when i said i've moved on did i really?
then why is every poem still for him? even though i say i do not write for him anymore, even if i say that i don'te write OF him anymore.. it sucked to know that people would ask me, it's for him right? your poem is still for him? why can't i seem to write anything that doesn't concern him?? everytime i attepmt to write anything not him words get jumbled up... my computer screen lies empty until i decide to write of him.. then words suddenly flow like river-endless... the screen that once was an empty color of white suddenly becomes a mass of letters stringed into words tied to be a huge mass of unkept, unbalanced emotions... trying its hard to cope up with the rambling thoughts in my head... hoping to catch every word, every sentence and stamp it on the huge screen... for it not to be erased in my memory, only to be erased by my fingers realizing that i have once again unconciously wrote of him... it's really frustrating how words easily flow out, fingers continuously typing, writing and not holding back while all that's inside my head is him...

i want out of this mess, i want out of this curse... i want to write about the NEW him, for the NEW him, of the NEW him...

can i write of him? hte new him? i'm scared... scared to even attempt to write... afraid that the words i thought i wove for the NEW him would be just really for him...

but you know what... i know i won't care anymore... i'll try to write for the new one... try my best even if i sore my hands out and dried my brains of... also dry as much ink in my pen and crumple as much scratch paper there is in my room... what i will TRY to write now is something NEW... not anymore what i used to write... no more smudged paper because of tears, no more striked out words because of frustrations. no more sad angsty type of poems that dwells on what might have been.. but then again, the path i'm taking now isn't like those creams with cherry on top... no, this isn't a stroll in the park...

i admit, being drenched in my own blood for a while longer than was needed got me all bitter and angsty... no other choice there, i do not write happy... barely see myself holding a pen and write when i am happy... it would be really hard for me... to compose something out of fancy, it'll be choppy, just like this one...

damn, it's making no sense...

i told you so...

alix | 11:14:00 PM