the adventures of a wanderlust junkie

you’re moving on borrowed time.
another loan would only be denied.
life, the loan shark that it is,
won’t settle for a refund
because yesterday is used up
and tomorrow doesn’t matter.
waiting for a way out
with hands that don’t feel
and eyes that don’t see,
you stand defenseless
against the inevitable looming
of life’s lackeys
come to cut off all ten fingers
and ten toes of your hope.
when the loan shark commands you
to clean up the mess
born out of your own mistakes,
know that this only calls for payback.
take all the seconds left in your loan,
make your getaway,
and do with it what feeling hands
the open eyes will do.
yesterday is dead,
tomorrow is still being born,
and later is too late.
while now is alive and kicking,
milk it of its profits.
when life catches up to you,
go down hard and take
as much of it to the death with you.
life doesn’t have immortality
but now is the only time you can take it on.

the liquor burns down the glass
as the counter holds him up.
whispers behind the bar
seem so distant
even when the bottles howl their end.
“keep ‘em comin’” the glass burps.
the bottles yield,
“one last drink and then hit the road.”
glass starts breaking.
he cracks at the sound of the bottles
asking him to leave.
he loses control,
barrels through the bottles,
and out the salon,
leaving the damage
without any thought.
he keeps rolling.
without knowing where to go.
he can’t go back to the cupboard.
it reminds him too much
of his dish
running away with the spoon.

inspired by tyler knott gregson and @awakingdream (chriselle sta. maria). i thought i’d make an attempt at writing a haiku. i’m sure it’s not traditional haiku, as i don’t have any seasonal element, but i thought i’d give the 5-7-5 a shot. here goes…

headphones plugged into
your words on constant replay,
crystal sharp, it hurts.

it’s 7:00 pm.

the sun is slowly making it’s bed. and we lay out on the field to watch the stars as they come out one by one to play.

there’s something different about tonight though. the stars may be in a playful mood but the wind is harsh. and on this may evening, i wonder, “isn’t it supposed to be getting warmer by now?”

then i remember why i dragged us here tonight.

i wrap myself in his arms. i’ve been pretty demanding about the hugs lately. but it’s only because i know there’s not a whole lot of them left. i’ll be going home soon. and he’ll be moving on.

“we should end this,” i say. “give us some time to get used to being apart.”

“i don’t want to. i’ll wait.” he was always stubborn like that.

i kiss him — the kind that makes your toes curl and your chest hurt. he probably thinks it’s a reward for his willingness to wait. i guess he’ll find out soon enough.

later i’ll be going back to my place. i’ll be packing what’s left of my things. he’ll call when he gets home maybe. and i won’t pick up. not anymore.

i was never really any good at goodbyes.

—written on the 9th of april, 2008.

there’s something about old writings that’s very enticing. it’s narcissistic. but at the same time, you find validation in it. at least that’s how i feel. when i start feeling like i’m losing myself, i look back and remember who i USED TO BE. i remember which parts of me i need to keep and which parts of me i need to do away with. that’s when i remember who i AM.

AND THEN i remember that as much as i’m happy with the me of today, i still feel like i was much smarter back then. now it just seems like my mind is all mush (and not just the cheesy, calorie-filled kind.. more like the messed up mashed potatoes version). haha.. oh boy.

i need to start writing again. in a more positive light this time though, i hope.

whiskeymonologues:

the liquor burns down the glass
as the counter holds him up.
whispers behind the bar
seem so distant
even when the bottles howl their end.
“keep ‘em comin’” the glass burps.
the bottles yield,
“one last drink and then hit the road.”
glass starts breaking.
he cracks at the sound of the bottles
asking him to leave.
he loses control,
barrels through the bottles,
and out the salon,
leaving the damage 
without any thought.
he keeps rolling.
without knowing where to go.
he can’t go back to the cupboard.
it reminds him too much
of his dish
running away with the spoon.


Submitted by wanderlustjunkie

yay, thanks whiskeymonologues!

you got me twisted on tiptoes
around yeses and nos.
so pardon if i don’t know
which way to look
when you tell this chicken
to cross the road.
and without a helmet,
armed only with
this slowly deteriorating steel frame
around my heart, i zoom across…
…zoom across because nobody warned me
about the red flags,
zoom across because nobody warned me
about the black flags,
zoom across because nobody warned me
about slowing down
at the hairpin turn of events,
zoom across because nobody warned me
about how much it still hurts
when you crash in something
that you thought was moving
slower than your average ride.
so maybe i should raise my white flag,
go hide somewhere far and dark,
take advantage of the time
when you’re counting down sheep
until you wake up and realize i’m gone.
i got quite the head start,
but i know you’ll come seeking still.
to what purpose, i still can’t say
because i know you’ll end up sinking
this battleship anyway.
you always do.
because when all i needed was a jack
to boost me back aboard this ‘ship,
i find no helping hand,
only a subtle demand
when you tell me to go fish.
and so i fish. i fish my way
through kings and jokers,
hoping the next card
will turn the river onto my favor,
but i just can never win against you.
you hold all the cards i want.
and until i can learn to fold, get up,
and just walk away from the table,
you will keep chipping away at me
until there’s nothing left
to challenge the next player.

you are definitely a cunning instructor.
you never taught me
the art of quitting while i’m ahead.

had the urge to revisit some old poetry and revise what i can. never realized how emo or cheesy i used to be (or still am, maybe). took a stab at one.

standing on the platform
in philly’s 30th st. station,
the whirring of the schedules
to new york is deafening,
constantly changing to the point
where the letters
appear a gibberish jumble,
and reading it out loud
gets my tongue all tied.
on the analog,
the second hand slows
almost to a halt,
and the minute hand
is spinning haywire,
leaving me frozen and dizzy.
9 becomes 7, and 7 becomes 8,
and i almost
don’t want to leave.
on the digital,
the numbers blink
a quick-slow-
quick-quick-slow rhythm,
struggling to drown out
the heavy thumping in my head.
or was that in my chest?
the tick tocks.
and the tock ticks.

time doesn’t make sense
when you look at me that way.