disappear while i wait

i spend my days waiting for you to appear
but when i catch a glimpse of you
i run away and hide
wishing you'd disappear
and when you do, i turn around and expect
maybe an msn message?
maybe a phone call?
some kind of sign..
while i'm afraid of sending one of my own
sometimes you'd call
but i know you only do when you're bored
or maybe i just think that way
then why don't you reply my messages
or emails
i'm not a desperate man
but i am a man driven to desperation
i loved you, i think
that must be why it's so hard now
to forget you
to let you go
to stop waiting for you to appear
and then wishing you'd disappear
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i work, you scum around

i looked at the underside of work and service and saw that i cherished what i reaped. isnt that more than what one can ask for? or should one always ask for more and bigger things?

does the onus to bring about a change for the better fall on he who knows and realizes the need to bring about that change? as a student leader, my days are mere minutes and the clock is always late. late at night. we sometimes do what unquestionably drives us and we dont question cuz we know what we do is right. we dont question.

you choose to wallow in your self professed self destruction. pity only encourages you further. the only thing that will wake you is a calamity. let us all then pray for your awakening and hopefully, maturity.

nobody begins with the ability to listen. it's something you have to learn to do, like riding a bike. listen and learn cuz no matter what you know, you dont know shit.
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hardly a worthy mention

many years ago, in the land of the dreaming, i dreamt of a war. it was a struggle against something dark. i felt many other people around me, dreaming the same dark dream, fighting this same struggle. every morning we awoke, tired and clueless to the war we return to every night.

and then i dreamt that we won and that for some reason, i was made known to everyone in the dreaming. they knew my face but did not know me.

that is why i think you know my face but you do not remember it.
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My words have no meaning

My name is Man and I am no poet. I am a problem-solver. All I do is work because I've stopped playing a long time ago. My mantle of responsiblities and obligations commands a cold, clinical method to my madness. I am the son, the father, the husband, the citizen, the lover, the taxpayer, the worshipper, the sinner, the desperate and the hopeless. I am all I was supposed to be and allowed to be. Truly, I am at a loss.
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a blanket of repeatedly stinging thoughts

you're right. it is never your presence, your pictures, your messages, your mind, your character, your personality nor your voice. it is the memories of how i felt when we touched.
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of the endless

i gave a raw raw raw raw raw raw raw thought to all that was "us". you never knew what you had when you had it. leave me now. i was never good at being close.
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Was it kick enough for you?

the light is gloomy and hardly a spark of life
and theres nothing left of whats inside
i have never known anything else like this
nothing will be the same after tonight

if it all came down tomorrow, i would still not have changed a thing

it may appear as if it was all frivolous
give me a chance to show it otherwise
if only the light was dimmed a little
i would show you all that is worthy of you

i tried to give in to you and then again i came away
expecting nothing
we gave too much too fast
and we were left with too many questions
and too little answers
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i'm having a stay-in-bed day
hoveled up from view
to a rainy day B-sides soundtrack
and reveling in all the times
i've fucked up
or never met up to
whatever standard was set to be to met
i'm screwing all my obligations
and deadlines
and expectations

fuck it all. fuck it. fuck.

maybe i WANT to be a mess.
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memories beseech us to be better people
they feed us with
what shouldn't have
and what should have beens.
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lust is a silent war

"last night i dreamt i fucked a friend of mine.
i didn't remember till i talked to her later that day.
as i talked, i couldn't get the image out.
i remember what i "did" to her.
i wanted it.
but getting the sex wasn't the issue.
consequences was.
the consequences weren't worth it and so
i fought.
and won.
this time.

i've never always won."

confessions #23
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my waning smile

I thought I've paid my dues for
unrequiting loves
with unrequited loves
and I dared a trepid step
to seize a quaint love

but alas,
i am still the fool indeed
for though I dare to declare that
she likes me
i am surer that she loves someone else.

and by going with all that
is honorable
i walked away

but she was as a butterfly
fluttering through my heart
flitting, fluttering, frustratingly
building up hopes
only to knock them over
and have it broken like a vase
escaping guilt with a glint of mischief
and a smile that could only radiate
and she leaves
to give me the better part of the day
to put myself together

only to be a little silly on the phone at 3 in the morning
and knocking me over again.
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gifted you.

i woke up in the morning
out of the conversations we've never had knowing nothing
perhaps that you were always too gifted to give me
even half of what i would give to you
if only you knew.
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whats the preferred excuse of the blog writer for really bad posts? is there any excuse in the world that a writer could use to shield himself a brief respite from the self-induced pressure of constantly generating mind-altering, awe-inspiring literature? yes there is.
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i love her shoes.

last night i fell in love with someone's shoes. pink dirty converse with clean white laces. i could eat her for her shoes but i'd never wear them.
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my artform.

i prefer to be silent. thinking the odd thought, knowing i'll never pen them all down. music is a wonderful expression. it is the artform. most people think that when i drum, i'm being my extrovert side. on the contrary, it's a glimpse into my quieter shades. in my less than lucid moments, i am truly, honestly lost in the music. i am between the sound and the body. i am in automatic mode. this is my expression. i never look at the crowd because it's not about them. music is about me. my quieter side is selfish and thinks of me and my needs alone and what i need is that trip, that high, getting that beat, hitting that crash. i never speak unless it's a bloody emergency. like the time when my floor tom kept moving and one of the legs got caught with the pedal and i shouted my head off and the tech guy just sat and nodded. arse.
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