CHARLZ DELA CRUZ

You are not of this world
and yet your beauty fills it
In your quiet space,
you whisper words
that define my existence
You may not know about it
but I know well about it
and it is enough
for all my stars to shine
This is how I search for your meaning
And although I have not seen your face
I know why birds sigh in the morning.

Live a life
full of passion
Tear away conventional values
made by sad people
more lost than you are
Let the fire of passion
consume you
from inside out
Explain nothing
The moon and stars
will understand you
The sun will light up your steps
For nothing is profane
in a heart that loves
The world will think that you are mad
and hate you for being happy
Ignore them
Love all with a blazing force
Love without mercy
Burn, burn, burn
Run with the wind
Dance with the trees  and laugh at the sky
Wake up to your dream
and be alive
Be free Be true
Be you.

weak    and
trembling
on  her
 knees she sucked 
the
   soul     out
     of
me

she loved him
far too long
in silence
that her heart
has stopped
beating

You   are
  too
        beautiful
  to    be
real

Her soul
spills
out of her body
and she does not know it

she does not know
how her eyes
light up
like looming mountains
touching
the brightest stars

and that poets
only write
what the wind
whispers
to her hair.

Days were made of flowers stars made of dreams
until the world happened
and what was once full of life
is now cold and silent as the grave.

He hated the world So much That he hated himself He despised the world So much That he became the world…
I
He was not born to be a writer His soul was simply broken into pieces, like the alphabets
And so he writes hoping that he might know who he was or who he is that as he puts back the pieces of his soul he might form a word or a name to call himself
It is true that one may find wisdom when one is lost but it is also true  that one  can be lost forever
He writes  under the light  of the full moon, re-creating beauty with a quill, parchment, and tears while she is asleep, dreaming the wildest dreams perhaps of some far-away kingdom catching butterflies and the whole world sleeps with her
Indeed, he was not born to be a writer He was only broken into one.

She desires a love that is pure and deep
only to find herself lying  in bed alone, feeling her nakedness with her hands
Because  she wants love – love that is real – love that moves mountains and overthrows life
but the world has so many thorns, too painful for  a rose.

I write
about
how broken
you are
because
my heart
could
no longer
be
seen.