Day to Day Poetry, poetry

#74

I’ve woken up
to sounds of roosters crowing, and hens singing as they pecked
grains of rice out of the soil, heavy from last night’s rain,
holding me up against floors made of bamboo and mats woven from coconut leaves
the sound of the waves crashing against rocks visible only during low tides
while a glass of freshly-squeezed milk waited for me,
on my aunt’s table.

I’ve slept in benches on a -30 winter’s night,
wrapped in gloves and scarves and second-hand coats,
covering my face so that nobody sees
the peace I’ve tried to achieve from within.

I’ve fought battles long and hard
and encountered numerous flat tires on a road
that’s gone on for far too long,
longer than what anybody bargained for.
Long enough for me to decide
which battles are worth fighting.
Most often my resignation is mistaken for loss, or surrender –
that’s not an act I believe is worth explaining to you either.

I’ve made a cocoon out of luxurious bed sheets
while my ears were pricked with the constant reminder:
Those are Frette, those are Frette —
as if his whispers would convince me to render myself
in a catatonic state of extreme euphoria with gratitude,
when all I felt was indubitable resentment,
for allowing myself to fall for the same old tricks,
yet again.

I waited in the dark, inside a small room with its own sink,
four white walls and mandala posters tacked hastily against it,
and a tiny window that overlooked Spadina avenue,
at 5 am in the early morning,
for a nurse to peek in with his flashlight and whisper, “Checks”.

A hundred unfamiliar ceilings
left their marks on me,
each scar a different story.

I used to dread the fear and the loathing settling in within me.
Now I fear that momentary echo of hope that still finds its way through the apathy,
it keeps whispering,
there must be something.
Still –
there must be something.

 

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Day to Day Poetry, poetry

Day to Day Poetry # 58

There’s a constant stream
of self-blaming
and automatic learned helplessness
that nips at me relentlessly.
Some days it’s tolerable,
and some days
it swallows me whole.

Your voice
is a celestial hand
that reaches out to me despite distance,
in spite of walls built on
the foundations of self-defence
and thousand yard stares ingrained in
gauntlets made of steel –
bringing into life, words that
reverberate in my heart to keep
me hoping for another day,
awake and
dreaming.

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Day to Day Writing

Day to Day Writing # 44

A/N: Apologies for the lack of writing folks, I am currently obsessed with Saint’s Row IV and Andy Weir’s The Martianand my writing is suffering because of it. But worry not, because I got a lot of things done today such as, cleaned up my apartment, finally put up curtains in my bedroom so people can’t watch me sleep from outside, and sketched a bit.

On the meantime, here’s an old short story I wrote for one of my classes eons ago.

Enjoy!

Calculating Literature

By: Ellise Ramos

Loving Myra was a decision I set heavily in stone, with as much vehemence and relentlessness as an infatuated 10-year-old could. From the moment Mr. Rodney sat us together in class, she already looked me up and down with those judging eyes and offered no “hello” or nod – just a penetrating glare that I felt solidify in my skin, into my nerves.

“Hi, my name is Ellise,” I said, smiling.

She rolled her eyes in reply.

I craned my neck to see what she was working on and saw her full name written on the top-left corner of her notebook. “Hey, your name is Ellise too!”

“My name’s Myra. My second name’s Elysse. And it’s spelled differently from yours, so no, we don’t have the same name.
That didn’t matter. I was already in love.

Read the full story in .pdf here:

or keep scrolling below to read it in its entirety on my blog.

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Day to Day Poetry

Day to Day Poetry #39

I can feel the toxic woman rising,
from the back of my throat.
She grips me with her icy, cold fingers
and dips me in liquid laced with poison,
where there is no antidote
for the viciousness and relentless words
she spouts a mile a minute.

I let her take over me –
eyes squinting,
watching the faces of my friends
widen in surprise
at how venomous I can actually be –
I have no control over the words exploding out of me
like scythes ripping through the air
and cutting them in half –
all the acid I’ve contained inside
starts spilling,
burning and desecrating everything in its path

and I can only tremble and watch from the corner of my eye
the damage I’ve caused –
the loss of control I’ve allowed to happen –

I love you, I love you
I tried to be good,
I swear I tried to be good –
but the demon inside me has fought her way out of my heart
and taken my misery and insecurities with her –
to reveal the Mother Cunt
growing, in fury,
inside.

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Day to Day Poetry

Day to Day Poetry #35

I had a dream
that I had an infinite amount
of these round little pills
that forced us to dance
the crazy dance
of laconic conversations
for six hours straight
going up and then down
and then flinging our souls
away from the helpless
hopelessness of sobriety
until a tremble in the corner

of our dilated eyes
exploded
and rendered us
into colours
that couldn’t exist

while a rabid, quivering whisper

told us we held

the secret to life

that whatever it is that people

questioned, studied, searched and journeyed for

the golden truth, the elliptical bud

has been found—

but before we could

ask why
it died

before we could hear

 

anything.
 

 

 

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