Birthcry: The First Ink to Burn

it is awful
to witness a poet lose his pen
and his seemingly unending words
amidst the battle
of harrowing pain and grief,
for by then, he's like a soldier
sent in a war
with no weapons and shield
to battle death and hopefully live.

indeed, it is tragic to see someone lose
the few things that make him feel alive.

you were the medicine
i thought was capable
of mending the disease
i was suffering from, but no,
you rather had tormented me more
and ravaged my moribund soul.

however, it was not your fault
for it was i who gave myself
such false prescription.

i am the root of my death.

never choose me
for i am neither a star
nor a natural satellite
that can emit light
on your darkest moments.

never choose me
for i am darkness itself.

i used to love the moon,
the vastness of the night sky,
the firm waves of the ocean,
the bitterness of life,
the harmonious sound from a guitar,
the fragrance of the books,
the metaphors in every poem
― the universe itself.

until i became
too suffocated with his lies,
drowned by his broken promises,
shattered by his mere existence
― felt so betrayed by all cosmic entities.

alas!
how could you break
my delicate heart,
father?

you like flowers,
but not those roses.

you love the universe,
but not its black holes.

you're mesmerized by nature,
but not the calamities.

so whenever you say you love me,
I always disagree,
for I am those things
within your buts.

i haven't foreseen this moment to betide,
this moment of feeling so lost in between the lines
unrhymed with every rhyme
literal in every metaphor
poor in any hyperboles
apathetic in writing
yet breathing with mixed emotions,
for i thought i have seen the future of mine,
so drown in every verse,
passionate in every word ―
relentlessly scribbling poems and prose.
the future did not betray me,
it was myself whose thoughts are its enemy,
whose heart's drowned in a lethal sea
and whose soul is in deep misery.
perhaps, i just can't delineate
how heavy the world weighs to be carried by my soul
how fine the storms are in ravaging my fragile mind
how violent the quakes are in tearing my heart apart.
i just can't find the right word to explicate their profundity,
then convert them into soulful poetries.
so what i did upon this unforeseen moment
was letting silence be my poetry
with my tears in anguish as the muted rhymes.

why does it rain?

the sky poured its unfathomable wails one more time,
enveloped the plains with a roaring thunder,
vanished the deafening silence to indite a rhyme,
sentiments streamed from aloft like a river.

had the sky been shaken by a peculiar quake
as it freed the suppressed ocean of tears?
did grim memories render its melancholic
soul wide-awake
to drown itself into the abyss of its macabre fears?

alas! i wonder what sort of reason caused the sky to cry,
how blue it felt yonder—the vastness of dusk and dawn,
what provoked the glistening pain from its unseen orbs to fall? and why?
staring at it and its delicate diamonds settled my grief, then I questioned my own:

did the sky cry for itself
or did it cry for me?

beloved, your chaos is my redemption.

in betwixt rage and serenity,
we awakened aphrodite's
evanescing corpse.
by miracle, as storms collided,
the forbidding vehemence
growing from our thorax
had perished and was reborn
as tamed cloudbursts.
we met naked, enraged, startled
and yet our flesh wobbled
for arriving home.
thereon, the angels mocked us
for being tragic mortals
whose love was defined by hurt.
still, i will worship your howling winds,
the same way you deify mine.
then we shall birth tranquility
upon embracing destruction.
dainty lover, your lips were frore
as anguish yet soothing as salvation.
and for once,
hell had the visage of heaven.

he is no god, but he rendered my flames liquid.