Let me breath in cyanide, I'd rather die brutally
than die in your arms, heart crushed into million pieces
like an exploding shrapnel bomb.
Tie me down on this barren earth and lead me to a land mine,
let me blow myself up as you watch
because I'm sick of love, sick of you, sick of us.
Let the heavens rain down with a million gunshots.
I wear no armor. Let it pierce me deeply
as I bleed for you, defenseless. Alone. Undamaged.
You've already dealt the killing blow a million decades ago.
But me, I'm a warrrior that walks alone.
Death isn't in my world, and I'll fight this war endlessly.
I'm a man that knows no limit.
My reign extends as far as the lands infinite.
My army of pain is uncountable in its entirety.
Watch them march in unison as they fight in favor of depravity.
Depravity, because I need to let go of your pulse-pounding memory.
It's stealing my breath away, and I've yet a thousand years to fight.
Your bloody hands on my heart, strangling it, gripping it so tight.
Whoever said that love was a battlefield?
But then again, who ever said that love is fair?
If love is a battle I must fight, then I'll fight until the sun shuts down.
I'll fight until I take my final breath and my heart gives away to its final beat.
I'll fight until love proves itself to be a reality,
until it proves that it's worth fighting for.
Because as of now, I see it as an illusion.
And the fight for the truth has always been the hardest for me.
Friday, January 8, 2010
A Flower Blooming In The Slums
In the slums, where darkness drenches every corner
and walls are corroding away,where the moon refuses to shine,
stealing every bit of glimmer, there is no light.
Children nearly unclothed, shivering as their skin is
harassed by the frigidness of the midnight breeze.
Their tears, frozen in time, yet continue to emerge from within.
In the slums, where music seems nonexistent.
The only sounds are constant clanging of trash,
being scattered all over the streets. The sounds of footsteps
as the children rummage through the dirty piles,
covered in shit and dirt they, like savages, they explore for little scraps
to calm their veracious appetite.
In the slums, so dirty and so poor, the adults
dispose of their watchful eyes, unable to handle
the miserable stress weighing down on their shoulders
and waste their time wishing for a different life.
Wishing and wasting, corroding, irrevocable time,
irreplaceable, while the young fend for themselves
in this new world of melancholic tragedy.
In the slums, there is a church. The floors splintered
with split wood and ceilings torn open by decay,
darkness dances with despair, because God was never there
to even catch a glance at the slowly deteriorating place.
Never was there to send some guidance
to the walking souls who lost their way a thousand days before.
But in the corner of the church lies a patch of flowers,
white as the light in the sky, with lime-green vines
that seem to embrace the earth,
they grow in abundance and give a new meaning
to the abandoned church. And when one sees them as they walk past,
they wonder how such a contradicting beauty can occur.
And when the children stop by, their eyes shine for just a moment
before they turn away and find more trash to dig through.
But for a moment, they find their salvation
through the flowers that bloom in the slums.
and walls are corroding away,where the moon refuses to shine,
stealing every bit of glimmer, there is no light.
Children nearly unclothed, shivering as their skin is
harassed by the frigidness of the midnight breeze.
Their tears, frozen in time, yet continue to emerge from within.
In the slums, where music seems nonexistent.
The only sounds are constant clanging of trash,
being scattered all over the streets. The sounds of footsteps
as the children rummage through the dirty piles,
covered in shit and dirt they, like savages, they explore for little scraps
to calm their veracious appetite.
In the slums, so dirty and so poor, the adults
dispose of their watchful eyes, unable to handle
the miserable stress weighing down on their shoulders
and waste their time wishing for a different life.
Wishing and wasting, corroding, irrevocable time,
irreplaceable, while the young fend for themselves
in this new world of melancholic tragedy.
In the slums, there is a church. The floors splintered
with split wood and ceilings torn open by decay,
darkness dances with despair, because God was never there
to even catch a glance at the slowly deteriorating place.
Never was there to send some guidance
to the walking souls who lost their way a thousand days before.
But in the corner of the church lies a patch of flowers,
white as the light in the sky, with lime-green vines
that seem to embrace the earth,
they grow in abundance and give a new meaning
to the abandoned church. And when one sees them as they walk past,
they wonder how such a contradicting beauty can occur.
And when the children stop by, their eyes shine for just a moment
before they turn away and find more trash to dig through.
But for a moment, they find their salvation
through the flowers that bloom in the slums.
One Winged Angel
Restrictions to light, barring the heaven in plain sight.
How could you force yourself to stare at a broken reflection
through your own eyes in a murky, deceptive puddle?
Are you unable to see the truth that lies not very distant,
not even unreachable, but right in front of your eyes?
Your feathers, so white, it emits a thousand reflected rays
and shoots them like misguided arrows
straight to hell and back, but wherein do you belong
when both heaven and hell rejects you?
Standing in the in between of two warring worlds,
how everyone envies you as you run through stunning meadows
of endless beauty, where flower petals dance among the winds
and the wind whispers in a serene manner,
and you, how you run, yet stagger at the same time,
limping as red taints the blades of grass
and flowers are drenched in your painful regurgitation.
Why must the one winged angel suffer more?
Your white feathers are now crimson red.
As you fade away, I can only watch as you flee your image
and become just another flower amongst this field.
How does it feel knowing that you're not wanted?
How could you force yourself to stare at a broken reflection
through your own eyes in a murky, deceptive puddle?
Are you unable to see the truth that lies not very distant,
not even unreachable, but right in front of your eyes?
Your feathers, so white, it emits a thousand reflected rays
and shoots them like misguided arrows
straight to hell and back, but wherein do you belong
when both heaven and hell rejects you?
Standing in the in between of two warring worlds,
how everyone envies you as you run through stunning meadows
of endless beauty, where flower petals dance among the winds
and the wind whispers in a serene manner,
and you, how you run, yet stagger at the same time,
limping as red taints the blades of grass
and flowers are drenched in your painful regurgitation.
Why must the one winged angel suffer more?
Your white feathers are now crimson red.
As you fade away, I can only watch as you flee your image
and become just another flower amongst this field.
How does it feel knowing that you're not wanted?
And Still We Rise [#2]
Reading the book review, I knew that I was going to be affected by the lives of these students I read about. The reviewer states his opinions so convincingly that I knew I was going to be very interested by the book. However, this is going against my own beliefs in books. I do not normally listen to the opinions of reviewers and critics when it comes to books. After all, people enjoy different things. So why should we conform to the opinions of people who are paid to review books or films? We shouldn't judge a book by a cover. But more importantly, we shouldn't judge a film or book based on the judgement of others. The latter is more wrong. Though it helps me decide at times which films to watch, I normally do not care about the critic's opinions, especially when it comes to books.
And Still We Rise [#1]
Brutality. That word takes on an extreme form in the schools of Crenshaw. Escalating from mere verbal fights into relentless gunning down of innocent lives, it becomes clear to us that their school is far more in the dangerous end than Mililani High. Imagine having to include a metal detector check in your daily routine. It's a normal part of a student's daily life in Crenshaw High. We take safety for granted. Extreme violence is a rare occurrence in Mililani High School. But in Crenshaw, it seems that every single day that the students live to see means another day of fearing for their lives... if they could live to see yet again another sunrise. It's a hell on earth for these students. There's no purgatory, and the only glimpse of heaven they see is in their sleep. Sanctuary, when found, is not to be taken for granted.
"I've written a lot about gangbangers, the kind of boys that were in the van that night..." (p. 2) uttered the TV reporter, and by this statement you can already perceive that Crenshaw High School has way more sinister students than those typically in Mililani High School. Apparently, visions of sheer brutality are an everyday experience and fights are the least they worry about. The students at Crenshaw fear for their lives everyday, an obstacle that us Mililani Students will never face. They also deal with a handful of troubles that are so depressing and upsetting for me to read. For example, Olivia gets beaten numerous times by her mother. Her own flesh and blood, yet she is still punished without justice. Like many of her peers, she is challenged by a surreal amount of violence in the community, yet they are still able to retain their need for education and know that the fate they gain in their schools is the one thing that gives them a chance to escape the nightmare that seems that there's no waking from.
Mililani High School students are priveleged. Whether they acknowledge it or not, our students are luckier than the students at Crenshaw. We take safety for granted, and in reality we really have nothing to fear when we attend school. There is no threat demanding enough for us to fear for our lives. We get the occasional fights, but has there really been an incident in MHS during the recent years in which we, as students, felt that our lives were at stake? The answer is no. However, at Crenshaw, their lives, though very valuable, will always be put to the test every single day. Gambled, as if they were players in a win or lose card game. We will never experience the horrors that Crenshaw students face, and that's something that we should value and be grateful for.
In conclusion, the difference between Crenshaw High and Mililani High is immense. While Crenshaw proves to be a dangerous school, Mililani High seems almost like a sanctuary in comparison.
"I've written a lot about gangbangers, the kind of boys that were in the van that night..." (p. 2) uttered the TV reporter, and by this statement you can already perceive that Crenshaw High School has way more sinister students than those typically in Mililani High School. Apparently, visions of sheer brutality are an everyday experience and fights are the least they worry about. The students at Crenshaw fear for their lives everyday, an obstacle that us Mililani Students will never face. They also deal with a handful of troubles that are so depressing and upsetting for me to read. For example, Olivia gets beaten numerous times by her mother. Her own flesh and blood, yet she is still punished without justice. Like many of her peers, she is challenged by a surreal amount of violence in the community, yet they are still able to retain their need for education and know that the fate they gain in their schools is the one thing that gives them a chance to escape the nightmare that seems that there's no waking from.
Mililani High School students are priveleged. Whether they acknowledge it or not, our students are luckier than the students at Crenshaw. We take safety for granted, and in reality we really have nothing to fear when we attend school. There is no threat demanding enough for us to fear for our lives. We get the occasional fights, but has there really been an incident in MHS during the recent years in which we, as students, felt that our lives were at stake? The answer is no. However, at Crenshaw, their lives, though very valuable, will always be put to the test every single day. Gambled, as if they were players in a win or lose card game. We will never experience the horrors that Crenshaw students face, and that's something that we should value and be grateful for.
In conclusion, the difference between Crenshaw High and Mililani High is immense. While Crenshaw proves to be a dangerous school, Mililani High seems almost like a sanctuary in comparison.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
The Open Door
I walk and see a mistress in black, threads made of
shimmering blood and glimmering frozen tears dyed red
as she made her way up the stairs of ebony glass
that seemed to shatter with every step,
its cracks spewing out liquidated souls and red wine.
She had the lips of a magazine, cut and pasted
with a thousand different shades and texture of deceased
and when she kissed me with that frigid touch
I felt my entire happiness drain, like she was the reaper.
Drain, as if she was a soul stealer, and I felt like a gaping hole
of nothingness. Worthless, I could only stare
as she shattered every star in the sky with a malevolent touch.
Worthless, as she brought down the moon and caused a violent eclipse
that drowned this miserable world in a day of absolute darkness.
Did I mention the door that rested atop the stairwell?
It seemed to be structured of ruptured bones and blood,
slightly open, wisps of black attempting to plan their escapade
but the mistress in black dispatched them with an unholy grenade
and like they appeared so swiftly, swiftly they disappeared
as she cackled with a resonating evil that seemed to disturb the cosmos.
This open door, what lies beneath this open door?
She would not reveal it so, she relies on sweet sacrifice
to breathe life onto her pale, white skin, this snow white queen,
this mistress in black with the heart of coal,
the heart I've desperately sought after, the only one.
Perhaps I'm losing control in all that I'm living for,
but I pray I have a chance at gazing within that lonely, open door,
where she guards with her mesmerizing, blatantly piercing stare,
waiting until we can be together again, singing a duet
in that last song I'll waste on such a tyrannous queen.
Break down that door, we'll be together forever more.
Let the darkness consume our entity,
merging our tales of honest infidelity.
shimmering blood and glimmering frozen tears dyed red
as she made her way up the stairs of ebony glass
that seemed to shatter with every step,
its cracks spewing out liquidated souls and red wine.
She had the lips of a magazine, cut and pasted
with a thousand different shades and texture of deceased
and when she kissed me with that frigid touch
I felt my entire happiness drain, like she was the reaper.
Drain, as if she was a soul stealer, and I felt like a gaping hole
of nothingness. Worthless, I could only stare
as she shattered every star in the sky with a malevolent touch.
Worthless, as she brought down the moon and caused a violent eclipse
that drowned this miserable world in a day of absolute darkness.
Did I mention the door that rested atop the stairwell?
It seemed to be structured of ruptured bones and blood,
slightly open, wisps of black attempting to plan their escapade
but the mistress in black dispatched them with an unholy grenade
and like they appeared so swiftly, swiftly they disappeared
as she cackled with a resonating evil that seemed to disturb the cosmos.
This open door, what lies beneath this open door?
She would not reveal it so, she relies on sweet sacrifice
to breathe life onto her pale, white skin, this snow white queen,
this mistress in black with the heart of coal,
the heart I've desperately sought after, the only one.
Perhaps I'm losing control in all that I'm living for,
but I pray I have a chance at gazing within that lonely, open door,
where she guards with her mesmerizing, blatantly piercing stare,
waiting until we can be together again, singing a duet
in that last song I'll waste on such a tyrannous queen.
Break down that door, we'll be together forever more.
Let the darkness consume our entity,
merging our tales of honest infidelity.
Sonnet 004
The waves transcend time as they crash against
Broken bodies of the cliffs and shoreline.
And in this frigid night, I calmly sensed
A presence, ghostly hands brush against mine.
Tears of mine equivalent to the sea,
In the way they glimmer in the moonlight.
They seem to sigh in bitter misery,
As if experiencing all but delight.
O love, I miss your arms around my waist
Like the air tightly grasps my body now.
If death could steal all but my happiness,
Then I'd give him my everlasting vow.
How could a deity steal my love away?
His heart of darkness shall never decay.
Broken bodies of the cliffs and shoreline.
And in this frigid night, I calmly sensed
A presence, ghostly hands brush against mine.
Tears of mine equivalent to the sea,
In the way they glimmer in the moonlight.
They seem to sigh in bitter misery,
As if experiencing all but delight.
O love, I miss your arms around my waist
Like the air tightly grasps my body now.
If death could steal all but my happiness,
Then I'd give him my everlasting vow.
How could a deity steal my love away?
His heart of darkness shall never decay.
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