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.

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