jari m

Tag: poem

  • Pablo Neruda: One Hundred Love Sonnets, Sonnet XVII

    I don’t love you as if you were a rose of salt, topaz, or arrow of carnations that propagate fire: I love you as one loves certain obscure things, secretly, between the shadow and the soul. I love you as the plant that doesn’t bloom but carries the light of those flowers, hidden, within itself,…

  • surviving again

    i don’t think i exist outside the places we meet.

  • Word Vomit: self-contained universes

    Ignore this post if you want to live with some meaning.

  • footnote

    My fixation is part of a new era; the one before that, a transition. There is a list of words I’ve defined by you. I would look them up in the dictionary, and write their meanings down, and in my thoughts I would imagine your face beside each and every one. Words were senseless unless…

  • sleepy;

    Life update sneaking around on my laptop during lab (10AM to present), and browsing through my notes when I found this gem. Also I’m losing the will to live. Three exams to go this week.

  • Five Reasons Why I Won’t “Fall in Love”. Again.

    Writing and performing a personal narrative for Speech 11 was a cathartic and frankly exhausting experience. But watching everyone else was very fun and insightful! Definitely adds new perspectives to life. I posted everything here because I want to. It isn’t that coherent (I’d probably need 15 minutes of speech time to set everything straight),…

  • i sat on my chair and i wrote,

    It’s 1AM. Here in Manila, after catching the last showing of Crazy, Beautiful You in the cinemas. It was a good film. Things that are also catching: exams, relationships, GHD and the future.

  • “Google Keep”, a collection of idle thoughts

    Because sometimes I just can’t stop in the middle of the sidewalk to whip out a notebook and write.

  • Three things i learned from life

    1. The prince smiles at the pauper and he says, welcome home. He removes her rags and seats her on a throne, gives her jewels, buys her gowns and drowns her in the kind of whispers i shouldn’t repeat. These are the kinds of bedtime stories my mother flushed down my throat: poor girl meets…