Even on the good days,
he is a mountain I can’t climb.
A bridge I can’t get over.
His spine means sacrifice.
Means look at all the ways
I stretched myself out for you.
Look at all the ways it wasn’t enough.
It’s my fault for showing him
the wolves in my belly.
The moons I swallowed
until my stomach howled
from the weight of it all.
He carried carnivals
in his hands and kissed me
like he was on top of
a Ferris wheel every time.
Like he saw the world from
where he was standing.
He still loves me,
I understand,
but he is someone else’s
best poem now.

To that person I’d like to say:
I’m sorry for the stars I painted on
the inside of his eyelids.
I wanted him to see
galaxies growing through my skin.
even when he was asleep.
I miss him terribly,
and I loved him terribly, I know,
but I hope you bring the
prince in him back to life.
I’m sorry about the dragons
I left behind.

Y.Z, my mountain boy, I hope you’re well (via rustyvoices)

So therefore I dedicate myself to myself, to my art, my sleep, my dreams, my labors, my suffrances, my loneliness, my unique madness, my endless absorption and hunger - because I cannot dedicate myself to any fellow being.

Jack Kerouac (via chandr-a)

(via langleav)

Walang-wala na ang puso ko sa ginagawa ko. Pero putangina. Sige. Go lang nang go. Kunwari okay pa rin ako. Madali naman para sa akin ang magkunwari. Pumayag ako dito. Ginusto ko ‘to. Pinaghirapan ko ‘to.