Posts (page 2)

i can only sleep if the door is locked.

i fell asleep in the living room earlier this year. i should have known better. bad things happen when i fall asleep in living rooms alone.

so i was asleep in one sofa but when i woke up, there he was looking at me with his hands in his pants.

i hate him.
i hate him.

why does he do this?

knowing everything, why does he continue to do this?

and it's always when i'm starting to feel better about myself.
      it's always when i'm able to look in the mirror and say "you look good today."

do men just hate me?

am i that useless?
only good for simple urges; please do not respect.

i feel like i've already died.

i'm always alone.
i'm always alone.

i'm apparently useless to society.
i've been reduced to a freeloader.

i'm not even that pretty.

just that weak.

i'm stuck in the past.

and it seems as if i won't be able to rely anyone anymore.

i won't get help. i won't receive help.

i'll just sit here.
and wait for the green light.

i remember seeing ross crying hysterically in the living room. his eyes were blood-red, and he kept mumbling on and on about some uncle in the philippines. he only said one thing loud enough for us to hear:

"what kind of kid gets hemorrhoids at age 10?"

and then he started blubbering again. completely pathetic, looking for sympathy. it seems pretty funny when you take it out of context. and i'd laugh about it with ya, but the whole situation still upsets me.

i won't condone what he did to me, but i'm beginning to understand why. if i keep on writing from his point of view, then maybe i'll be able to make sense of it all.

i will finish this.

i turn twenty-years old in ten days. i'll see you then.

I don't want to get a 9-5 job. I don't want to go back to class. Just thinking about it makes me tense. Clocking in and out, staying in the same building for more than four hours.

no thnxs... DO NOT WANT.

Ah, but I need money, money. I have to buy a new AC adapter for my laptop, my clothes are getting ragged, I have holes in my shoes and I really, really need to move out. You need money for those things. You need money for everything, from love, to sports, to midnight binges on dark chocolate and higher ed.

If it's the right job, then working shouldn't feel like working. Ugh, but everything I do in the name of green feels like work.

I used to think that I should just publish my own writings, and sell them for a little cash. But then I thought about how pathetic the idea was. "Since I can't get published by someone else, I'll just do it myself."

LAME.

Advertising myself is another thing that makes me tense. I feel dirty, like a whore that's doing the "spread eagle" by the highway. Ewwwwwie. Nobody wants to see that. (a.k.a no thnxs... DO NOT WANT). I'm not for sale. I don't want to have a price tag dangling from my earlobe.

But I need money.

I need to sell a little of myself to get by. And little by little more of me is lost everyday. Words, hours, and labor for what?

It doesn't feel like it's worth it.

This thing called "civilization" makes everything come easier. It makes life comfortable.

It makes us stagnant.

(imported from xanga. original site shut down.)

How old are you now?
24? 25? No...
You must be at least 26 by now.
Maybe 27? Ah! Old!

You used the word "intoxicate"
Used it to describe the feeling that my writing gave you.
It seemed so insignificant then,
But now, on nights like this
I can't help but think of it.

I don't write as much anymore.
No one cares about it.
No one wants to read about my thoughts,
There's no time for it.
Not even a quick glance.

I don't mind it.
I'm guilty of the same apathy.

Nothing they write for me is quite the same.
None of the words that they conjure...
It's just not the same,
It's just not as good
As the words you left me,
As the word "intoxicate".

I hope to run into you one day.

You'll remember my face,
and say,
"Hey! You got your teeth fixed!"
You wouldn't know my name right away,
I'd still be recovering from the shock that you recognized me.

Someone like you,
With your dreams and your heart and words,
Remembering a schlep like me.

Some girl who gave up her dreams of a book,
Out of fear of instability.
Out of fear of being... uncomfortable.

They don't want it.

They don't want anything to change.

Things are fine,

Because they are comfortable.

Turning on the t.v. to watch Wowowwee, watching the background dancers shake that thang up-up-down-down. Because they've worked hard for the life that they have now. It's fine.

Besides, even if their government is corrupt and their country is stricken with poverty... what can they do?

So all of the feelings of unrest deep inside their hearts are buried deeper with a "Eh..." and "Tsk, tsk, tsk"

So they don't want it.

Fine.

Then I won't work for it.
I won't give you what you don't want to work for.
I'll forget about you.
I'll stop watching the news.
Because if you don't want it,

What is it worth?

Why should I waste my time on it?

My love,

I won't make you go through anything that you don't want to.

But if you do want to turn the whole thing upside down,

Look me up.

I'm here
Sitting in front of this computer typing
Getting ready for you to say "Go".

I remember my first suicide attempt.

The school year had just ended, I was as lonely as ever. Seemed as if no one wanted anything to do with poor little me.

Except him. Him. Him. Him.

Ross.

Ah, but it was a terrible attention. Kneeling, laying still and motionless. Fearful.

There'd be dragging down the stairway, pressure on my neck, wrists and conscience.

Age 14 was a confusing age. It was when people started to tell me that certain things were wrong. That certain activities weren't supposed to happen with a girl like me and other older characters. It was when I was told, that if I was forced into a certain type of situation, I had to tell the police.

It was also when he made his first threat.

Threats against my own well-being were useless. I'd already given up on myself. At 14 years old, I was convinced that I'd be dead by the age of 16. So, no plans to look forward to. Nothing to hold onto.

Ah, ah, that rapacious man. He knew that already.

So what does he do?

He gives me things to hold onto. He pushes me closer to my twin and older brother Emmanuel so that when he beats them, it will hurt me. When I disobey, he beats them.

Because he can't leave any marks on me, eh?

Bruises could be a motive to go to the police. No one would believe my word alone. I was just a kid. An attention-starved brat. Kids lie all the time, so they can't be trusted. Bruises provided evidence. Evidence that I needed.

But never got.

It was summertime. I had made the conclusion that I couldn't bear the pain of his touch anymore.

I felt, that my sisters hated me.

I felt also, that my brothers hated me also. Including Ross. Why else would he do this? He made me look spoiled to them, but tore me open when I was out of sight.

No matter how much I showered, the smell was there. Even when the water was as hot as it could be, even when my skin burned under that heat. I was stained.

So... why waste water?

It was evening. An evening during summer, when I hid that knife in my peacoat.

You don't understand how much I relate.

You don't understand how much we need this right now.

I've seen the same things. I've felt the same pain. One race, feeling that it is superior to mine, forcing us into terrible, unspeakable situations.

I feel the same pain inside myself. Having to see my fellow Filipinos kiss ass to supposedly "better" nationalities, because we're not good enough, because our skin is so dark, our country is too poor. I understand this. I don't want to. I don't make an effort to. But I just do.

Feeling completely disconnected from my roots.

Hating myself for being born this way.

Turning on the t.v. seeing how desperate my country has become, clinging onto any mentions in American television, stealing from it's own taxpayers and seeing them turn their backs on the ones in need in order to preserve their current lifestyles.

Is it any mystery that skin-lightening products are on the shelves of every drug store in the Philippines?

Is it so irregular that Filipino entertainers have never achieved fame in South Asia?

No.

The entire region looks down upon us.

We're fed breadcrumbs,

Treated as afterthoughts,

We hide our nationalities in order to gain a little recognition.

Learning the English language is a requirement in the Philippines, however, just try finding a language center in the USA that offers Tagalog, the official language of the Philippines.

Our government is ridiculously corrupt, and is more than happy to get on it's hands and knees for the USA.

I can't stand it.

I hate it.

I want more. More from the Philippines. More from Filipinos. I want change.

I want a fucking revolution.

We talk a lot of shit about being proud to be Filipino. It's disgusting. Especially when I hear the word bayanihan. 

Since when?

If this concept is so precious to the Philippines, then why is it the way it is now?

Why can't we band together for the greater good?

Why are we so selfish?

I can't stand it.

I hate it so much.

No one wants to stand by me.

Ah, because we've become such superficial creatures.

I want to uproot the entire Philippine government.

I want a revolution...
I want a revolution
I want a revolution

I want it
I want it

We need it

Not just a revolution for the Philippines. But a revolution for humankind.

You probably don't understand. That's alright. Soon. Soon you will.

That's what most music is nowadays.

I can't find anything worth the space on my hard drive.

It's all background noise in different languages. There's no real lyrical content. The things that hurt us most are unheard in all these tracks.

So I thought to myself:

"Why is it so hard to produce music addressing these pains?"

"Why do we stick to strictly shallow emotions as our inspiration?" 

Maybe because it's too real. Modern music seems to be throwing itself head first into the world of escapism. Infatuations, pitiful drama and empty mantras are common. Techno beats and shallow hip-hip. "Catchy music".

But what about expression?

You see very little singers writing their own lyrics, let alone their own songs.

There's more to being an artist than taking what's been given to you, and simply adding your vocals to it.

There's production, the first few frustrating moments when you learn that the notes you wrote don't match the sounds that you heard in your head, the fights with the producers, fears of being pulled from the label with the struggle to hold on to yourself...

What do we have that resembles that in the mainstream?

Think about it for awhile and then sigh with me.

The world is in a state of tension, fear and insecurity. It's nice to hear an optimistic, peppy song every now and then, but what I need is to see an acknowledgment of our flaws.

I think, that this is what the world needs to see in the music industry.

Rather than "pre-packaged" stars, something real.

Our reality, with our determination to improve not only our own lives, but the lives of others.

I hope for this.

Cute has lost it's innocence as of late.

It's become intertwined with sex, and hurled into the world of fetishes. Young, clean-faced girls are pushed into super-groups, fitted into pastel colored miniskirts, given "cute" dance moves, and shake their derrieres for attention-deprived, horny male and female specimens.

Impressionable girls around the same age are conditioned with the thought that this is the way to get the attention and affections that they desire. Especially after seeing the music videos and the "love" that these "groups" receive from their male classmates. They then act accordingly, acting like their favorite stars. Dressing like them, singing their songs. All to be noticed. "You notice Kusumi when she sings this song. Will you notice me?" This need for attention is exploited. Their naivete is punished and they find themselves in front of a video camera, being groped by a man twice their age. While fighting the urge to cry and to question the morality of the situation, all they can do is lay there until he's finally sick of them and let's them leave.

Cute has become hazardous for our safety.

He rubs himself while watching the video he filmed just hours before. When he's tired of looking at her face, all he needs to do is press "pause" and look up the music video of one of these female "groups" on youtube. Ah, he's found it. The song about pancakes with Kusumi Koharu from "Morning Musume". Her face is so clean. So pure. What he wishes for more than anything is to press his body against hers and to make her his. Forever.

He's seen her face now. Now he can press "play".

All he can see now is Kusumi's face. But he knows, that the girl he took earlier was not Kusumi. This drives him mad. He buys all of her posters,  listens to all of her music, and attends all of her concerts. But why, why oh why is he left only rubbing himself and not her?

So to fill the emptiness left by this reality, he searches. Searches for a girl like Kusumi. And every night he finds her. She hates laying there, but what can she do? No one else will love her, no one else will listen to her speak. No one, except him.

But she doesn't even know that he's not listening.

All he's doing is replacing her face with Kusumi's and preparing to make love to Kusumi, and only Kusumi. He hasn't heard a single one of her words. Finally he approaches her and while kissing her neck he says "Don't worry. It'll be alright. Trust me."

She takes this as her cue to lie down.

And the cycle continues.

(imported from xanga. original site shut down.)