Cry It Out, But Nothing Ever Happens

Have been sitting at the same figurative bench for two months
He’s still there.. waiting.. for a bus that will never arrive
The Universe knows when it will come, but not now
He still has to learn what she really means to him
Forgive her for she doesn’t know what she’s doing
Forgive her if you think she’s just hurting him
She really isn’t. It’s for the greater good.. their greater good
It’s better that way, it really is.. but he thinks not
Ponder again. About the Universe, about everything
Everything about her that doesn’t have, anymore, meaning
Just… anything. He’ll try to forget how it hurts
How it was never meant to be him and her
Sit down and don’t worry about anything
You can cry it out, but nothing ever happens
Because what’s done is already there, written amongst the stars
Accept the fact that the past will remain nothing but, to him, a scar

The Thing About Heroes

“They are made for kids. And will forever be for kids.” – – a douchebag said (about comic books) to my face once. He did not realize that he was living in one. Poor guy.

The world we live in is a very long comic book series. We are the point-of-view characters (like in George R. R. Martin’s series, A Song of Ice and Fire), and it is up to us to write our stories, and draw our own pages. As far as I can tell, everybody has a driving force to make people interested in their story. My driving force is not just a single thought. What drove me to get into crazy things are the people around me, whether they know me or not.

Seven billion (more or less) driving forces. That’s how much crazy I am for craziness. I am never serious. I’m always partying inside my mind. And like the comic book series called Life, there has been only one party in my mind, because it has never ended and it never will.

From the words above, one can infer that everybody is the hero, right? Wrong. From my side, everybody is a villain, even myself. We are all villains. Proof? You don’t need that. You can already tell that all of the seven billion Homo sapiens are in fact, villains in their own way. Media has conjured images that made our minds grow with thoughts that a story always has a good side, and a bad side. Well, for me, every story has always been about bad sides. It’s just that every time the bad guys fight, one that has the seemingly “righteous” point of view wins. That is what the people call “the good guy.”

Everybody has a plan for themselves. Even those who work for “greater good,” they will eventually succumb to the seven sins. Society covers them well, right?

The thing about heroes? They don’t exist.

While a Heart Breaks

The dragon sleeps, the tiger snoozes
The giants slumber in the Cave of Oozes
A wheelchair beeps, a computer vocalizes
Then laughter is heard throughout the blazes
A joke walks in silly clothes
Four turtles rhyme while a little slug loathes
Equations fly out in pairs and Stooges
A room paints itself with ducks and Scrooges
The alchemist creates the philosopher’s stone
The pain sinks into the child’s bone
Monsters come out from balls of red and white
A Cyclops finishes the battle with a big bite
A heart breaks into a million pieces
The child is left there in alleys and spaces
A pig comforts him, all blue and plush
He tells the child, “Falling in love, eh? Well, don’t rush.”

The Worm in the Tree Hole

The early bird catches the worm
Henry is what we’ll call the pink little worm
A big black bird with a yellow beak and red eyes
Let’s call it Amanda, okay? ‘Cause it sounds fine
Though this lugubrious tale does not
Henry walked into a trap, he can tell
All he could see was a nest made of twigs and saliva
He did not know how he got there, maybe he climbed, maybe he fell
But one thing was certain, he’s dead. Else, that’s the way he sees it
“Well, I could do a flashback of my life..” he thought
So he did and he remembered the time when he was crawling [as any other worm]
Crawling through the bright green meadows of Uncle Gerry’s lot
He was satisfied of the dirt, the soil, and the mud,
For he was a little worm. And for him, the soil was home, not crud
He remembered the days when boys with hooks chased him
That time, he crawled. He crawled and crawled and crawled.
He crawled as quickly as he can, and finally went through a hole
But it was not his hole, it was Greg’s. And Greg was angry
“Oh vermicast..” he thought
He tried not to remember that part, for it was just a chase scene
Imagine a worm chasing a worm! Oh, what delight. A very slow delight.
But Henry did not get into a fight. Greg was forgiving
Greg would give him treats for apologies, but Henry was already leaving
Then Henry remembered the time he fell in love with Luisa
He thought of their dates and kisses and hugs and all
It lasted really long, I think almost from May to October
And that was really, for Henry, the worst Fall [the season] of all.
Then he remembered the day he went to the forest to find Juniper, his sister
What the hell was he thinking? But I guess it’s his choice…
He would do anything for his sibling even if it puts his life in danger
He swam rivers, jumped gorges, and climbed— “OH! That’s why!” he realized
Then he remembered how he got into that tree
His crazy mind thought of climbing a freaking tree. A FREAKING TREE!
Well, we couldn’t blame him, but we could blame his senses
He was very old then for worm-age. So his hearing was a little feeble
Then came a large [according to his eyes] bird as aforementioned
She was ready to tear him to pieces she said
“Is she your girlfriend?” — pertaining to the little worm in her beak
It was Juniper! “No, she’s my little sister.”
He was relieved that the bird did not eat her, but set her free
Amanda kindly put the worm in her beak on the branch of her tree
“Here ya go, don’t let her wander through the forest again, okay?”
Then the big black bird ate them both with a swift beak