Day 7: Don’t do booze, cigs, OR drugs

While listening to some really sad music (my playlist was on random but it insisted on sad music for some reason), a mental image suddenly pops up and that mental image gives birth to a story prompt. A man—having had one too many shots of ale—is looking out the window and staring at the moon. His face is reflected on the surface of the glass, right where the moon is, and he somehow thinks it’s making fun of him by showing the face of his past self. Yeah, weird prompt but I’m thinking of actually making a story out of it one of these days.

 

Mirror, Mirror on the Moon

 

Upon the moon that I behold

Two hazel orbs stare back so cold

While livid lips form crooked smiles

Beneath a mask of guiltless guile

And here I thought I’d never see

That wretched face I once called “me”

 

Good thing I’m allergic to alcohol so I’ll never experience getting drunk to the point of hallucinating. I have weak tolerance to smoke as well, so I’ll never be trying cigarettes. What do you know, my life’s sounding better already. But seriously, at the risk of sounding like a public health advisory: Don’t do booze, cigs, OR drugs. Make life better for all of us. :D

Stay safe everyone. And I guess I should thank the nice people who follow this blog and like my posts before I forget again. Thank you! In my native tongue, that’s “Salamat!”

Day 6: Doubting means you were a believer at one point

So far, I’ve been posting happy stuff, but we all know the world ain’t one big bowl of rainbows and sunshine. There are times when you hit a bump in the road and start to doubt yourself. I’m having one of those times right now—I’ve fallen prey to my insecurities today, started wondering if I really have what it takes to be a writer.

 

Your World Would End With Doubt

 

Those words that changed your life were words conceived in strife

Words you told yourself, thinking one day you’d find help

Words you just made up; words you couldn’t live without

Because you knew that through and through your world would end with doubt

The smiles those people gave were the answers that you craved

The acceptance you desired when you were knee-deep in mire

And though those smiles were false; just sugar-coated mouths

You hung on to them lest your feelings stem into a tree of doubt

 

These lies you deemed the truth were things you’d die without

Because you knew that through and through your world would end with doubt

 

This was inspired by a game I played last year called “The World Ends With You.” When I feel like smacking myself for being such an emotional train wreck, I’d think of one particular quote: ”Give up on yourself, and you give up on the world.” Who says games are bad for you?

Day 5: Dreams of Ice Cream

Day 5 and I still don’t know how to use WordPress outside of posting. I should sit down and tinker with it some time this century. XD

It’s. So. Damn. Hot. Tropical countries are like ovens, and whoever left us here is going to come home to a batch of burnt brownies. :) Complaints aside, this poem is even shorter than the last one. Not that I’ve grown lazy; I just felt like short and to the point worked best for something like this. But I’m an amateur writer so I’m not really one to talk.

Am I weird for putting a tune on this? I was kinda singing it as I wrote it. Yeah, I’m weird. The summer heat fries my brain sometimes.

 

Summer Serenade

 

Write my name on the sand while you’re holding my hand

While the radio’s playing our favorite band

Dip your feet in the sea as you sit next to me

Every ripple we make is a new memory

As the sun starts to set, we’re both glad that we met

Though our prints in the sand will fade, we won’t forget

It’s hard to log in when you share one PC with three brothers and two nephews, but hopefully I’ll be able to keep this up till April 30. Now excuse me while I research ways on how to plunge the world into a second Ice Age…

Nah, I’ll just go for ice cream. 18 still qualifies as being a kid, I think. :D

Day 4: Don’t give up on me, immune system

A little late to be posting a poem (at least where I am right now) but I wasn’t feeling well and forced myself out of bed just so I wouldn’t miss Day 4. Am I falling in love with NaPoWriMo? Maybe. Maybe.

Speaking of love, this “I feel like I have a fever” thing I’ve got going on is kinda like that butterflies in your stomach sensation lovesick people get. I’ve been there before, so I can speak from experience. :)

 

Stomach Aflutter

 

Go grab a fistful of the sky

And chug it down, no time for buts

So the butterflies in your gut

Will have a place where they can fly

But if your sky looks a tad gray

With storm clouds brewing way down south

Catch a shooting star with your mouth

Let ‘flies wish for a better day

 

Yeah, it doesn’t make much sense unless you go crazy with the symbolisms, but I wanted to take the “butterflies in your stomach” expression and just have fun with it, so it’s not really about whether people get it or not. After all, love’s not something you can really explain. It’s just plain crazy, like the thought of catching a star in your mouth.

I’m really botching this event up. I need to shake this feverish feeling off and step it up real quick. *chucks down overdose levels of medicine* Kidding, kidding. Or am I? :D

Day 3: Down Memory Lane

I’m gonna forego relying on the prompts and just write whatever I’m feeling. Right now I’m having a little trip down memory lane as I clean out my closet and find all sorts of things like broken toys and baby pictures wedged between old books. I didn’t have the best childhood, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything else.

I probably should have edited the poem a little, but I figured its raw, untouched form helps get my inner kid across more.

 

Seven Days of Simple Smiles

 

Mondays are for Matchbox cars and plastic toy guitars

Wrestling with my brothers in the backseat of our car

Tuesdays are for tricycles ‘cause I can’t ride a bike

Then my mom picks me up, saying “We are so alike!”

 

Wednesday’s waffle day with some water gun fights, too

Dripping wet, laughing hard, then achoo! Achoo! Achoo!

Thursday means toy telephones, some prank calls on the side

“Hello, Superman? Your underwear’s on the outside!”

 

Friday is fried day, chicken’s top of the list for sure

I’ll throw my peas at my bro, I’m just that immature

Saturday’s a play day, and Dad thinks we should hang out

But I can’t lift a basketball; bowling’s lame, no doubt

 

Sunday is still the best day; do you wanna know why?

Mom’s at home, Dad’s at home, and my bros are playing spy

I don’t need toys, I don’t want clothes, I just want a hug

On Sundays, I get five of those; I’m a snug and happy bug

 

It doesn’t read so well because the rhythm’s all messed up, but that’s pretty much how my childhood went underneath the sugary smiles, so I’m not gonna complain about this one… for now. :p

Day 3’s done *victory pose* but I need to raise the qualities of these poems. It’s like I’m just throwing down words. 27 more chances to improve. Challenge accepted.

Day 2: Drama

I am NOT using the time zone excuse again. I can’t wait a couple more hours for the prompt to be posted since I’m really tired and I’ll probably just sleep the rest of the day away. With that said, I went ahead and unleashed randomness upon Day 2’s poem. For some reason, I remembered the “stalker” I had back in high school. I call her stalker but she’s really more like a persistent, creepy, attention-seeking acquaintance, Before I start shuddering at my memories, I guess I better post my crappy poem no. 2. Seriously, I need proper inspiration.

My Empty Heart Has No Room For You

My empty heart has no room for you
And I wish you’d get a hint or two
You place feelings where they should not be
Then put the blame on no one but me

Is it so hard to add two and two?
My empty heart has no room for you
One plus one is not “We’re meant to be”
“I like you not” is one-four-three-three

We stay up and chat absurdly late
But please don’t call it a “cyber date”
My empty heart has no room for you
Think we click? My laptop’s mouse does too

Look out the window, maybe you’ll see
Friends are friends, they’re not lovers-to-be
My jaded life is no suite for two
My empty heart has no room for you

I don’t know what’s up with the layout; must be ’cause of the Vertigo theme. I wish I could remember the poetry form I based this on. Oh well, here’s me hoping the rest of my poems aren’t nearly as horrible.

Day 1 Dilemma

The prompt: “…write a poem that has the same first line as another poem.” These prompts are optional, but since I have no idea what I want to write about, I’m going to follow them. It’s hard to keep track of them, though, as the differing time zones make me risk not making the deadline for the day.

I think I couldn’t have picked a harder poem to copy the first line from than Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven” – I chose this at random and immediately regretted my decision. But because I have my pride, I pressed on and came up with this… well, I don’t even know what to call this. I ended up following (to some extent) the original’s pattern as well, which only added to my misery.

 

The Query

 

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, 

‘Bout one long unanswered query, I went to my friend Igor

“If a man,” I began to say, “would live his life from day to day,

Without regard for food or pay, is there sense behind the chore?

Perchance we say that there was still value in this routine chore,

What stops him from seeking more?”

 

Though sleepless nights had made him thin, he shone with youth when he would grin

Igor rubbed at his shaven chin, and from his mouth answers pour

“If this man,” he did say to me, “with all of his sincerity,

Claimed that he was truly happy, that he would ask nothing more

Then, my good friend, what need is there to press the point even more?

The life he lives is no chore”

 

“If our good man,” Igor had said, “found love and had thereafter wed

Then his wife gives birth to two heads; a son and daughter make four

In a house built on love and trust, despite the cobwebs and the dust

They have no need to gripe or fuss; all they needed was a door

To let good things in, bad things out, say ‘Welcome, walk through our door

Feel at home, we implore!’ “

 

“And his son, ripe of age, would wake before the first rooster had spake,

Seeds in tow, in his hand a rake; his stomach’s pleas he ignores

He tills the land till late that day, comes home to meals of grain and whey

He complains not; he opts to say, ‘My life’s more blest than before’

When his dad smiles most lovingly, he feels more blest than before

And he could not wish for more”

 

He went on, his grin now a smile, “A father treads for half a mile,

When he leads his girl down that aisle, to a man who to him swore

Boundless joy for his daughter dear; who he had, for many years,

Offered his blood and sweat and tears; who he had cherished, cared for

Kept under his protective wing, all to one day lose her for

A man who will love her more”

 

“We then find our man,” Igor said, “in repose upon his deathbed

His eyes, filled with tears, are stained red, recounting events from afore

His livid lips form half a smile as his mixed feelings reconcile

His time had truly been worthwhile; it had never been a chore

His wife, children, and son-in-law; he never thought them a chore

Never; not now, not before”

 

Igor had finished, smiling still; he lumbered to the windowsill,

Closed the pane on the coming chill, his smile brighter than before

“My good friend, what I want to say is live your life from day to day

Without regard for food or pay, but treat it not as a chore

Find sense in the smallest of things, satisfaction from a chore

Be happy; seek nothing more”

 

I’m not all that happy with how it turned out, but poetry was never my focus, so I’m still fairly proud that I could write something like this. Hopefully, I’m less masochistic during the remaining 29 days.

1 Day Short of April

April was named after the Goddess of Love and Beauty herself, so it’s no wonder we all turn into fools on the first day (what has love not turned us into?). But for writers, seasoned veterans and spring chickens alike, it is also a time to set poetry in motion – a fitting event for the month that gave us one of the most famous poets in the world. To be or not be… pressured by all of this legacy; now that is the question.

National Poetry Writing Month sounds easy enough:  you write thirty poems in thirty days. How hard can that be, right? I’m about to find out.