._mizchyiel_.: ,,untitled,,

Thursday, January 1, 2009

,,untitled,,

it seems that,, i'm wasting my time..and my life,, acting t0o childish.. being self-centered,, not minding others. asking "freedom" is just like,, asking something better for myself and nothing for others.. gets nyo ba???

there are things i must prioritize,, what's with the rush?? things can wait.. think openly,, go beyond the barrier .. my barrier.. why do i need t0 stay in this closed-space pLace???if i have my place out there...

i'm always askng for freedom.. but the truth is,, i already have it.. it's just that i can't use it wisely..and then i'm complaining that i'm stuck ,, here in this house(that i used to call "hell"),, now..i'm starting all over again,, but this time.. i have no regrets,, starting to love things that i used to hate,, starting to be true to myself.. (ang plastik ko kxe) ,, and being true made me realize that.. i don't need material things,, i don't need temporary enjoyment.. i want to enjoy this life,, the way it has to be..

1 comment:

Eli said...: well.. leave the past,... just bring the lessons.; January 1, 2009 at 7:41 AM

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..♥..

I have done it again.

One year in every ten

I manage it----

A sort of walking miracle, my skin

Bright as a Nazi lampshade,

My right foot

A paperweight,

My face a featureless, fine

Jew linen.

Peel off the napkin

O my enemy.

Do I terrify?----

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?

The sour breath

Will vanish in a day.

Soon, soon the flesh

The grave cave ate will be

At home on me

And I a smiling woman.

I am only thirty.

And like the cat I have nine times to die.

This is Number Three.

What a trash

To annihilate each decade.

What a million filaments.

The peanut-crunching crowd

Shoves in to see

Them unwrap me hand and foot----

The big strip tease.

Gentleman, ladies,

These are my hands,

My knees.

I may be skin and bone,

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.

The first time it happened I was ten.

It was an accident.

The second time I meant

To last it out and not come back at all.

I rocked shut

As a seashell.

They had to call and call

And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

Dying

Is an art, like everything else.

I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.

I do it so it feels real.

I guess you could say I've a call.

It's easy enough to do so in a cell.

It's easy enough to do it and stay put.

It's the theatrical

Comeback in broad day

To the same place, the same face, the same brute

Amused shout:

"A miracle!"

That knocks me out.

There is a charge

For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge

For the hearing of my heart----

It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge,

For a word or a touch

Or a bit of blood

Or a piece of hair on my clothes.

So, so, Herr Doktor.

So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus,

I am your valuable,

The pure gold baby

That melts to a shriek.

I turn and burn.

Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash--

You poke and stir.

Flesh, bone, there is nothing there----

A cake of soap,

A wedding ring,

A gold filling.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer,

Beware

Beware.

Out of ash

I rise with my red hair

And I eat men like air.

-Sylvia Plath