words strung to tie you to my pinkie

A love suns couldn't set and rules couldn't right..I keep what I promise on single-starred nights. Almost a year since my head and my heart were all too viciously torn apart.

| {11:14 PM}

Comin' up

http://checkincounter.blogspot.com

| {9:21 PM}

The day

you promised me your heart, I stole it to be sure. Not because I didn't trust, I just knew I wanted more. I took it and on a tiny piece I sewed my little name, and swore that if you loved again, it wouldn't be the same.

| {6:07 PM}

Try not to

remember.

| {9:48 PM}

Truth is

slowly dissipating into age-old simplicity; modern day lies..and she bit her lip, just to force the world into believing bleeding half smiles. The beauty of it all remains locked, and rushed into silence..for the sake of being so completely on top of it all.

I think I'm going to go off and find all my misplaced, mismatched, and misunderstood words..I'd let y'all know where to find me, but since quite a few of you are playing hide and seek with this little girl, well..

Til the highschoolheart finds the courage to bleed past pride and anonymity *bow*

| {9:21 PM}

Out of breath

on so many different levels..a building here, a road sign, the leap in my gut as we neared that ol' flyover..conspired to steal the light in my lungs, and yank it by ways of my throat. An inch of nostalgia..a mile of regret; of what value are my words, words lost and found in the mess of papercuts and tears? Words found in the silence of a single white rose, frayed and contemplative of the seconds left..til, perhaps, the household is doomed.

Complete suffocation, on that side of the world..but I'll keep coming back, for the thrill of it all.

Curiosity doesn't kill..he just drops a little candy into the rabbit hole.

| {8:13 PM}

There is

nothing left of her to decipher..or feel..just the odd realization of how making sense, never makes it quite as real..

I..

a million, billion, trillion times over..

You..

an infinite amount, less..

And if she said she cut herself off to keep from souding pathetically emotional, would that in itself defeat its purpose?

Because the truth is it's to keep you from getting the idea that she cares the least bit..the tiniest bit, at all..

| {9:58 PM}

And there was

something in the air that made me swear, this time, I was right.

And she couldn't,
not even for a minute,
not even for a second,
fool herself into thinking any less of you.

For a second there, something in the air..
something in that box
and those words
and the tears she thought she'd half smiled away..
something fooled her into making her swear that this time
she was right.

| {12:24 PM}

Paumanhin; ito

ba'y tinatawag na code-switching?

She conspires with modernization
to scream nonesense, and fly
through ages of sleep, and small talk,
and the sort of conversation
that your mothers warned you of.

With Anneleia, Cathryn, Erlicka..
those she'd loved before; the muses,
a symphony unfolds in the palms
of her hand-cupped paraiso.

Kung saan nadadamay ang puso;
ang panganib na naiisa,
sa kanyang nawawalang interpretasyon
sa kamalian ng akala
at pagkalat ng munting nadarama.

A myriad of expression lays itself
across her bare flesh; a run of silver
snakes along the edge of reason.
Her words are a hazardous sort of
craving. They are a radical distort
of saving.

She is so inspired by the wiles of your
lipstick marked mind,
but her stories are left for nought.
A lover's writer so often burried
with her brilliance..with the musicians,
the masters, with those the world
refused to unfurl.

Mula sa kanyang mata ay nararanasa
ang munting pagbubukas ng mundo;
ang tiyak na pagwawakas, ang muling
panimula..sa saglit na iyo'y naaagaw;
sa kapunuan ng kanyang pagkakatao.

And I just
I just had to feel
the need to let my reckless reckless self
undermine such wordless thoughts;
such unthinkable nothings.
I, like so many others,
sew myself into thinking
that I may keep these words, and
unfurl the reservoir Liana
much too much like the unparting seas
of arcs, and locks withstanding
any other brother key.

Kung saan, nasa buhay ang mismong silip..
kung saan, nawawala ang sarili sa pagkatuklas.

| {1:16 PM}

Sometimes you

will stay up, at night, and wonder how she is..wonder if her face has changed, if her eyes have kept the laughter between her lashes. You will wonder if her skin still smells like her soul..like pressed flowers, and coffee just when you need it most..if she still seemingly captures the whole world's glow in a rare smile, the way her shutterbug lifestyle propelled her to do so.

You will wonder if anyone else will warm, from the insides out, as her lips pass on old secrets that make hearts skip a beat. And you are convinced that no one else will feel her reason the way you once did. But you, of course, are wrong..because she will have kept forever tucked in, beneath her bottom lip. She will drop lines and beats at the sound of an.."I should tell..", with very little haste, very little carelessness, and all sincerity. She will spin. She will always spin..the colors and words will follow, as she spins. Her shoes will click clack and bring her Home, on an old string balloon. She will sing. She will always sing..there is music in those petals and morning jolts.

Sometimes, you will chance upon scrap, or a picture among albums and memory cards, of her. You will not recognize her shorthand, you will concur that her smiles are no longer rare, but they flicker all the same..she will keep the world's soul in those shutterbug eyes, and be in perfect synch with the cosmos.

Sleep well, with nothing but words..there will be very little kept and left and spilt carelessly for your sake..far too much thrown around, in fact, against it. Then again, we are well aware of this mutual disgrace; the apathy we cling to, for the sake of saving face. She has been made much too much aware of the criminal minds we replace..and she..she says I should stop rhyming, all the tim..ing.

| {9:00 PM}

Jump into

top hats, and satin..sequins and smokescreens..til
mr. Bunny Wabbit kicks me out..onto card hands
..into palms and a lover's old silver rings..til an ace
crumbles and crumples and folds..into dove wings
and sleight of hand..hands that cup beneath white
sheets..with stiffled laughs and blushing cheeks..til
my skin is dirtied and thrown out, along with petals
sprinkled and spun and grown with perfume in rain's
stead..thrown out, onto cobblestones and rusty locks
..shivering, beneath street lamps, pulling out crooked
smiles and cloth cloth cloth..knots and tugs and pulls
of cotton tails and nostalgia..til I am found; bare, with
pockets out, sleeves empty, hands cold..til I am me;
kept, in need, in want, in trust..til I have learned to take
romanticism in, in place of air..til my lungs break, with
very little say..til my lines stop and clock and learn how
to keep themselves from rambling..onto phrases and
phases of nothing..til then, I will keep my second-hand
self..til I find reason to trade the M word in, for an L

| {8:41 PM}

Allow me to

quote Joanna Perez..*coughs and puts on ghetto accent*
"Who's the b!tch, now?"

| {8:38 PM}

Allow me

to pull the linen out from beneath your silverware. Watch me snap my fingers and draw your card. I could pull a royal flush..with enough aces to make you blush. Silly, silly little thing.

A bit of smoke'll go off and we'll sink into my top hat..don't let anyone tell you it's anything short of the M word. Allow me to trick you into the M word..don't disappoint mr. Bunny Wabbit =)

And in a crash of fireworks and mirrors, that ol' devil's inched out of her chains, again.
And everyone wonders..M word, S word, L word..
for what would one sell her soul? And at what price would we buy one, second-hand?

Mmm..

And in a flash of mirrorworks and fire, she slinks into your system..parts of her feel
like snow on your freckles, or rain on your lips.
She shoots up, into you..she finds her way into the edge of that mind you call reason..and it's a slow, burning sort of death. the only delectable way to forget.
Who remembers, who wants to, that is..who wants to remember forever?
Who wants to remember, forever?
This one..this this this, she with her wonder eyes, could trick you into the M word

..wah.

| {10:56 AM}

A rush of

emotions and events..til the brilliance our fifteen year old minds keep, unravels. We are an innovation; a novel sensation, exclamation sans hesitation. Thinking, clicking, churning, as lids drop and beats fall into place..as ideas slip onto table napkins. I have little room for sentiment. I am here and I am now, now, now; lest history repeats its bullshit. Let's not let it. Green means go. Green means singout loud. Green means sugod, mga kapatid

Make something out of it. Make it an explosion. Make it surreal, and cause a commotion..one of bright white motion, on this strobe light ocean.

| {4:35 PM}

Shoot your

mouth off..and allow me to jump the gun. Do what you do best, and leave.

People say there are some promises
that you just can't keep;
but they forget to mention that there are
some people you can't keep, either,
once you reason with such a pathetic excuse.

Watch me make no sense..can't rush it; don't rush it. Lock, and load. And lock.

| {10:02 AM}

I don't

know where it's safe to..be. There are expectations and cautionary tape; reputations and courtesy. And, no, she'll never run out of smiles or words or thoughts..just places to let loose.

There are odd breakage points, and the slipping urge to ignore them.

I am afraid to compromise; I am unable to rock your boat..I should learn from those awkward nights, those tear stained sheets. I wish to be a radical, the better part of me slits the truths formed at her lips.

I should learn to stop saying
shut the fcuk up.
There seems to be an air
about me that I can't shake off

Something's happening and I'm not sure where this skin'll touch down, anymore. The view from here's a resemblence of..

I hate you, disappear.

It's sleepy and the coasters are lying around..I'm here and people abandon ground. It's paranoia, nausea, it reminds you that things are not yesterday and yesterweek and yestermonth and yesteryear. Thank God. This and you and we are not even just today..we are now; beyond minute, more defined than millisecond..there is nothing to be but the moment. No pasts no reputations no silk sheets.

It's hilarious to have to hide and twist and realize,
in the mess of you,
that it is anything but safe out there.

| {10:29 PM}

Wake me,

shake me, make me, up. I've got all the time, in the world..let me let you
ooh;
a wild, rash, crash into
who?
Fake me, make me, take me, out. Til I scream Rent out loud,
you.

Es. Cap. Eh.

| {5:09 PM}

I'm getting

tired, of trying to be strong; or look strong, or sound contrary to the state of which the Wind leaves me, at night..define strong; relentless? Impenetrable? Strength is often considered synonymous to..endurance, I suppose?

I always run out of breath..I knew I would, when I flipped the coin and ran.

Or, perhaps, able to pass through and surpass waves of emotion..able to dive into, unto and against. To experience, and live..I remember something about that in Tuesdays with Morrie.

Ever had the kind of morning you know ought to drown in your coffee cup?

Sometimes you run and you realize that, ten, twenty minutes later..your heart'll jumpstart and your chest will tighten; but, just as it doesn't get any easier til the checkered flag, it's the same heart, in the same chest, feeling the same pain, living the same life.

Sometimes thoughts are too much to be sent into my domain unrebukable.

So you keep running, and some people will think you weak as you stumble and refuse to look back..sometimes you will question the strength you claim. But you keep running..and they'll figure out that your soles are up against everything ahead; you seize the pain, but the rush of release reminds you so much of life..in no sense the masochist.

And it's a pain in itself to sort these cut roses, out in the open, momentarily

..but old sores find cures; white washed flesh rots from within. It is enough, to recut and reveal and rest..to pull and spin and breathe. There is no other breath to live by, than that given..by circumstance, this skin heaves and weaves til memory is crystal, pouring out red wine.

Honestly, I do think I've forgotten how to make sense, much too often, and

I don't know.

| {3:46 PM}

A bit

of breathing time, to write. To type, as my chest heaves, bringing back neon memory..we don't breathe oxygen; we inhale sentiment, and aircon.

How Assumptionista.

A little flashback, to breathe in. To recall, as the motion ceased to be involuntary, requiring the strength of will to bite back emotion..til my cheeks fell against embraces that calmed my chest; up against others', that my highschool heart would ease as it listened to another's metronome.

I wanted to tell you it felt a little bit like Home.
Or a little bit more than the Home I assumed I had known.

Do anything. One night, to dance away weeks..hours to drink off lifetimes. A night can be a lifetime. A night can string together lifetimes. Fifteen..that's nothing. 12:01..a minute strung life lines together, and exploded in Happy Birthday to youuu's.

No..no shyness
:-)

What did it feel like, to dance people away? What was it like, to move spin and never stop for cameras..cameras that clicked and whirled away blurs. Pink blurs. Shadowed eyes.

Did it feel like fifteen?
No, it felt like forever...or better.

It felt like me.

It felt like..liquid light, or air shot through a hip. It felt like rain sinking into skin, and skin across lips. Constant motion, strobe light ocean. It felt like silk tearing into bloodstreams, and ripping up butterfly wings. It felt like tequila, rewiring my intestines, and sneaking into my subconscious.

I felt like me.

I remembered what it was like to need oxygen, and forget words..to enjoy sleep, but crave the waking. It is something else, entirely, to feel the sheets after the tightness in your heartstrings unravels. It is quite like the rush of roses you smell, with no haste; the flow of whispers you sink into, post-waterfall.

Who would've figured that the world could should and would be your World?

| {12:41 PM}

15, and sober

..how 'bout you?

| {10:42 AM}

Grammar period

I seep through skin; like whispers and ghosts. My words, soft spoken, as dreams haunt pasts. I pass through lips; seamlessly, with silk sheets. My flow, the projections that thread together old ties

with fingers spinning
reeling Time in, beyond
Distance.

I contain much more than the breeze against a cheek; the least of me does so with ease. These sighs breathe a soul's kiss..hushed and floating through; like whispers and ghosts.

| {8:20 PM}

Histo period

Sleepy Flipe.
Running random daydreams.
Dreaming as rushes of words,

of images,
of sensations,

blush on lips and rouge.

Sleep, Flipe.
Riding dragonback on a silver tooth.
Wishing as lucid nothings,

somethings,
Nothing,

write paraphrased emotion.

See Flipe.
Make no sense. Make very little.
Eyes half open. Mind wide shut,

learned,
and grown,

makes very little sense, to ignorants
and innocents.

| {8:09 PM}

Lit period

These hallways hold secrets that slip from our lips; they hear with old floorboards that silence their squeaks as one speaks, dropping names, in a mess of fallen school supplies.

One block watches steadily to the less subtle clock's tick tick tick tock..as two hands take hold of the other's caramel skin. Another sinks into the wall crevise, as voices rise and emotions blare into crimson red scandals and modern propaganda.

You realize that the world is not against you, when you figure out that none of us are alone.

Old school rythm is one of mixed beats, and deceit; replayed and revised into new times and lives..released from old lies. And if we drank to drama, there'd be very little interval time to be hungover.

| {8:09 PM}

Tell the

world, in bright white light and pink rainbow dots..that the end is here and the sandman is queer. Though not to he point of checkered ties and well creased suits; more of to the annex of his mind being churned and burned with thoughts of mocha latte on the edge of some ex lover's French balcony.

Old hands hold wrinkled sin..the type that burns with the smell of cigarette on grey moustaches. Poker faces, and droll voices; to what do I owe this old time rhyme? To you, the thoughts that disintegrate UV ray shields. To who, the epitome of highlighted lists, the cream of course of the crop.

To the skin that never settles..for more, for less, or down.

He has the courtesy to leave her old linen sheets bare, spotless after the old maid tidies them off at mr. Ching's. Drycleaners are efficient, whistlers are endearing.

No poetry leaves the soul stained with red wine..red wine is taken and licked and swept off by the fingers' tips, onto dry lips and fueled souls..all the while with hungry hands on nimble hips. A glass lies sleepily, on the windowsill.

To who does this last drop come Home? Watching, slowly, as the Sky laughs white wine..hopefully, as they fall onto the white washed walls, onto oak doors and chalky asphalt. How lazy, the sound of white wine..unfinished, yet so completely absolute.

Remind me, again, of how it should be caked and topped off..with chocolate fountain lips. You, not you..and never you. Though, quite possibly, you?

Remind me, again, of how it is to make sense..though the rush of random keys keys keys and words that stick to your skin and fill your blood..mmm

runaway.

| {8:08 PM}

What would

it be like, to run away? Not to get anywhere..just to run; to run red lights and see crimson, goldenrod and teal. To run..across Water, and Air; to smile, and wave (or wink) and fly.
And to not need to be caught.
To run across different streets and area codes and continents and timezones..to zones where Time heals, in the stead of pressuring One to do so. It might be nice, to get away.
And what would we be, then?
Who would I be, leaving behind scars and bruises and..people. People? People..'s words and laughter and smiles. Who would I be, amidst and within completely new skin?
Would it be nice to get away?

..escapism fails to cover up sentimentality.

| {10:02 AM}

Mister Dream

is playing some pretty mean tricks.

| {5:57 AM}

It's a

crying shame that such a dear wingmaker chose to love a silly promisebreaker. The secretkeeper thinks his are not worth speaking. The truthseeker agrees that they have little worth reaping. Ask the rosereaper, and she'll nod at novelty seeking; nothing keeping. And the butterflyspeaker refuses to persuade Dream, or bring him any amount of afternoon ice cream.

Soon, friend, you will spin the most perfectly timed wings that will loop roots onto heartstrings..wings that will find the shirtholes they need to stay; wings that are enough to fly you both out of here.

"If the right girl comes at the wrong time, she's still the wrong girl"

But people who leave things up to Fate bank on very little more than a little girl spinning together coincidence and dumb luck. Although there is some truth to Time..and Change and Distance. Time, Change and Distance, antagonized by Patience, Truth and Trust..bowled over by Love.

Love, and chick lit shit. Despite barriers and doubts, questions, pasts..beyond and about. *Dies* of too many songs.

I wish we could go back, to the beginnning.
Coz there's something missing from your eyes.
We lost a lifetime when I disappeared
now I am coming back to you.
I wish I could fly, I know I can save us somehow.
You thought you were safe and sound,
but you need a hero now.
You gotta believe; even with broken wings,
I'll come to your rescue and you can rescue me.

My hand, in yours, would hold a single midnight wish. Our lips would reveal one secret..a secret locked and withheld in our souls, til 12:01 slipped onto our wrists and wrote Tomorrows across our skin.. Let's not play with seconds, like this..let's not toss and turn, wondering. Ah, the royal pluralization, just maybe..I hope to be proven of otherwise.

When did I lose you?
I need you to pull through
the weight of the world never felt so alive.

*The Rescue-American Hi-Fi

| {5:00 PM}

Truths can

be stumbled upon, on rides to 7/11. Woohoo for Mountain Dew Slurpee cravings.

Sometimes our hearts want something badly enough to cultivate feelings strong enough to take hold of Fate's strings and weave our own Tomorrows. Who is she, anyway? Little more than a personification of wishes and events..though, interesting, nonetheless.

I rode a jeepney for the first time ever, today. Boom snap clap. I relearned how to jumprope, tonight. Boom boom snap shh!

| {7:47 PM}

Where in

the world, are you? Come back..be you, with me; my you, maybe. I need to see you..someone should tell you. I should tell you

..and; don't let it get to your head.

Oh geezus, where are my words..somebody save me.

| {8:39 AM}

The void-filled days

left a longing for words. Impatience with the Rain led to frustration at the many quantities and coincidences fueling Distance, dousing emotion, and rekindling doubt.

On second thought; a rekindling of both emotion and doubt. As Time teased, a name grew in quality and sparks, unraveling between lips that beg to drop..secrets, and a name, at the snap of your fingers onto the color on your cheeks.

My mind raced and fingers fumbled as needless words bound themselves to the curve of my smiles, waiting to remeet yours..words that denounce Fate and defy currents, with outstretched arms and paddles.

| {7:15 PM}

Who agrees

with; girls who look good will catch your eye, girls who can think will torture minds, but girls who can write will capture souls?

To re-capture my own..in all maturity. The babaw blog is good for something, after all.

| {8:56 AM}

Would you

die to keep my secrets? Would you lie to hear me say "I love you, too"?

I think you are unbelievably pompous..or at the very least, the you we seem to be getting to know (despite the distance you perceive), is. You are similar to a Math teacher with a poker face, after arriving ten minutes late to administer a particularly long test, and a group of boys who turn left and left and left around and around a rotonda. I suggest you hold on tight to whatever friends you have left, but please don't assume I'm willing to be one of them, especially not now.

But after all is said and done, December one plans, Pep Squad, great friends, hilarious pictures, Honey Stars, balloons, dancing, and those conversations..put "honey I love you, please.." smiles on my face.

I tied some balloon string around my finger, and let it bob a little closer to Home..the selfish kid in me refused to give it reason to find Home, in the Sky. The Sky is..similar to the Darkness; she escapes with a million balloons, after sunset, as the Darkness takes a night shift. A friend told me that sometimes the balloons set with the sun, til they fall onto trees (and unfortunate people's faces), and Home is alone with the Darkness, again.

| {6:19 AM}

The stories

I weave are growing down..or up, too fast to be savored. I want to write about nothings that mean Worlds..as opposed to making worlds out of Nothing.

What tha madrepakeeng kinda sheet are you trying to pull off, btw?

| {6:46 PM}

I write

like I have something to write about..or for. It's pretty dang funny.

You fill every inch of this sorry skin.
You leave no room for doubt.
To nothing else do I, my soul, commend.
The sunkissed Sky of mine that
plays as courted by the Moons.
Does Night hold you, love?
Or do the stars lay themselves out,
onto nothings,
that I might keep you after sunset?
To escape with my Sky, after sunset.

SCREW 'DAT SHET haha

| {5:55 PM}

How gullible

the high school heart; how fleeting the sane mindset. Too many lies in so short a span of Time.

Hit the road, hard, and go.

And so you fly..and do so without the need for wings to clip. How should One keep a balloon with no string, with enough helium to disregard the Wind? How does One chase a continuously falling star? Or capture an all too immaculate Sky with paper and pen?

The mystery lies in the ways beauty keeps Worlds beyond our reach; those that we admire are too much to be held.

Thank God you were only one of my three happy crushes..and if you think you know who exactly this is about, shutupyousodon't.

| {4:49 PM}

Popped balloons
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