Charlz dela Cruz

My heart often weeps for those Who have taken their life by their own hand. How brave, how faithful, how wise, and selfless.
I’m sorry I took so long, But I understand it now. I understand you now.
Oh, Sweet Soul, you were never sick — Not even mentally —  But the world is.
Please wake up, people, Please, wake up, And save humanity.
*According to statistics, as of 2020, every 40 seconds, somewhere in this world, somebody dies by suicide. By the time you finish reading this, another life has been lost.*

Sweet is the song of the skylark As she perches on your shoulder. Her melody speaks of the dark, Where a story bleeds into a flower.
But only a few listen closely And hear the sound of her weeping. It's buried in her music where you shall see A bird now cold and breathless for loving.

To die Is to cry For a lie That's good As a sigh. Come and try To die; For who knows, Despite the many woes, You might reach The sky.

Music is divine Sweet to the ears — pure, sublime Until I play it. 

Your eyes are the eyes of the morning That mark new beginnings with your fresh light. By the window, the birds are chirping; And when you look, all things burn bright.
Did the night bury the Sun in your body? Did the graces of the Earth seep through your skin? All that is left for the birds and me Is to bask in your beauty as if we were made of sin.
Now I know why flowers bloom at your touch: You are a rare creature. In perfection, too much — For you are overflowing — wild, wild dreams of nature.

There is an old man who lives in the mountain of Ilidor. He would disappear into the night, Into his inner sanctuary, and shut the door. In the stillness and quiet, he writes by candlelight.
Strange as this is, so a strange man is he. The trees are cold and shivering in snow. Could he be mad? But how can this be? He writes and the words begin to glow.
Wrapped in his rugged robe, The smell of parchment lingering in the air, The angels wonder and watch closely At what is happening there.
He writes a verse, And a star falls on a little girl’s feet. He writes another, And the forest trees go wild like thunder.
The ink spills on the table, but he takes no notice. He writes word after word, and the angels are terrified. They wonder what madness could have led to this, For his lines suddenly feel as if God has died.
The old man sobs as he writes, And the angels start to weep. But then he opens a stanza, full of lights, With an ancient meaning so profound and deep.
Jesus — he writes as if he prays. Then the door of H…

"And John answered him, saying, Master, we saw one casting out devils in thy name, and he followeth not us: and we forbad him, because he followeth not us.  But Jesus said, Forbid him not: for there is no man which shall do a miracle in my name, that can lightly speak evil of me. For he that is not against us is on our part.  For whosoever shall give you a cup of water to drink in my name, because ye belong to Christ, verily I say unto you, he shall not lose his reward."

The different branches of a tree Reach out to the same sky. A little bird happily flies by, realizing That the Divine is in a flower, the ocean, Breath, and stone; For we are fingers of the same Hand, And in love, we grow.
Different colors, One rainbow.

She is made of miracles That have fallen together In one place, condensed In one body.
Her eyes are bursting Innocence, that my soul take flight, Like a glare of a thousand suns Or a hundred moons — take a pick. And with hands so pure and holy, I could not touch. She speaks Yet does not utter a word. O, most gentle music —  A soprano of stars —
That I, in the dark alley of my soul Hurry to sink to my knees And lean to her music — The music of the night, ever-blooming With her Spirit-filled breath. Even the nightingales are singing in the trees.
I pray the Rosary —  With her. We pray.

Poetry is like a kiss. When it is given freely To one and many, It loses its sweetness. But if it is given to one And one only, And if it is given Repeatedly, A kiss becomes more Than a kiss As poetry becomes sweeter And sweeter. Each poem becomes An eternal rose That blooms in the garden Of your hands, For you breathe life into it. Here I give you Another rose, Another piece Of my soul. You look at this And smile. My love, this is how I live.

Every night, Mr. Goldfish would cross the sea And sing a song to Ms. Monkey.  He would stay on the shore, and she would listen from her tree.  He sang to her only the sweetest songs, and she spoke to him using poetry.  Although they never understood each other, Their romance lasted for a year or three:
When Mr. Goldfish finally decided to marry his Monkey, She missed her Goldfish and swam across the sea.