10ThingsIWantToSayToAGirl

1. I wish I could treat your voice like fireflies. And hold it in a jar to gaze at on cold winter nights when I miss hearing it more than ever. Then I would open it. So that the silent cathedral of my room would turn into a concert hall of your words. As sound waves ricochet off walls. Playing raindrop rhythms against my eardrums. To the sight of galaxies of hellos and goodbyes nurtured in the universe of your vocal chords, giving birth to supernovas in your sentences. That turn cold glares into tsunamis that wash away every judgment we’ve ever made about you.

2 Your smile is the most beautiful thing ever created, past the secretive smirk of the Mona Lisa. You make the sun insecure, while you mock the phases of the moon with the crescent curves of your lips. And shooting stars flip coins into wishing wells at allotted times to be able to smile the way you do. So smile.

Because 3. You are beautiful. Not just in the contours of your figure or the angles of your features, but in the way you carry yourself…like a queen.

4. See only queens can give birth to men they raise to be kings. The beauty of creation held in one moment of infinity. See the second I was born, my mother’s smile played welcome committee to my existence. She radiated every molecule of love I would ever need, just for the sole reason that out of everybody in the world…I was the one she gave birth to. It was better than winning the lottery. And to this day I can’t figure out what she ever saw in me.

5. I’m sorry. For every magazine, song, picture, music video, website, and advertisement that made you feel like you weren’t good enough. Because if I could. I would plaster your personality over walls, have your compassion play lead roles and have your sensitivity star in the centerfold of magazines.

6. I promise I will do what I can to make you happy. I would cook, clean, do the dishes, do the laundry, even make you a sandwich. Okay, maybe I wouldn’t make you a sandwich. But I would do everything else to show you that not all men expect you to cater to them according to tradition.

7. Never settle for less than you deserve. Or give anybody a reason not to give you all the respect they can give you. Or let anybody convince you you’re not beautiful.



9. I skipped 8 because I don’t want another number to be able to judge you with. I refuse to mentally assign you a score for what you look like on the outside. See the only numbers I would relate to you would be…your birthday. An anniversary. Maybe the cost of a wedding ring and a mortgage. But I think I’m getting ahead of myself here. Though at the very least, I would gladly spend…my time with you. See out of the trillions of numbers that’s in the world…the only ones I would want…would be the seven digits in your phone number. Because if time was money, I would spend a precious eternity talking to you about nothing at all.

10. So no matter who you are. Don’t stop being you. Because we would be lost without you.

ScarsAndTheStoriesBehindThem

All I wanted to do was make you smile.
To gaze in between your violin string eyelashes while my heart skipped a symphony.

But I realized that “we” were just a giant arts and crafts project. So I superglued my effort to bits and pieces of good intentions. Paper mache-d my dreams to your reassurances, hoping we could be something.

If only that worked out.

Because I knew all along that I wasn’t meant to stay.
Just for you to get tired of.

Now you see me for what I really am.
Broken.

So you ask how I got these scars.
Streams ran their courses down my face and carved rivers into my cheeks. Tempests of apologies battered on the roof of my mouth, so my excuses could be nailed to my tongue.

I stapled signs to my spine.
Reminders of every reason why I sacrificed who I was for you.
Crucified by your judgments while you pierced my side with your indifference.
All while I tried to resurrect sunsets from behind your eyes.

You ask how I got these scars.
I got them as I picked out all the shrapnel of your smile from my memories. Tore every fragment of your laugh from my ears. And the echoes of your voice from the caverns of my consciousness…so I wouldn’t get lost in them.

So you see these bullet wounds riddled across my chest…remnants of your cocked fingers firing accusations at my fragile conscience.

See, I swallowed my pride to make you happy.
So it climbed up my ribs like jungle gyms and made escape tunnels of my veins.
I walked miles to meet you halfway, over shells of empty words and broken promises while bearing your burdens on my back.

So I bled these psychiatric ink blots onto the same tissues I once tried to dry your tears with. Hid secrets in every syllable of your name. Whispered sweet nothings to your imperfections. And mumbled confessions to old conversations.

See, all I ever wanted to do was make you smile.
Because if I could, I would drown your fears in the blood, sweat and tears that I’ve shed for you. See I hate you, but I miss you, but I hate you…but I miss you…but my scars keep reminding me.

See I got these scars the second I fell for you.
And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

FeelingsOfUselessnessCanMakeOneCreative

I just feel so useless sometimes…
So I just stand there.
Like a contestant on some game show
And the questions consisted of words of comfort
Or life skills like doing laundry, or hammering a nail…
Or…being able to hold a conversation with a girl.

So I hang my head in shame
Looking at the well-worn toe boxes of my sneakers
Like the creases were wrinkles
Earned through years of experiences
And trials and tribulations
That make my life resemble history channel re-runs.

So I try to make myself seem worthwhile
I pretend that my hands are these…
Dreamcatchers
Picking up dreams like claw machines
To deposit them in your lap
Or giving you permission
To window shop into my whirlwind insides
With your x-ray vision.

Then I start imagining that my skin
Is the only thing holding me together.
And the fabric of my existence
Is just thread off some cheap knockoff
You can buy at your local flea market.
And it’s bursting at the seams
Unable to hold in all the…
Uselessness!
Like my soul just wants to burst out
At the first possible opportunity
Like a...premature ejaculation.

And it’s burdened by my collection of missed chances
Like old wishes at a Sick Kids hospital.
So my shoulders are fossils
Being turned into fuel from the peer pressure
Until my spine curves like question marks
Under the weight of your suggestions.

And my blood is molten lava
Flowing through tectonic ridge veins
Waiting for open mawed volcanoes to escape from
Alongside the growl of earthquakes
Like the stomach of a starved Cerberus.

So I hold onto these lines
I turned into my autobiography
Like the last gasp of oxygen
You manage to grab before you drown.

But even then…
I just feel so useless.

IAmAPrince

I am a prince.
Not a formerly known as turned symbol.
No paparazzi magnet in matrimony with the tabloids and headlines
No regal bearing…and not charming in the least
But I’m still a prince.

Made who I am by my blood
So it’s not a played out phrase
When I say I’d treat my wife like royalty…because she would be.
Because by logic I’m a prince if I was raised by a queen.

But I never get the chance to thank her.
My memory fails to keep track of our history the way parliament would
But it’s etched in the genetic structures she built in me
The way she contributed half
And we share the same beautiful biology
Constructed to the letter in the blueprints
She stowed away in my DNA
With every detail planned in her chromosomes
Sometimes forgetting my double helix inheritance when it gets lost in translation
And take for granted the fact I have an empire in my bloodline
That Alexander would envy.

So I’m hoping everything you are is hereditary.
Since I’d hate to be anything less
It’s impossible to be anything more
But taught to be as much since I was raised by a queen.
So I am a prince.

Not worthy of the title she gave to me
Never tried hard enough in school
Even less outside of it
While she worked 12 hours a day
Just to give me things I wanted but didn’t need.
But I learned from you.
See, a long time ago I realized that Grandma got it right
When she named you a miracle
Because you are.

A queen.
With your family as a kingdom.
Never wanted to be monarch
But willing to migrate for your future generations like monarch butterflies.
See, I could never treat your visage like Elizabeth’s
Molding it into metal.
Unable to place your face on currency
So currently, I’m trying to put your features into poetry.

Knowing I could never succeed.
But I’m trying.
Trying to live up to what you made me.
A prince.
Hoping to make the queen proud.

Here'sTheBestDefinitionOfMyselfICanThinkOfRightNoworMaybeAnytimeSoon

Mirror, mirror.
I see you. But can you see me?
Don’t even bother to check the ID.
My name’s Marcus.
Never knew what I wanted to be so I tried to be…everything.

My mind grazes clouds but my feet touchdown like wide receivers.
I’m an artistic Atlas.
Carrying the sky on my shoulders. Trying to Crayola in the grey gaps with a smile or laughter. But I could never stay inside the lines, so I always felt safe keeping everything black and white.

I’m a magician.
I can take your hat and figure out what was on your mind.
I can turn words into…words that sound like poetry. Cut them in half and make haikus without assistance. Now I’m learning to transform my blankets into straightjackets so I can stay trapped in my dreams.

I’m a gamer.
Turning conversations into split second scenes of Scrabble trying to piece my words together. Build up from nothing so we can Jenga a tower between us.
And my inspiration likes to play hide and seek with me behind my writer’s block.

I’m a geek.
Framing my family portraits in comic book panels and letting them collect dust like memorabilia. Complete with movie references and kung-fu actions. *press here to hear Pillsbury laugh*
A little awkward…past gamer though I never had game but I never minded.
And I study my reflection in self-help books because I think it’s what’s on the inside that counts.

So I’m a doctor.
Turning my cardiac muscles into wood grain.
Trying to triple bypass these lined paper ribs
So I could donate my heart to you, and tell you my superior atria are peepholes
Because I want you to see how I feel.

I’m a photographer.
I take Polaroid snapshots of emotions worth a thousand words so I don’t have to let time develop feelings for me.

I’m a diary.
Not a book so you can’t judge me by my cover.
I’m what you make of me. Put yourself into me and I will be your confidante.
Pen ink becomes black blood that flows through these veins so I could let my covers hide your every secret.

I’m the Megazord (some assembly still required).
But my mind is a 2 year old’s artistic masterpiece.
My chest is a secret clubhouse without a password yet.
My ideas are staring contests in a mirror.
My shoulders are Pringles factories.
My hands are…a little too sweaty.
My tongue is a little confused between what I’m thinking and what I feel so it has thumb wars against itself and stays tied a lot.

I’m single.
So call me when you want.
Call me what you want but I already know who I am.
Born in the Philippines. 1991.
Last name Lomboy. First name Marcus.
Thank you.

ReflectionsRemindMeOfMulan

I look at my reflection in broken mirrors.
And it’s exactly how I see myself.
But I’m trying. I swear I’m trying to piece myself together to the best of my ability like torn up photographs. But I keep putting pieces in the wrong places because I hate what I turned into.
And it turns out…
Walking through nightmares is the only time I’m content with my self.
With my eyes closed.
Waking blindly, hands outstretched.

Lost.
Because my sense of self has no sense of direction.
My charms are bibles in Atheist households.
My opinion is a hobo’s resume.
My self-esteem is a bottomless pit.
My insecurities are the deep end of the swimming pool.
And my words…seem to carry all the weight of balloons in lunar atmospheres.

So I’m back to searching for myself.
Looking for where my secrets lie, in the shadows where Dr. Jekyll hides.
With night vision goggles and a kaleidoscope, hoping I can turned these shapes into something and these words into anything.

But my broken mirror reflection keeps origami-ing my vision into folded page poems and apology letters I never sent.
Now I can see the person that I should be having fistfights with the person I turned into…and it doesn’t end well.

I’ve already Fight Clubbed my self-worth into submission every time I second-guessed myself. Venom in my veins from the cobras I could never get a hold of Because I always had trouble holding my tongue.
And these copy+pasted lies become musical notes. Charming words from their hiding place from what left inside my ribcage.

And I’m just left to wonder…if I’ll ever put myself together right.