EulogyForThePersonThatGaveUpOnDreams

This is a eulogy…for the person I used to be.

I remember you…slowly being erased by time and experience
The way pens refuse to be, so they can rewrite history.
But that’s when we find out who we really are.
When our eyelids wave goodbye to that night sky
For the last time and we die in our dreams
Not knowing that we are still asleep
So we can give chase to what we almost gave up on.
The painful beauty of the mo(u)rning
That lets us know that we’re still alive
And we’re not dead just yet.

I still have life left
Instead of working these graveyard shifts
Burying skeletons in my closet
That have already passed their expiration date.

And I’m not one to let rigor mortis
Tell me it’s too late to give chase.
Not when wishing wells choke on my dreams
Because they’re too big to drown
In the tidal waves our actions make ripples of.

See the stars in our eyes never really die
But we only see them when it’s too late
And MJ is still dancing for the man in the mirror
So he can turn into the man on the moon walking
Somewhere on its surface so we won’t forget.
That we are the world
And the rivers in our veins
Combined with the earthquakes in our chests
And the mountains that we’ve piled on our shoulders
Never tell us who we are.
They tell us what we can become.

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.

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.

ACompletelyLogicalFearOfMonsters

Ever since I was a child, I’ve been scared of monsters.
But every time they would come up in conversation…I would just chuckle and smile. Trying to hide the fact that I checked underneath my bed and in my closet every night in some absurd routine. Putting my faith in the dream catcher hanging above my head every night I would lull myself to sleep but only nightmares were tangled in its net.
So I would fend off the shadows, armed with only a flashlight and my own words. Convincing myself that I would never be safe, and so I refused to sleep.

I thought I’d grown out of it. So every time they would come up in conversation I would just smile and say, “Monsters are just a figment of your imagination.”
But the older I’ve gotten, the more I’ve come to believe in monsters and the terrors that the night hides from rays of sunlight and the watchful eyes of God.
And I realized that the things that go bump in the night are only messengers sending codes in Morse, urging me to stop hiding in the corners of my room.
But I was scared.

Because I have not only seen a monster…I’ve seen one created before my very eyes. As it stood before me, fully formed, I could no longer smile.
So how could I not believe in monsters?
When I’ve seen you tear tears from the eyes of women like it was nothing but a game. A challenge…just to prove your own self worth. So you squeeze yourself into a human facsimile like a perverted version of Halloween.

Monster, how dare you look like me?
Masquerading as my reflection in the mirror. Controlling my actions by plucking on marionette strings by the names of envy and insecurity.
You thrive in the dark…always leaving me on a search for happiness I just can’t seem to find. You always insist on hiding it in the deepest corners of my existence so by design, I would spend my next lifetimes looking for it. Malevolent and cunning to the core, and when you speak…it reeks so strongly of sin and brimstone that it could make God cringe. Angels on the bus avoid you on instinct, and what was once beautiful wilts at your touch. I refuse to eat or drink, afraid that I would vomit more sin into the world because I can’t stomach how similar we are. Your behaviour sickens me.
Monster, how dare you walk like me, talk like me? Breathe the same air as me?
Monster, how dare you steal my innocence?
So to everyone the monster on top my bed has hurt, I’m sorry.
I’m sorry I’m too much alike every person that’s ever hurt you. I’m sorry that I never cared enough. Or that I cared too much. I’m sorry that I didn’t turn out to be the person that you wanted me to be.
So every time I look into your eyes, it’s torture. It torments me because I never wanted to be like you. Monster…why do you make me shoulder all the blame for what you’ve done?
So ever since then I’ve worked shifts of broken promises and contracts with strangers trying to send you back to where you came from. But even if I succeeded…another one would just take your place. Because the world is full of monsters like you.

Monster

I think…I might be a monster.
I know it sounds insane, but hear me out.
I think I might be a monster. No fangs, no claws, no fur...just bad thoughts, bad experiences and bad actions with nice intentions.

I think this might have made me a monster.
Because if there's nothing to fear but fear itself, then I stare into the mirror and I fear myself. Because I know what lies beneath, so I hide behind words I've pieced trying to disguise the beast.

See, I know I'm a monster.
It's all about me, so I admit I'm selfish and conceited even though I don’t even like myself that much. I’m always asking questions for the sake of my own sanity like: What do other people think of me? Am I cool now or am I still a loser? Damn, I'm still a loser.
A loser standing up to get attention, never mind having an answer for anything or saying anything worth listening to. Grabbing the spotlight just so I can try to show people the better side of me. Showcasing positives because I'm too insecure to bear any flaws to the world.

See, for me image comes first and foremost so I have to be cool. I carefully choose what to wear hoping that even one girl will walk up to me and tell me that I look handsome today. I put on a show of bravado, faking confidence because I have to be a man. Show no fear, shed no tears and already that's something I can't do. I feel no guilt, no sadness. Blocking out the pain of lashes caused by pain and madness. But I will not let a tear drop, because boys don't cry…men do. But I refuse to take responsibility...

And that makes me a monster.
Every. Single. Day. I wish that people would see nothing but good things in me, never commenting with nothing less than a compliment. But...I can't do it myself. I'm judgmental by nature, rating girls passing by with score cards and stat bars. You can try telling me that it's normal for a teenager, but I think there's something wrong with me.

I think I might be a monster.
Shaken and ripped apart by heartbreak and haphazardly stitched back in parts as I try to pull myself together in a rush so I could try again and after the last time…I think I did it wrong or made a mistake or something. It’s almost like a case of exchanged limbs; try to move my leg but my shoulder twitches…now I can't do what I know I need to. And whenever this happens I turn more and more into a monster...and I can’t stop it.
I don’t bother trying to learn anything from experience, I take my thread and needle. Tearing open the stitches that cover my chest and back, I place my hand through empty space grasping for the heart I yearn to give someone.

But no one's willing to fall for a monster.
Flamethrowing propane in words, hoping I can light a fire in a listener. I'm living in the dark, the absence of light and God because I've already convinced myself I belong there; trying to hide in insecurity searching for a sense of security. Or I can spit venom, making people feel bad to make myself feel better about my own flaws, so I can gain something like a little bit of confidence.

And it’s almost like something’s broken inside of me…because I don't feel anything. Ain't no tears fallen yet, and there's none soon coming, though I'm trying everything to un-desensitize myself. I'm unfazed by death and glorify violence so I hate what I've become. Indifferent to poverty and suffering because all I'm worried about is living a good life and being happy. But what needs to be done is the opposite, just smile and be nice...but I'm content not to be a part of it, not thinking for a second about a single consequence.

So I think I’m a monster…just trying to belong. Looking for someplace I can be surrounded by monsters like me.
Then I realize that I'm already there. See, monsters are common; it's the angels that are hard to find. Earth's a breeding ground, nurtured by false ideas, bad advertisement, twisted morals, booze and boobs, and social evolution that's taking us the opposite way.

We're all the same but I'm transforming before my very eyes. I can't yell...I can't scream...I can't call for help and I can't cry. Because monsters are the reason people die. We all have monsters hidden on the inside, and that’s no lie. It’s not a big secret but I know why…because we know how to stop it, but we just don’t try.