Sunday, November 7, 2010


There is a grief that is like no other
It infects the eyes too subtly
                                    it cannot be seen
The mind is seared, the spirit is extinguished
Yet not one man has ever felt pain or loss
It is a flame that burns, yet leaves no trace
It is the most dangerous weapon in the world
So dangerous that no one ever gets the advantage
                                    all sides are defeated
                                    all teams lose

This is the grief of the mother whose child rises to power and fame
This is the grief of the lover whose beloved has kissed him for the first time
This is the grief of the graduate whose valedictory address has been spoken
This is the grief of the nationalist who saw the revolution happen
This is the grief of the artist after finishing a masterpiece
This is the grief of the king as he looks at the expanse of his kingdom

It is the grief of destiny, of chance, and of fate
It is the grief of reality
That as one savors victory, triumph, success
       as a human being achieves his life-long goal
                                                his desire
                                                his purpose
There is another that groans in pain and misery
And takes all the inequality and oppression
Instead of you

Thursday, July 1, 2010

Solace at Solstice

I mourn for the soothing wind,

It is lonely, and will always be

I mourn for those who never sinned

Mercy they will never see

I mourn for the early sun,

It gives light but unto itself

I mourn for all the things undone

Like old, unopened books on shelf

I mourn for the radiant sky,

It can never touch the ground

I mourn for those who wish to fly

They get lost; they're never found

I mourn for the evening star,

Or what remains of its past light

For what turns sweetness into sour

Or day into the night

I mourn for the comet's tail,

It will never return

I mourn for the weak and frail

Their strengths society spurn

I mourn for the midnight moon,

It is the sad reflection of humanity

The widow, the orphan, the dead, the loon

Oppressed by hostile insanity

I mourn for those who always mourn

They do for mourning's sake

For with the truth we are reborn

A banquet, we partake.

Monday, June 21, 2010


In a world of the temporal, will the lost human race ever have lasting possessions? Which things last?

Change, the flux of the universe.

Love, the supreme driving force.

Existence, that which willed itself into being.

Grace, the great preserver.

Destiny, the third-person observer.

Harmony, the pattern of chaos.


Sunday, February 28, 2010


Chains of trouble that bind the heart to the depths of despair, vanish!

Totally painful. It is very painful to face a crisis alone. The crushing weight of the problem seems impossible to resolve in the absence of a friend. It is too lonely.

When can man say that his companion is a friend? When there's concern. When there's sincerity. When there is a yearning to listen and empathize, not just empty words of unneeded advice.

Of course, every human being has the capability to think. No one is truly stupid in  its own sense. Each person knows what his actions mean, or that there is a purpose to it. Even the purpose of not having a purpose is a purpose in itself.

Well then, why do so many people misjudge others, why do they talk, preach, and even rebuke when what one needs is a listening ear and a pure willingness to embrace the problem as if it was their own?

Most especially, why do humans correct the mistakes of others that they themselves commit? Why are they trapped in constant hypocrisy in commanding things they never do? It is a pity that the eye cannot see itself.

And it is a pain that some friends never truly understand the big picture.

Saturday, January 2, 2010


For the year that is coming, and for the year that will pass away; a turning point becomes a milestone. The milestone then becomes a monument, especially for its sculptors and his benefactors. And the sculptor wants their patrons recognized.

For the hearing out of those pleas with which only the most sensitive ear can listen to. The deepest secrets which were born out of both desperation and insecurity, the tales of which the living tragedy unfolds. A dark truth that pierces the hearer and binds the teller to secrecy, with which only courage and sincerity could undo. For knowing, and genuinely being there.

For the amusement despite everything, for the joy amidst the pain. For the smiles, the giggles, and the concerned look. For the effort to bring comfort, of which even for the perpetrator is not given back. Sincerity. And for the dignity that is restored.

For the chance to be the listener of woes. The sharing of suffering, the stories of personal failures, the empathy. For the innocence, even if  it is a mere illusion, and the feeling of having a companion in the sea of troubles. For the play.

For the ironic friendship which have lasted despite constraints. The humor, the laughter, the things one cannot even talk about with other people. The physical bullying that normal people would render brutal, that which even strengthened both parties. Most especially for the subconscious understanding, with which the other has extended so much support as to even help out for mere survival of the other. One cannot live without.

For the darkest endeavours into the vast depths of emotions. The similar journey into a winding path of pain, agony, and what is all called reality. For the guidance, and the disillusionment from the ivory tower of ignorance to the painful truth of experience. For the unwavering, silent faith in What Is. The paradox of the light shining on the way and the darkness that creeps into the innermost vacuum of the soul.

For the mere presence of perfection. Splendor, grandeur, everything. For a chance at love.

Things change. Life remains the same. The wanderer has accepted his fate. The storyteller bows down with gladness. The poet puts down his pen. The scientist studies the world. The philosopher gazes at the sky once more. The realist steers the boat.

The writer hopes that his audience will understand what was written, as the sculptor murmurs a hearty “Thank you. Very much”.