THE ANTHOLOGY
HOVER
© accioloki
    

And so it fell;

the photograph taken
light-years ago, and was folded
and hidden between the pages
of Great Expectations, fell from
the book when it was re-opened.

The poet’s eyes glistened, sparkled,
in a peculiar way—a sullen mix of
oddity and nostalgia. What he thought was
a memory buried in oblivion’s graveyard,
came back, exhumed, and it was
haunting him beyond any poet’s metaphors
could ever describe.

It struck him, like a rust-eaten
knife, twisted twelve times while
it was impaled in his chest. The vivid
crimson blood rushed down his then pale-painted
skin.

The poet tried his best to continue
reading the half-finished book and
forget his half-finished love affair

Yet inevitably, the poet did fall too.


Fallen Photograph | (j.d.a)
    

And so it fell;

the photograph taken
light-years ago, and was folded
and hidden between the pages
of Great Expectations, fell from
the book when it was re-opened.

The poet’s eyes glistened, sparkled,
in a peculiar way—a sullen mix of
oddity and nostalgia. What he thought was
a memory buried in oblivion’s graveyard,
came back, exhumed, and it was
haunting him beyond any poet’s metaphors
could ever describe.

It struck him, like a rust-eaten
knife, twisted twelve times while
it was impaled in his chest. The vivid
crimson blood rushed down his then pale-painted
skin.

The poet tried his best to continue
reading the half-finished book and
forget his half-finished love affair

Yet inevitably, the poet did fall too.


Fallen Photograph | (j.d.a)
25/7/14
luna-thepoet: This is not a question. You are amazing. I wish I could get my thoughts across as clean as you do. You are amazing 

thank youuuuu, dear :> 

    

And so it fell;

the photograph taken
light-years ago, and was folded
and hidden between the pages
of Great Expectations, fell from
the book when it was re-opened.

The poet’s eyes glistened, sparkled,
in a peculiar way—a sullen mix of
oddity and nostalgia. What he thought was
a memory buried in oblivion’s graveyard,
came back, exhumed, and it was
haunting him beyond any poet’s metaphors
could ever describe.

It struck him, like a rust-eaten
knife, twisted twelve times while
it was impaled in his chest. The vivid
crimson blood rushed down his then pale-painted
skin.

The poet tried his best to continue
reading the half-finished book and
forget his half-finished love affair

Yet inevitably, the poet did fall too.


Fallen Photograph | (j.d.a)
    

I, the soul torn apart
You, the poetry that ripped it open

The universe taught us
to continue the chase,
no matter how strenuous
it might be. That the deaths
of all the previous versions
of ourselves would be put to waste,
if we cease to believe in the
silver lining.

And so we
pushed our limits
beyond the horizon.
You drank up
all of my spirit, leaving me with
not a single drop. But there’s not a thing
I regret about it. I’m grateful that you
were the one to consume my noxious
being. Even my flesh, I’d give, if you’d ask
for it.

It’s just that I realized
that for all this time,
the pain has always been mine
and the pleasure, yours. That
I’ve been bleeding like hell
just to provide you the ink you needed
even though you never even wrote
a poem for me.

Perhaps, this is when we should
stop running. This is when we should
stop the chase and ask ourselves
what we are after for.


— (j.d.a)
    

Your touch is lightning.

I am a poet, but that doesn’t mean
I always exaggerate things. I swear,
there’s electricity whenever
your skin makes contact with mine.

My heart, My burden
used to be my life motto,
but through the short days
we’ve spent together,
you were able to
convince me that you are
someone who’s willing to share
the weight with me.

Silly me, I gave it all to you;
The whole beating flesh of mine.
Not knowing that at dusk, you will run
away with it in your pocket, with all the
other hearts from a hundred foreign lands.

Now my chest is empty.
You left a hole howling
in the void. It’s so empty, but I’m
pretty sure it has never been this
heavy before.


— (j.d.a)
    

Behind those sun-kissed lips
are a thousand sheltered mouths
all begging for the light of day
to touch and eventually break
the walls of fallacies caging them

Behind those sun-kissed lips
are a thousand sheltered mouths
singing songs of forgiveness
and odes of carnal affairs with
the stars burning in the night sky

I was there when the constellations
aligned to the letters of your name
and the night sky illuminated
and succumbed itself to you

I was there. For all you know
I have always been there,
quietly observing each speck
of stardust flowing in your veins

Behind those sun-kissed lips
are a thousand sheltered mouths
that these rusty lips of mine
used to speak words of love with

Behind those sun-kissed lips,
are a thousand sheltered mouths
desperately resuscitating
a promise of love forgotten,
a promise hidden beneath the shadows


Sheltered Mouths | (j.d.a)
    

It’s on a sultry day late in
August, when you decided to
start digging a hole in your backyard.
Your parents were busy preparing
for their child’s funeral.

They traveled
the whole town to find the
cheapest coffin there is for the cheapest
life to ever end. The grueling search
ended where they started. They found it
at their garage: a dusty rust-gnawed
casket made three decades ago.

Not so long ago, while the sun was at
the zenith, a funeral was held. And you were there,
standing at the corner,
watching your own casket slowly sink six feet
below the ground.

In your chest, you slowly felt,
a heaviness beyond compare. In the dead of
that afternoon, you heard your heart howl.
Telling you that it’s so full of cemeteries,
it cannot afford one more death.


September Burial | (j.d.a)
    Don’t let
light shine
upon you;

let it
shine
through.
Ten Word Story | (j.d.a)
    

Maybe for once,
we can stop denying the fact
that silence rumbles in a distance.
That the poems stitched on our skins are
now decaying and they need to be scrapped off
to let our skins breathe. Maybe, it’s time already to
stop telling ourselves that we would bleed
ourselves dry for the people who matter.

We are shining in the dark, and our names illuminate
with the stars so there’s no reason left for us to
tell ourselves that our hearts need fixing.
It surely feels broken, like a shipwreck inside your chest,
and each day, you think it’s becoming heavier. Dear, let me tell
you this: we feel what we choose to feel. We drown for the things
we choose to dive into. Pain will certainly spread itself
upon us.

That’s inevitable.
And so is becoming better.
And so is recovering.

The day will come, when you can tell all the people who told you
that you’re not worth their blood, that these scars, you have inflicted
on yourself for them, are now tattoos. Each signifies a battle won.


— (j.d.a)
    

I, the cruel truth.
I, the novel of silence.
I, the words people
try to conceal inside their
hollow mouths until these
words decay to oblivion.

I, the flames Icarus caught.
I, the hydra Hercules slayed.
I, the illegitimate child
of a god and a nymph, chained
for centuries inside my dungeon
of grief and despair.

I, the star slowly burning out.
I, the colossal galaxy beyond humanity’s reach.
I, the cloud loathed for bringing
darkness to the foreign
lands I hover over.

I, the legend untold.
I, the story unwritten.
I, the hero who died
unhonored, at the third act
of a Shakespearian tragedy.


I, Unknown | (j.d.a)

MACARTHUR (screenplay by j.d.a)

    

i’m the one who jumped off the cliff and threw myself into the abyss,
but you were the one who pulled the pin of this grenade inside my chest.

my ribcage expanded miles right in the moment when it detonated mid-air
and i felt the fire took over my then rotting skin.

the pain didn’t come upon me as a strong rain which raindrops fall all
at the same time.

it was winter. it slowly crept into my skin then into my spine then into the
spot you left hollow. death unhurriedly spread itself on me.

but the real death of me was when i saw you at the edge of the cliff,
cracking a crooked smile. you whispered to the thin air that the flames
devouring me weren’t really there at all.

you made me believe it was all just a sensation brought by my intense longing
of you. my demise wasn’t a simple wildfire, it was a consented arson.


l’appel du vide (the call of the void) | (j.d.a)
    

Time will come
when your feet will ache
and your back will break
from dancing all night
with the devil in you

As told by some
the devil will take
he will take you for his sake
and bring you, to the dark of the night
the dark of the night, inside you

Succumb to him, you must not.
for he’ll turn you into a bottle of wine
a bottle of broken-spirited wine

Let him drink you, you must not.
struggle, squabble, shout at him “I am mine”
“I am not yours! I am mine!”

Run if you must, faster if you can
ignore the pain brought by your feet
Run if you must, faster if you can
the devil’s speed is beyond his deceit


Waltzes & Lies | (j.d.a)
    

You can always remember
a feeling no matter what
time of the day it is,

You can visit oblivion’s
graveyard and exhume,
resurrect, relive, a memory
of how someone
has made you feel.

But there’s
one thing a person has taught
me about this.

She said,
“no matter how hard nostalgia tells you
to strive to bring the past back into
your heart, there is only little to no chance
of having the same feeling twice
in a lifetime.”

Even so, it’s more difficult
to find someone that can make
you feel the very same feeling
someone else has given you


— (j.d.a)