the one who doesn’t cry

I don’t cry through
my eyes,
I cry through
what I write.

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The Tinker

“those who suffer know the struggle”

I am a broken tinker crying inside,
tending  to other people’s wounds
and letting mine open wide.
I cram my woes into  crowded mounds
then I sit on top of them, guilty and tired.

I feed upon the clamor of the sick,
and I thrive by making a living out of it.
My shoulders are for tears and for generous treats
my words are reserved for those in need.

I spend my days fixing people up real good in no time,
willing them to bellow their suppressed sighs.
And  though I might seem incontestable and bright,
good god, I’ve lost all my faith I once had inside.

Yet, I still dream about the day when everything turns around,
When somebody will hear the quiet sound of my shouts,
someone to do me the things I want be done for me
someone to whisper me what I used to say for people’s bliss.
And maybe it’s sad but it’s comforting to admit-
that I only stay alive just to wait for this to happen to me.

In the meantime, I walk as a tinker with a dying mind,
I feel as free as a man damned by his own kind.
When i say ‘it’s fine, you’ll get better you’ll see’
what I really want to say is that
I just pray you don’t end up like me.

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i fell in love with a man buried too deep…

“…and choking on the dirt of his own thoughts. I wanted to dig him out of there but then I remember, I’m just in the same place he is in.”

Down to the core of earth I go
deep inside it,
I found your words etched on its walls
they’re dark and morbid,
not so happy
but it’s fine,
mine too aren’t exactly

Up in the space of nothingness
in a black hole,
you found me wandering,
lost and lonely,
not so happy
but then you aren’t yourself

But hey,
Don’t you think
this is the place for us to stay?
This’ where the moments don’t pass by
only until when we’re full to cry
then we can just wash up the scene,
and call it a night,
wake up to a brand new sunshine.

A world of only our miseries,
our melancholic imagination,
our own tormenting agonies,
a place of desolation,
a world for only the two of us
and i guess that’s what makes it
two less lonely people
in the real world
so come on,
down to the core of earth,
let’s go.





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the silent folks tell me i should be away,
looking for it someplace else-
through the borders and down the road
just staring dead straight ahead

it may be so that fate or destiny
or luck or the invisible prime mover itself
has cast a spell upon me, unknown
and never will i ever find whatever i’m looking for

I guess, thriving and living and surviving –
all these i may do and succeed in doing so
but never in a million years, under the skies
ever will i ever know why i should even do so

and yet between the lines, i never stop
Never even risk a sudden, unexpected halt
I keep on looking and i keep on moving forward
and perhaps like a tumbleweed in a desert,
the answer would come rolling in front of my eyes.

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By the Candlelight

The fiery wick of concepts and notions,
is a pervious string affixed inside a stick of wax,
ablaze with consciousness in technicolor
of burning blue and yearning yellow alike.

The wax melts like an oblation feasted upon,
the wick blackens along with the growth of nation
but the regime pays no attention to this all,
and the ground zero for enlightenment threatens to fall.

And while wind blows as hard as an August gust of breath,
the infamous invisible hand claps and sweeps its way,
across the riverbanks and into the village flea,
to serve those perched on top of the hierarchy.

And, too, the candlelight sways along with the breeze,
too little of a flame to withstand such turbulence
fade to  black, that is all there will be
if by the candlelight, the hand and the monarchs interfere.

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Winter Tales

Day One: “Paint me a leaf, against the wall, so I may not leave.”

Green pastures into snowy fields,

sidewalks into slippy slopes;

Winter seems like  fine to me

until these two days of adversary…

Today’s when  the last leaf falls,

as well as when  the large bell tolls.

But the misery faker has gone

for a lengthy winter walk…

Winter solstice comes too fast,

but never seems to come to pass.

Winter tells no tales this sad

but here I am, the goner lad.

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