Random Leaf #1944 precisely cut

Dust on the mirror

I’d rather not wipe.

A faint smile across the glowing orbs echoes—

a different voice,

but the feeling and connection

aren’t far off.

The glowing reflection entombed,

a shroud of grief quiets the horizon

beyond the arc.

Unreachable to those poor in faith,

yet open to the soul

that can touch chains

as if they were only strings.

The undaunted saw unbelievers

as unremarkable—

blind to the great split

of two opposites.

Attracted to positive opposites,

yet negatively repelled

by joyful ridicule.

She reminded me of you:

the same smile,

the same white hair,

the same aged look—

yet never all too worse for it.

Beauty in its own sense,

existence true

even to its own fault.

May the pieces be at rest.

May peace be upon everyone else,

and upon you—

and I.

Random Leaf #1943 precisely cut

There’s no end goal to any of this.  

There will never be.  

There was nothing before,  

and there will be nothing soon after.  

There.  

Will.  

Never be.  

Except, perhaps,  

when we have shed  

beyond our third tears.  

And we were never meant to do so.

Random Leaf #1942 precisely cut IG

She never read that many tales,

yet she gave him her most cherished—

the love for pages.

From his youngest days,

she told him stories

of lessons etched between words

across countless pages.

As time moved on,

so too did the young wanderer,

who fell into books.

He found himself a writer—

a writer of songs

unneeded of sound.

Still, he held her high.

But this seemed a spoil—

never the end goal.

Random Leaf #1941 precisely cut

The distance between them grew further,

the echoes became fewer.

Moments with his mother

turned into occasions—

no longer simple, trivial things.

When at last all had concluded,

like a book reaching its far end,

the weight of eternity

grew too heavy for the book lovers,

and most of all

for those who loved her dearly.

He wanted more,

but it was a privilege

he could not enjoy—

as it is

for everyone else.

Random Leaf #1940 precisely cut

He, too, wanted to be brave.

He bared his fang,

clenched his fist,

and showed it to everyone.

But instead of seeing courage,

his show of power

was met with disappointment.

They told him he was just angry,

rude, uncivilized.

Unbecoming of a hero.

He was judged differently,

though all he did

was the same.

His intentions were no less—

he, too, wanted to flaunt.

But just as so,

he wasn’t.

"How cruel,"

his inside voice claimed.

Because that’s just how he felt.

But that wasn’t something he could say.

He could not.

Heroes do not complain.

Yet unlike him,

nobody complained about the heroes.

All he wanted

was to show the world

he is strong.

That’s it.

And maybe, too,

his desire for

a fair share of peace—

as all heroes wish,

yet cannot.

Random Leaf #1939 precisely cut

It really

was never

the citizens

who needed

the saving.

Heroes don't

always need

to fight

the villains.

The true

heroes will

always be

the ones

praying for

sinners to

be saved.

Much like

anyone else

the devil

also wanted

to feel

loved and

be cherished.

Random Leaf #1938 precisely cut

Maybe she's still there,

waiting for my return.

Her aged yet beautiful

smile looked more wonderful

as years have gone.

And my silly antics—

and I, still searching

for ways to make

her ever more worried.

Maybe these were all

an unwanted, unspoken dream

everyone had to have.

And when the theatrics

are done and over,

curtains lowered and lights

all open, the shadows

in the background dancing,

the cheering have peaked,

and the end credits,

finally reached their end:

a fool-looking clown appears,

In my own shape,

mirrors all my trivialities,

and speaking in a

much, much lower voice.

Every audience grows quiet,

as do all actors.

The clown speaks loudly:

"You are still asleep.

Dream, this all is.

Do not be afraid.

"Nothing that happens now

is real. Don’t cry.

Do not waste tears.

This isn't the reality.

You're having a dream.

Nothing more. Nothing less.

"Enjoy everything you've seen.

Learn, understand, and give

more meaning to moments.

"This is a valuable

lesson you are privileged

to witness and take;

grow from this tragedy.

"This isn't your end.

"She's still there waiting."

Random Leaf #1937 precisely cut

And somehow

the mask,

all time

overused, overworn,

finds itself

bathed by

overwhelming gaze.

Have I

ultimately realized

a story—

unforetold, ignored,

left by

the time—

for it

symbolized nothing,

yet it

actually does?

Have I

failed, myself,

a writer,

an author,

of a

great tragedy

waiting to

be discovered?

The mask

does laugh—

it is

very different

from the

voice that

laughs within.

I am

the same

person twice.

And I,

long ago,

had realized—

yet I

strangely misremembered.

I got

so used

to wearing

another name,

that a

face so

different from

mine became.

If only

they could

understand me

more than

I have

failed myself.

I am,

and at

the same

time not.

Random Leaf #1936 precisely cut

All they see is your beauty,

truly undeniable—

none could ever disagree:

you are.

Your quirk fascinates the curious,

your smile brings with it

the same light

to others who have none.

Yet all they notice is the visible.

Only a few truly see the invisible.

But as impossible as it may be,

I see beyond all of these.

It isn’t your beauty, nor your soul,

that makes you angelique.

I just…

You may not believe it,

but whenever I see you—

fleeting moments of stolen glances,

scarce pictures stretched across eternity—

truth be told,

no one else notices it:

you are glowing.

I may not be blinded by it—

but you are.

And you are the sun

I’d rather go blind with.

Random Leaf #1935 precisely cut

Where would you go?

The forest isn’t your home.

You’ve been caged for so long—

the tree roots will be your grave.

You won't even touch any branch.

Though I know you can go high,

in the forest

only what is truly avian

can fly.

You, little one, are no avian.

You never were.

Much less a bird.

You are a pet.

A pet in her tiny little cage.

This whole thing is your world,

your home.

Nothing else.

And no buts.

I say this to you because

I want you to live a long life.

Consider this advice:

You are no slave.

You are a pet—

a tragic part of a family,

but still, you are.

Love your life.

Love your owner.

Outside here,

you are food.

Remember that.

Random Leaf #1934 precisely cut

Hey, nana.

I’m here now.

Sorry… I was a bit too late.

Yes, I know—

I’m very late.

Now, I can’t see you anymore.

But guess what, nana?

I brought my people with me.

Well… not really my people,

but I’m trying, nana.

I’m trying real hard.

And you know what?

Even if they can be mean sometimes,

they’re good people.

I remembered what you told me once:

to live a good life,

surround yourself with good people.

I’m grateful for that.

Thank you for teaching me that lesson, nana.

Yes, I know…

they may not look like it,

but they are.

You taught me to be a good judge of soul.

Remember, nana?

Oh, and don’t mind these bruises and scars

covering me all over.

These are war paints,

a beautiful girl once said.

They show the hardships I’ve overcome.

See these calluses, nana?

Proof I don’t just laze around.

I work hard.

Not hardly working, alright?

Oh, how I wish I could tell you

more of my tales and poems.

You’d give me that half-smile

and your favorite cliché:

“Galing talaga ng apo ko.”

I know you didn’t always understand my work,

but your pride was always sincere.

Never just sugar for my ears.

That’s what I love about you, nana.

And now…

much like how they closed your coffin lid,

so too are the doors back to you.

Oh, how I wish you could’ve lived forever.

Maybe then, you’d see me

lead my own people, truthfully.

Maybe my tales wouldn’t just be tales,

my poems wouldn’t just be poems,

but anthems.

I wish there had been more time.

I wish I wasn’t late.

I wish I was there the moment you left.

Maybe—just maybe—

you would’ve gone past a hundred,

a hundred fifty,

or even a thousand years.

But that’s just my wishful thinking, nana.

I know.

What I should carry with me

is what you said about life,

about when you’d be gone.

It’s just…

it’s just so painful within.

It hurts, nana.

It truly does.

Random Leaf #1933 precisely cut and in a different hue

The little girl,

clad in white and innocence,

asked the man in a crimson suit.

His fedora hat hid his horns,

and his crystal-like sunglasses

hid his true intent.

He had taken a liking to the child,

and though he knew himself evil,

he couldn’t help but be untrue to his own nature

whenever the little girl was around.

As you see, the girl was dying.

There were no signs, save for what the doctors knew.

Only she, her parents,

and their family physician knew of her fate.

The devil had an inkling of it,

yet still he believed

the little girl would one day be cured.

And one day,

the devil had to go away

for a few days or two.

He told the girl of his expedition.

The girl couldn’t hide her tears,

and so she quickly gave the devil a hug.

She tucked her face behind him.

She believed he didn’t notice.

But so it is with the devil in the details—

the devil knew even the smallest ones.

“I’ll return,

I promise,”

the devil told her.

“You do?”

asked the girl.

The devil nodded,

as though an oath

came into existence.

“And you’ll come visit me every day, alright?”

the little girl continued.

“Yes, every day.

I promise you.

I’ll come visit you,

every day,

until you get better, alright?—”

“Or until I go to heaven,”

said the little girl.

“Heaven?”

the devil murmured.

“Do you believe in heaven?”

the little girl asked.

With a heavy breath,

and a sigh from deep within,

the devil—

for the first time—

lied to the one he cherished.

“Yes.

Yes, I do.”

The little girl wiped her tears,

gave the devil butterfly kisses,

and waved goodbye

as a sign of sending him off.

Time froze

for that one moment.

The devil couldn’t believe himself.

He had lied both to the little girl

and to himself.

And both sins,

to him,

were just as heavy.

Random Leaf #1932 precisely cut

Immaculate. Pristine. Ethereal.

Few words may come close to how beautiful you are,

yet still unjust—

no true word could mirror you.

Lunarian,

Anchor to all lovers of the sea,

One above Helen,

The meaning of existence,

The proof of God’s love,

The true mirror of Narcissus.

These truths may be so,

but still a shame—

they will never be enough in words.

Oh, how vexing,

that only eyes can tell.

A poet cannot claim,

cannot show to others

the fullness of your beauty.

Random Leaf #1931 precisely cut

He wasn’t quite sure

how to even feel of it.

All he knows is—

she’s saving her.

That’s just it.

He doesn’t think of her

as a burden in the long run.

He cannot.

He lives in the moment,

unfearful of the fleeting eternity that is now.

The words future, tomorrow, up ahead, to come—

are alien to him.

Foreign things

that seldom, rarely,

cross his mind.

Maybe it’s because, deep down,

he’s afraid.

And the moment

just takes

all of his energy.

And being with her,

even for just a mere moment,

she became hers.

To her,

he might not be.

But at least to him,

even a simple glance of hers

he can already call his.

Random Leaf #1930 precisely cut

There was no resonance in him,

nor in anything he did.

Yet he claimed his own words:

he was in love.

They all believed him.

They respected him so.

But it was nothing more

than a damper—

a ruse to keep his peace.

He wasn’t in love.

He never was.

He only wanted silence

from the echoes that urged him

to quicken his pace,

to tie the knots.

But in his mind,

if this kept on,

it wouldn’t be love he tied—

it would be his neck.

Random Leaf #1929 precisely cut

She wasn’t foretold

to him by any murmur,

hearsay, folklore, tall tales,

nor by ancient texts or divinations.

But of all the lives he will live,

she will always be the one

he falls in love with.

Be him late,

be him broken, utterly unloved,

star-crossed or a lifetime defied by fate,

he will,

over

and over again,

choose her.

Always.

Random Leaf #1928 precisely cut

The moon is never part of the ocean,

and yet the ebb is her own.

And among the many,

she’s the first to greet her goodnight.

The moon is never part of the land,

and yet in her glow,

the shade of night wanders elsewhere.

Yet unknown to many,

she became the guide of wanderers at night.

The moon may be part of the sky,

but the evening sky is hers.

The sky at night is her.

There may be clouds, stars, even rain,

completing the sky—

but without her,

the night sky will never be.

Random Leaf #1927 precisely cut

Even without deception,

the lab rats will still meet their end.

The logs the scientist kept

will still align

with the predicted results.

There may be bits misjudged,

and moments uncalculated,

but all remain within expectation.

It is a very long experiment, after all—

a lifetime for the rats,

and for their many generations hence.

But only a short while

for the one who orchestrated it all.

They call him god, after all.

But the scientist is merely there

to experiment.

To observe.

He has no use for the faith of lab rats.

Random Leaf #1926

What if the rebellion happened after the expulsion?

Random Leaf #1925 precisely cut

There will be people

looking out for you

and looking for you.

Both can carry

good intentions or bad—

but rarely does one do so

without meaning to.

Those without conditions

are truly like gems,

hard to come across.

They don’t care whether the water is

cold, hot, or lukewarm.

They simply smile and say,

with or without much care:

"At least we got something to drink."

Random Leaf #1924 precisely cut

I dreamt of a house,

too old but not yet ancient.

I had never seen it before,

nor had I any memory

of ever being there.

And yet it felt more familiar

than anything I know,

as if somewhere in my mind

I had been there—

seen that place once,

but could no longer recall clearly.

I was a little afraid

of the dark corner it held,

as passing thoughts of shadows

crept from nowhere to elsewhere.

I believe I heard it said—

in a vivid murmur,

half-whispered in my dream—

that I was the one

who owned that place.

And when the time came to leave,

I heard others trying to claim it.

And somehow I,

still alive, still breathing—

never once feeling dead,

nor ever believing I was—

became the ghost

that haunts that house

in my dream.

Random Leaf #1923 precisely cut IG

And so it began

the puzzle of lies,

slowly falling

into many broken pieces.

He was the hero,

as people claimed him.

Though he denied it,

his voice fell faint

against the loud cheering

of the crowd.

The shower of glory

should have meant comfort

for anyone basked in it.

Yet his conscience

gradually lost existence

when certain moments went astray.

But the hero was a good liar—

one who never believed

his own lies.

And so the gleam of his eyes

grew ever darker,

and the world he lived in

ever smaller.

Random Leaf #1922 precisely cut

He was never as faithful

as he preached to others.

It was silence and peace

that he desired most,

and when the echoes

mocked his pleasure,

he went on telling others

what he himself could hardly believe.

He was not as faithful as he claimed—

and yet faith still used him

to help others.

One should never forget:

the cross was not always

a thing of holiness.

Random Leaf #1921 precisely cut

It was all a ploy,

a plan long ago orchestrated.

He knew of it.

He knew the script,

he knew the scenes,

he knew how the director would react.

He even knew who the writer was.

And when his moment

had finally arrived—

even with hesitation,

even with the urge to back out—

he couldn’t.

He knew of the strings;

he saw them.

It is unfortunate that those without,

and even those with,

cannot see them—

but he could,

and a few others too.

They made him the villain.

Perhaps it was the strings’ fault,

but he did not know that.

Only faith told him

there was a puppeteer holding the other end.

He did not want to take the dark mantle,

but that was the role he was made to play:

to be cast aside,

to be hated,

to be used as an example.

To be called a sinner

for an order

he was made unable to disobey.

What more could they take after?

His wings were torn,

his body broken.

Oh! Orpheus,

if only you knew

of an innocent angel

who, very much like you,

loved only two things:

to be loved,

and to play music.

Random Leaf #1920 precisely cut

He was never deemed worthy.

He himself knew that from the start.

And yet, for some reason,

he could not deny the role

the story wrote for him to play.

He was mad,

for he was

unchosen.

Yet to his dear brother

he committed the first murder.

No tears could hold together

the broken man he had become,

and no wall nor fence

could hold his back

against the tears of heaven.

It should have been his father

to make this act first—

if not for the fact

they had already been thrown

from the garden.

The devil was spared

from the betrayed father.

But later on,

who could save the child,

both from the world

and from himself?

Silver had not yet been discovered.

No noose yet tied for a neck

to adorn an old tree

standing in a desert place.

Random Leaf #1919

So when did leaves contained only poetry?

Random Leaf #1918 precisely cut

She wasted no effort

trying to convince herself

the world was hers for the taking.

The call of her lips

basked against mascara

slipping down her cheeks.

She wasn’t one who liked crying —

but she always did.

Much like clouds drifting,

she was of the sky:

she seemed always high,

without fault, without worry.

But too foreign to all,

she weighed too heavily —

for her storm was never

a storm like any other.

Random Leaf #1917 precisely cut

For what better could it be

than to see beyond the colors,

past the horizon itself,

yet still be unable to be.

Free from the strings

called destiny and fate,

tangled and overlooking

love, lust, and regret,

yet never quite able

to see your smile soon after.

This isn’t love,

you see,

for I can freely choose

whether I should, or shouldn’t, be.

No better judge than tomorrow,

and a restless sleep,

turning and turning over

a cold, comfy bed

beneath the folds of a warm blanket.

Let me not see—

only let me sleep.

I am not in love,

yet still

be in love without meaning

to be unloved.

Toss aside the query;

this is only a short fairy tale.

There is no meaning in

this verse, nor in what

it reflects—overlooking

these pages of crumbled

letters, joined together

by the unseen hands

of the puppeteer,

the master playwright,

and the songwriter without a voice.

The god of the machine

moves its hands to signal tears.

The light will go out

as the curtain rolls

down the cheeks of eternity.

The unapplause of the blind

and the cheering of the deaf

will resonate with the mute.

We are all invalid.

Random Leaf #1916

for what better does it seem

to see beyond the colors

and more than the horizon

but unable to be.

free from the strings

called destiny and fate

intertwined and overlooking

love, lust and regret

without somehow being

able to see your smile soon after.

this isn't love,

you see,

for i can freely choose

if i should or shouldn't be.

no better judge but tomorrow

and a restless sleep

turning and turning over

a cold comfy bed

beneath the folds of a warm blanket.

let me not see

but let me sleep.

I am not in love but still

be in love without meaning

to be unlove.

toss aside the querry

this is all a short fairy tale.

there is no meaning to

this verse as well what

it mirrors overlooking

this pages of crumbled

letter joint together

by the unseen hands

of the puppeteer,

the master playwright

and the song writer without a voice.

the god of the machine

uses it's hands to signal tears.

the light will go off

as the curtain roll

down the cheeks of eternity.

the unapplause of the blind

and cheerings of the deaf

will reasonate with the mute.

we are all invalid.

Random Leaf #1915 precisely cut

To the one who believes himself

both kind and free,

committing to rejection is an ability.

Oh! This commitment isn’t just about

being denied, restricted, or rejected.

It is about saying no,

committing to it without hesitation,

nor any ache in the heart afterward.

Random Leaf #1914 precisely cut

Dinuguan Ingredients

Pork blood — the main ingredient.

Vinegar, ginger, garlic, onion, oil,

black pepper, salt, green chili pepper —

the minute support for every cooking.

Pork intestine, pork liver, pork meat —

the protein needed to call it food.

Water — an ingredient that need not be listed,

but is still essential for stews.

Knorr pork cube, patis,

for when the taste is still not enough.

And lastly, grandmother’s love —

it is her cooking that made me fall in love with food,

and her home-cooked meals that

make me feel at home.

Oh, how I wish I could still taste

and smell her homemade meals.

Oh, how I wish I could still hear her voice

as she hands me a portion fit for a king.

Random Leaf #1913 precisely cut

Everyone kept talking of the journey —

the many destinations to elsewhere,

the treasures at the rainbow’s end,

and the treasures we could

or could not keep along the way.

But what of

our once safe spaces,

the comfort zones

we’re told we must one day leave?

These havens sheltered us,

gave us rest when needed,

and witnessed us grow

from somebody to someone.

They hold the quiet records

of who we truly are.

It isn’t fair

that only the journey

gets celebrated.

Only a few speak of

the place we all

are meant to return to,

and fewer still speak

of the road leading back

to the place we call home.

Random Leaf #1912 precisely cut IG

And in another unspoken

definition of insanity—

it is not just doing the same thing

over and over again,

expecting a different result.

Insanity can also be

trying to become what society

deems we should be,

and trying, over and over,

expecting ourselves to be different.

The truly insane

are those who want us

to unbecome—

and the most insane of all

are the ones who believe

we can be.

We can change our fates,

but never who we are.

Random Leaf #1911 precisely cut

The beautiful thing

about masks is

that if you're good enough,

you yourself

can see even the cracks.

It is up to you

whether you want to fix them

or let the cracks keep flowing.

It is not so much for your sake

as for others to take notice—

for the mask

is what they will always see.

After all,

the mask is never your face.

Random Leaf #1910

The thing beautiful

about masks is

that if you're good enough,

you yourself could

see even the cracks.

It is up to you

whether you want to fix it

or let the cracks keep flowing.

After all, the mask is

not your face.

It is what others see.

It is not as much for your sake

but for others to take notice.

Random Leaf #1909 precisely cut

And who will save him:

the one who is most free,

yet even the strings let go of.

He is free to dance

to any melody, both heard and unheard.

He is free to act

in any story,

both versed and unversed.

And he is free to choose

what he wants to—

be it good or not so.

But what he cannot do

is hold on to something,

or someone.

Be it only the strings that might hold him,

or the unseen hands

pulling them from afar.

He may be spared

from hypocritical rulings and decisions,

whether for his own sake or for others.

Yet of all the freedoms he may enjoy,

the one without strings

is also the one abandoned.

Random Leaf #1908 precisely cut

Yet there is something

that ties my back.

It is not a red tie of some sort,

not bound to my spine,

my armpit, or my Achilles’ heels.

It is simply something that holds me—

keeps me from losing

too much of my insanity.

I’m afraid I cannot become evil,

even if I wanted to.

Unless, of course,

there is no dam left

to keep me from losing it all.

I am no god.

I am no monster.

I’m just a human—

one who has this inkling of gusto

for standing at the edge,

looking down into the abyss,

and being able, too, to see the strings.

I am not deaf.

I am not blind.

And I can use my voice.

Yet I cannot be too sure of myself,

if not for the mask I wear.

And the sole blessing

our Creator gave us

is also His curse:

our ability to deny.

Random Leaf #1907 precisely cut IG

I ain’t afraid

no more, Mom.

I can show them

my real mask now.

It doesn’t hurt

as much as I thought.

I can lie now, Mom.

Crystal clear.

I ain’t afraid no more.

I’ll never remember

you scolding me not to,

because now you tell me

I have to.

Let the world burn

if it has to.

One lie wouldn’t make

much of a difference—

not as much as it matters

whether I told

a whole lot of folktales

and inconsistent stories.

I have to insist

on the untruth

you ask me now

to be committed to.

It doesn’t hurt as much.

You’re right, Ma, really!

And right now,

I’m not committing a sin.

This is all for your sake,

right, Mom?

No, Ma!

These aren’t tears.

These are cracks forming.

Nothing to worry about—

it’s just my mask, really.

Not as if it’s my heart

breaking apart.

Yes, Ma!

I’ll keep on lying.

I’ll keep the truth from

this awful, awful,

cruel world.

God—how I wish

I could die now.

Random Leaf #1906 precisely cut

It’s not insanity

that turns you

to unbecoming.

It never is madness,

really.

What makes one

no longer be

is sacrifice.

But how?

Isn’t sacrifice a virtue?

It’s an action—

loyalty and empathy are.

Sacrifice is never a virtue.

Especially if

the trade is too

far-fetched a deal to be good.

Humanity is a price—

so are principles,

promises, and whatever else.

Nonetheless, the price

may be weighed on a scale

for the lesser evil

between two goods.

Sacrifice, as an action,

is what causes one

to lose being.

There are heroes

who long became villains

without knowing their folly

in the name of heroism,

flown with misdirection

of senses and empty unrhetorics.

The hero becomes not one

when he sees himself a hero

while there are those who do not.

So does a human unbecome

when he sees himself still one—

though he is becoming not one.

Worse still is the human

who is lucid all throughout

his unbecoming.

He was given a choice:

to choose or to obey.

Neither grants him satiety,

and both deny him humanity.

Random Leaf #1905 precisely cut

And a rock stops being one

once she becomes a mountain.

A puddle stops being one

once she becomes a lake.

A garden stops being one

once she becomes a forest.

But when does a human stop being one?

Does it stop being one

once it grows wings?

Does it stop being one

once it grows horns?

Does it stop being one

once it grows a tail?

Or does it stop being one

once it calls itself

no longer human?

How does one be no more?

Random Leaf #1904 precisely cut

After the morning,

they berry her.

Unbeknownst to everyone,

sadness is never aloud,

as the flour gets laid beside her.

The grater

commits serial to cheeses

as our time disappears into nothingness.

No one realized

the thyme that went missing.

As her suites get covered in mold,

and her coarse lavender perfume

disappears forever,

the root of the tree

along the course of steps

manages to steal itself.

As forever,

she became gone.

“I love ewe,”

were her last words.

Random Leaf #1903

after the morning

they berry her

unbeknownst to everyone

she never aloud sadness

as the flour gets laid beside her.

the grater

commit serial to cheeses

as our time disappeared to nothingness.

no one realized

the thyme that went missing.

as her suite gets covered in mold

and her coarse lavender of perfume

disappears forever.

the route of the tree

along the course steps manages

to steel itself.

as forever she became gone.

"I love ewe,"

were her last words.

Random Leaf #1902 precisely cut

Am I out of grief?

That I, a writer,

have made ink of this fathomless emotion—

is it no more, and am I cured?

I can once more laugh

with the usual tone and pitch,

wear my color again,

and my fake, written mask

is back to its usual shape, size, and shade.

But what am I feeling?

Why am I feeling

that out of nowhere,

my world has grown smaller?

Is it because a door,

once open for me,

has closed?

And a number in my phone

will always ring

and no one will answer—

and one day,

even the ringing will stop.

That familiar voice

of metallic repetition

will respond:

"This number is out of coverage area,"

or

"Sorry, this number is busy now,"

or

"Sorry, this number is unavailable."

Or whatever line

that automated voice replies with.

Nevertheless,

I can only talk to her

and see her

in my memories.

Only...

if

I had gotten more.

Random Leaf #1901

am I out of grief?

that I, a writer, have made

ink of this fathomless emotion

is no more and Am cured?

I can once more laugh

at the usual tone and pitch

as well my color and my

fake written mask

is.back once more

to it's usual shape, size and color.

but what am I feeling,

why am I feeling

that out of nowhere

I have this feel that my world

have grown smaller?

is it because a door,

once open for me have closed

and a number in my phone

will always ring and no one will answer

and one day the ringing will stop

and that familiar voice of a repeated metallic color

will reply that the number is ouy of coverage area or

sorry this number is busy now

or sorry this number is unavailable

or whatever the automated voice will reply

with it's usual line, nevertheless

I can only talk to her and see her,

in my memories

only

if

I had gotten more.

Random Leaf #1900 precisely cut IG

Mask after mask after mask—

can’t they just take them off,

even for a moment?

Let those who truly care stay,

and let those who don’t, leave.

I know for a fact I can’t take mine off—

but the cracks show the truth:

in brief moments,

in sudden teary-eyed glances.

The way mine works

is through silence

and hollowed laughter.

I cannot bring myself too much joy,

but I wouldn’t want others

to go without it.

So at the very least,

stay with me—

if you want my silence,

or if you want to break it.

But it’s my eyes—

just for that fleeting moment—

that I can’t cover.

I want to see her so badly

just one last time,

even though now

she’s the one covered,

behind the glass counter of her coffin—

forever etched into my memory.

Though my heart may drift,

even for shallow moments,

I cannot unremember her.

Random Leaf #1899

mask after mask after mask

can it be just for a moment they unwear them?
And let those who truly cares stay
while those who don't leave?

I know for a fact I can take mine off
but the cracks show the truth
at least for brief moments and sudden teary eyed glances
and the way mine works is out of silence
and hollowed laughter.

i cannot bring myself too much joy
but I wouldn't others be without joy

so at the very least,
stay with me if you want my silence
or if want me to break it,

although it is my eyes that's solely
for that fleeting moment
that i can't cover.

i want to see her so badly
just for one last time
even though now
she's the one in cover
behind the glass counter of her coffin
that forever will be marked ib my memories.

though my heart will,
for brief shallow moments,
i cannot unremember her.

Random Leaf #1898 precisely cut

And another butterfly—

in the shade of the deep sea—

came to visit me.

It fell to the side,

gently landing on its tiny legs

upon my shoulder.

Then it flapped its wings

once more and fluttered around me,

gazing, oblivious to my gaze.

Naturally, I’m not one

to stare at such uninvited guests.

No flower bloomed nearby,

nor scent too fragrant

to draw its attention.

Except, perhaps,

the lure of a daily wage—

such as mine.

I never really loved sweetness,

but how unbecoming it is

for a stranger

to catch the curiosity

of one such as I—

Someone who captures nothing

except a childish demeanor

and wild dreams,

unfit for a collared blue.

But what would this oceanic thing

want from me,

bearing no distinguishing feature

but a grieving heart—

A heart still weeping

for a dearly beloved

who recently passed?

Do my tears,

though salty,

taste sweet

to this little visitor?

How rude and cruel

must this butterfly be

to find my sorrow satiating?

Still—

who am I to be mad

at something so fragile?

Was my grief ever meant

to be heard

or known

by anyone?

Even so,

I wish this little fellow

would whisper to me

just once—

What does my sadness taste like?

Maybe I’ll learn

something I’ve forgotten.

Maybe I’ll remember—

An oceanic soul

with a vast heart,

able to overflow

the entire world.

Random Leaf #1897 precisely cut

I wanted to cry at your funeral,

but I knew it would be for the wrong reason.

I know you died.

I was sad about it.

I know it’s a very big deal and all—

but what made the dam behind my eyes

almost burst into a river

was being denied the honor of pallbearing.

I remembered how strong I am.

I used to claim the titles:

“mountain shaper” and “tree feller,”

earned from mischievous deeds

done once—or more than once.

And these weren’t even the real proofs of strength.

The real signs were in the soft things:

me holding your hand,

our arms entwined as we climbed the stairs,

or when we’d walk together

through cramped little alleyways.

I can do many things.

I can do all things.

And right when I wanted to show you

one last time

how strong I’ve become—

I couldn’t.

I was denied that one small wish,

that one childish, prideful hope:

to carry you.

To show everyone

how strong your grandchild is.

I was denied the chance

to carry you one last time,

and that—

that is what made me cry.

I’ve accepted that you’re gone forever,

but I can’t, for the life of me, accept

that with my tear-stung, star-eyed grief,

you can’t tell the world

one last time

how strong your grandchild has become.

Maybe it wasn’t really about showing strength.

Maybe…

maybe I just wanted

to carry you

one last time.

Random Leaf #1896

i wanted to cry at yiur funeral

but i know for a fact it will be for the wrong reason.

i know you died,

I got sad about it.

I know it's a very big deal and all

but what made my dam of eyes

to almost unable held river overflowing

was be denied of pallbearing.

i recalled how strong i was,

i claim on my own the titles of

mountain shaper and tree feller for the

mischivious misdeeds I did once or so more

and this not counting signs to measure strength

me holding your hands

or our arms entwined as we climb up stairs

or simply walking through small cramp pathways.

I can do manu things,

I can do all things

and right when I want to simply show

to you

for one last time how strong I.have become,

I cannot.

I got denied of this whim of mine

to show case my stremgth,

to show to everyone how strong your grand child is.

I got denied to carry you one last time

and this is what made me cry.

I have accepted you're gone forever,

but i cannot for the life accept it,

with teary star eyed,

that you can't tell the world

for one last time strong your grandchild have become.

maybe it isn't my desire to show my strength,

maybe it's just me wishing for one last time to carry you.

Random Leaf #1895 precisely cut

After seeing you inside your coffin,

it dawned on me how small you were.

I had already noticed, the last time we were together,

how you had grown smaller than I am.

And I—playful and childish still—

spoke to you not like a grandmother,

but like an old friend.

Not old with age, but old with time,

someone I'd known for as long as I could remember.

But as time passed, and I lived through every fleeting moment,

those memories felt like

mere passing thoughts—

barely worth remembering.

I can hardly recall

how each time we met,

your gaze seemed to look higher and higher,

while I was always distracted,

sometimes catching your tired eyes,

eyes that held worries

over things I didn’t understand.

Maybe one of those worries

was about what I’d eat for dinner

when I got home.

Oh! How I wish I could’ve counted more

of your white hairs—uban—

that you always asked me to pluck.

And I, the loved and privileged,

was always too lazy to do it.

Now I adore white hairs—

partly because you had them,

partly because I believed people with white hair

could do magic.

A childhood whim, I know,

but I still try to honor it.

Because you did have powers:

sorcery, secrets,

a kind of quiet magic.

Yet no matter how great those were,

they cannot be boxed

in the coffin you lie in now.

You're a treasure locked in a chest

far too small for your worth.

And no matter how tall or grown I’ve become,

I know you never saw me

as someone high up.

To you,

I will always be your little grandchild—

misguided, precious,

ever so fragile.

And I failed to mirror to you

just how deeply you loved me.

Your coffin is simply too small and tight

for the vastness

of who you really are.

Random Leaf #1894

After seeing you inside your coffin

It just dawned on me how small you were.

I already noticed how you grew smaller 

than I am the last time I got to be with you.

and how i was a playful and childish

as if you weren't my grandmother,

yet somehow, this is the truth,

later on, i never saw you as my grandmother

but an old friend, not one that is of old aged,

but one I've known for a very long time.

But as moments passed and with me living every fleet of it,

I recalled it as something nothing

much to be considered of thought

a mere simple passing of notice, unimportant.

I even hardly remember how each time we see each other,

your gaze to me became simply higher and higher,

while I was always looking at elsewhere

and maybe sometimes at your tired eyes 

that worries much about of things foreign to me.

maybe one of them is about what I'll eat for dinner when I comeback home.

oh! how I wish i could have counted still

your many white hairs, uban

that you always asked me to pluck out

and i, the loved and privileged,

was simply and as always, too lazy to do

of which later in life I came to adore white hairs

partly because you have it

and another because i believe those with white hairs can do magic,

this is a childhood whim I know to be fiction

but i try to be respectful of it.

As much as i know you do have powers akin to sorcery and great secrets.

such thing no matter great though

cannot be boxed in such a coffin you are in.

you're a treasure placed in chest

incomparable to your real value.

and no matter how tall and big i've become,

I know for a fact you cannot see me as someone high up.

You will always see me as your little grandchild

misguided, precious and ever so fragile.

of which I fsiled to mirror to you equally

how much you loved me to thr brim.

your coffin is simply too small and tight

for the vastness of who you actually are.