst for more than just life. People with the knack for insanity would always come in the picture and steal the spotlight away from homeless interventions.

Feirstein is right, but only in times when a person’s insanity is illogical. Success at times doesn’t cooperate with the Genius’ work and insanity though unsuccessful is more fortunate with the thought of trying. Since when will insanity be logical? when it’s done with the fervent belief of living.



I love people with stories. I love them more for sharing it and even at times giving me the privilege to tell them to others. Out of the mundane rhetoric of life, here we have “our once upon a times” and our “suddenly” that leave us breathless till the end.

Growing up, I had always been accustomed to stories and I still am now. Piles of books or on-line write-ups flood my sleepless nights as I ponder upon the mysteries of life and its facets. Stories make me think, they dig inside the abyss of my boredom and fill it up with life.

I always love talking to people who actually have something to talk about. A lot of friendships have been forged by stories and fortified with experience. It seems shallow to think that stories change us, but they do. Even those stories that are challenged by the lashes of reality and of the grit of pain enable us to go beyond what we hear or read. They have made us human, and with that thought we become supernatural.

I will never get tired of hearing stories. Spare my ears from nothing, happiness, dismay, triumph or tragedy, I want to hear them all. Echoing like stars bidding farewell to the canvass that is night, I give much ovation to those thoughts that leave me sleepless.

Everybody has a story. An experience that is worth listening. A memory sweet but painful, everyday is a story. Everybody is a story. If thoughts provoke us to think that nothing is worth remembering, then we make it memorable. I’ll do my best to listen to every story I hear. And this time, I promise to take notes.