breath of words

to remember and to forget

[poetrie]

i catch myself staring blankly outside as i have made myself comfortable on the corner of a coffee shop. sometimes, i see glimpses of other people's eyes as they meet mine, an unconscious gaze as my thoughts wander beyond where my eyes have been. the subtle noise coming from the coffee machine and the music blasting all over the cafe became background hummings as the lines to tenerife sea plays through the tiny carnation-colored pieces stuck in my ears. something about this song always makes my heart flutter, i say in my mind. and as if on cue, the branches of the trees outside frolic as the wind invites them to dance in the rain. umbrellas of different colors suddenly come into view, at least making the whole scene a little less gloomy. i sip on my cup, a warm sweet gulp down my soul. these little moments we don't get to notice everyday was what kept me going today.

– Samantha M.

[poetrie]

some nights, i find it hard to believe the things i already know. like how sorrow could be gone tomorrow but still, i dread for it until that tomorrow finally arrives. i lay awake on my bed, with my heart beating to the rhythm of restlessness. i've been here before, too many times even, but somehow, there's still a thought that the night might not end; what if tomorrow is never better?

– Some Nights Still Feel Strange, Samantha M.

[poetrie]

the short balete tree beside our house

which has gone through every season of our lives

the familiar scent of cigarettes that always annoyed me

when my father smoked outside

the rust making a home on our window bars

the strands of the makeshift clothesline slowly separating —

too many signs of how much time has passed by

yet i am here, in the now;

the now, who's as beautiful as the someday.

i know someday, i'll get there

but for now, i'm here

casually enjoying how the

twigs of our balete tree sway gracefully

just letting the direction of the wind lead its movement

the chipping of the birds singing along

as i listen on loudspeaker to

the paper kites' newly released album

if you go there, i hope you find it

and so i hoped the same.

– The Paper Kites, Samantha M.

[poetrie]

there's a part of me that i don't know yet. at times, she visits and the only option there is, is to let her. she often comes uninvited, stays for a few moments, and leaves. sometimes, it's like a month-long vacation with someone you barely even know.

there's a part of me that is still a stranger to me. she often feels like a different person everytime; and i have to meet her the way she is the moment she shows up at my front door.

i have learned that, perhaps, knowing one's self is a never-ending process of unlearning and relearning, letting go and meeting anew, of constant changing, accepting and recalibrating; which, by the way, takes full cups of patience, courage, and love.

so here i am, pouring myself more of them, hoping that i'll never have to run out.

– Samantha M.

[poetrie]

our home has never known screaming nor heard of yelling when my parents fought. but we knew when they did, we always knew. silence; the biggest difference it made, the empty spaces of the room growing, engulfing the supposed apologies. we knew of chaos as the defeaning silence.

i never expected it'd come to this point, where silence would become my everyday companion, engulfing me slowly, growing larger than my body in these empty spaces in a house where i once knew was home.

– Anywhere But Home, Samantha M.

[poetrie]

for years, i have traversed on my own,

alone but not necessarily lonely,

searched every nook for something

that would dramatically make me feel alive

looked everywhere but it seems to me now

that you were the one who found me.

– Samantha M.

[smakkabagms]

“Words, he decided, were inadequate at best, impossible at worst. They meant too many things. Or they meant nothing at all.”

— Patricia A. McKillip, In the Forests of Serre

[poetrie]

i wanted to say:

maybe i want to love and be loved, to take care of someone and be taken care of, to share a lifetime with someone who understands. maybe i don't want to be alone. i want to have someone by my side. this doesn't necessarily equate to not knowing how to love oneself. i have loved myself and will continue to do so but, perhaps, life would mean a lot more to me if i have someone to share this warmth with.

i wanted to ask:

is there someone out there who understands the longing?

– Samantha M.

[poetrie]

[poetrie]

every time / i find myself coming back to the same place / tugging at shadows / hiding behind broken walls / wondering / wondering which dreams were once sleeping between the posts / how much courage was needed to create this beautiful wreckage 
Photo and words by Samantha M.

[poetrie]

[poetrie]

When it felt like I was your world,

perhaps, I was just like the earth

to the universe: a tiny speck of mass

in your memory, orbiting in this tiny

space you’ve made of me; night and

day, curious about how vast and vague

your mind could be; how many other

celestial bodies feed your complex

fantasies, while I look at you, thinking

that you are the only one sustaining me.

I could have said that you were my

universe. I wanted to explore the spaces

between your palms, the different

constellation of thoughts in your head,

the black holes that swallow you whole,

and the magnitude of gravity that held me

in place. But I found it hard to get a hold

of you as you outgrew my love and you

continued to expand to such vastness

no one can ever imagine. And that’s

how I learned that nothing was ever mine;

the universe cannot be mine,

as I am but a pygmy dweller

in your constantly changing reality.

– Your Universe, Samantha M.

[poetrie]

On nights I struggle to sleep, I visit the graveyards of people who have already gone and left me. The dead doesn’t always have to be those who no longer breathe. Sometimes, I see them at places my memories have kept alive; laughing breathlessly, singing to unfamiliar melodies, continuously living. Jealousy creeps in every time I see them smile and if I try to do the same, frustration only fills my lungs as they’ll never turn their head towards me and see that I, too, can be happy without them. Perhaps, I’m just like who they are to me – dead; or worse, I am just someone who thought have once lived in their lives. Perhaps, I never did.

– You may be dead to me, but have I ever lived in your memory? | Samantha M.

[poetrie]

When you express yourself on

paper, it’s so easy for others to

change it, erase it, crumple it,

burn it to ashes, bury it underneath,

that sometimes, the truth you’ve

known so well becomes a mere

stranger in a crowd of unknown

faces; that when people come

searching for it, they have to look

at a number of pairs of eyes before

they’re able to see the ones that truly

show who you are or have been.

When you express yourself on

paper, maybe leaving it on the

pages isn’t enough, that you

have to express it on all parts

of your body, on the way you walk,

on the languages you speak,

on things and lives that you touch,

on all the days you spend alive,

so that the truth expresses itself

and that no one can ever bury it

because you’re no longer alone in

living, but also is the truth about you.

– Expression Doesn’t End in Writing, Samantha M.

[poetrie]

I sit on a trench where deep

below lies the silenced thoughts

of a once articulate mind, debating

with oneself whether to dive down

or wait for its creatures to float up

just like how the summer sun does

at 5:45 am, swarmed by sky lovers

while the majority hasn’t risen

from bed yet; I look down and see

the distance between I and my mind;

as to how a person lives without its

thoughts and dreams and aspirations,

an answer can be so hard to formulate,

and as to when the notions in my head

will take shape again – patience, perhaps,

coupled with faith, shall be the key.

– On the Lookout of a Missing Identity, Samantha M.

[poetrie]

If the ocean, with its vastness and uncertainty, can learn to still itself, then, maybe I can try, too.

– Samantha M.

[poetrie]

I am a lost human in a way

that I don’t know where

exactly starts the beginning

and where does it truly end.

I traverse these paths with

a compass – a keepsake

passed from generations to

generations – with trembling

knees but unshaken will as

I carry along a dream that’s

been passed on from

generations to generations;

I look at what’s behind me

and what is it that’s ahead,

feeling my breaths in between,

looking at the direction the

compass needle points at, because

as long as it still wavers, I’m

assured that, somehow, I’m directed

to a path that I may not know of yet

and that it’ll soon make me see

that everything happened for me

to reach someplace.

— Unshaken, Samantha M.