#thwritersguild

[chrisuperpo]

Holy is the darkness. Holy is the sky filled with scattered stars. Holy is the night I think of you. I think of you like children look forward for the recess bells. Gripping at the end of the armchair, looking at the teacher but doesn't see her. I think of you most when the rain fall with the unusual scent of pavement wetted for the first time for a long period of time. I imagine your frizzy hair you don't give a damn of comb every morning. Call me crazy, but I hear your voice sometimes all day, I kept my neck constantly turning to every angle just to make sure it was not yours. I know it was not yours, because how would you be here near me, but I am a little hopeful anyway, I turned. I can see you writing me in a special scented paper you have kept for years, and I wonder what would be the adjectives you write about me. Because I care about how you think about my nose. I care about appearance. I care about lips color. I care about hair scented with shampoo. But that doesn't mean I care if you your features don't meet the standards of this world. I just want to see you. Your face, I want to memorize every contour, every angle and edge, and your eyes that reflect the universe I am so afraid to put rain into. I want to keep you like a photograph inside my head. And I will carry it like story storytellers tell— so proud. Talking as if he owns the world just because he knows he does. Tonight, I will just idle here under the sky full of stars and a boastful moon above me. Trying to paint your face in my mind with a color of realism I have gathered inside me. I will paint your eyes blue like river reflected in the clouds. Your eyebrows red, cause I know you are bull fighting everyone who wants to ride above your back. Your lips are yellow, always afraid of words to fall out, always holding, never telling what your heart is shouting. Sometimes baby, you just have to pull up your guts, and fucking tell that lady with a cat in her hand, when she asked you what you think of her hat tell her that it was awful, just like that and walk away without turning back. Sometimes you don't have to wait for the waves to get back ashore. Sometimes you have to wear off your shoes, and chase the waves. Chase the waves. — Loooooooonging; cmd

[pot-esguerra]

Minsan naiisip ko na okay din naman mapag isa kahit sa sandaling panahon. Mas nabibigyan mo kasi ng atensyon ang sarili mo. Nahahanap mo ang ugat ng mga nagpapakunot sa noo mo o nagpapabigat sa araw araw mong paghinga. Mas nababaling mo yung atensyon mo para sa sarili mo o para pasayahin ang sarili mo sa paraang gusto mo na wala ka masyadong inaalala. Mas mainam talaga minsan na magkaroon ka o mag laan ka ng oras na ikaw lang mag isa para mas maintindihan mo yung mga bagay sa paligid mo na sa sandaling pagkakataon eh wala kang iisipin na sasabihin ng iba.

Kaya minsan, trip kong pumunta ng mall mag isa, manood ng sine mag isa, kumain mag isa at mag ikot ikot sa mga boutique mag-isa. Pumunta sa isang tahimik ang mahangin na lugar na may dalang kape o malamig na inumin at lasapin ang tanawin ng paglubog ng araw. Mag ikot ikot o mag simba mag isa. Kailanga mo sa sarili mo ang mga bagay ang mga bagay na ito dahil gaya ng sabi nila ang nag iisang tao na kakampi mo at hinding hindi ka iiwan ay ang sarili mo kaya pangalagaan mo ang sarili mo ng mabuti. Huwag mong antayin na magtampo din ang sarili mo sayo.

[odeofsheobi]

An Artist's Rift

He sat on a shady tree

his mind blank and free

inspiration is absent

time is long spent

winds pass, leaves fell

pencil in hand is nearly bent

paper white as snow

clear as a river’s flow

and there she came

walked by the plain

and then it happened

he can draw again