LITERARY | There's A Poem On My Tongue

It's in every part where such is a product of an ideal thing. No words, no metaphors. All the pretty that there is, even the misery. 

Even when its meaning has no direction. My train of thoughts runs without a station to stop over.

It reveals in every part of many cores: the dismal blow of air, my coins for economy, rallied up streets, stories of my friends, the echoing chatter, hurt from growth, decomposing street rat, loyalty of a dog, God, the rot and its beginnings, the songs I love, Dapitan, my remaining killable time, magical foresights, the announcement of rain by the Earth's scent, summer leaving, a lovelorn status, fallen hibiscus, my slick curiosity, the secret third thing, my stupid tribulations, the longing welling up my throat, and some other writerly passion to translate your feeling— how life as is and our continuous romanticism over it.

Everything somehow leads to words which can mean something in a poetic sense. Reappearing into new form, shifting into light across many faces, beyond narratives, behind plain sight. Before my teeth gnashed harder than my monologue, I was once distinct to trace an experience in puzzling some rave of words. My nomenclatures, I was once my own script. 

I could write about a thousand of these, jot its structure in my mind like a mastered pattern, a habit of one's own. For art and future archives. For many to read and for the people to love. 

What are all my words for, if not for the relevance and mundane?

That's the thing. I love to interpret and denote until the point of obscurity and cosmic indifference. They sit heavy as an idea waiting to be denounced as mere, insignificant fleeting thought. Affluent for cohesion but vivid and expressive. It kills and reincarnates another.

When words are futile devices, it crosses hungrily beyond borderlines. It nears closer than my next breath, stuck behind my compressed lips. It piques like an interest. There and non-present. An itch on the roof of my mouth that only letters could scratch.

It is as if I have to write about everything and convey each word to capture. That even at this point, this is disfigured. Not a thought for themes or distinction. Just a possibility.

There's a potential for poems in all of us and in all of everything. The maximalism of every being. Its allegory and naked simplicity. My momentary sense, the abrupt electric feeling to author. It insists upon itself. Burning through me, so flickered I could make a bonfire.

All my urgencies for composition: a poem on my tongue.  An evidence for a piece that will never come. 

Whatever I will write, it's already here.