writings on MY wall...

Often people will ask me what drives me to write about certain things. Some people would say that I have a passion for writing. But I don’t. It’s always been a forte of mine but I wouldn’t call it a hobby. Unlike people who live and breathe their music, fashion, and writing capabilities, I live and breathe for life itself. I’ve been through a variety of situations in the past six years out of high school that a lot can relate to, yet many have not. I have gone through the heartbreak. Love is a crazy feeling that makes you do things you would never in your wildest dreams ever imagine doing. When people refer to it being a rollercoaster, I think its understatement. No rollercoaster ride has ever left me so emotionally distraught before. And although the pain felt like there was no hope left, and that my heart could beat no longer…here I am today, with more love than anyone else could ever offer. I have gone through the loss of someone very important. It’s funny because you never really DO expect the little curveballs life throws at you. Never would I have imagined, nor anyone else for that matter, losing someone you love not through heartache, not through long distances, not through a failed friendship…but death, at such an early age. For the longest time, I’d pinch myself (literally!) to see if I somehow had fallen into a deep, inception-like, nightmare; however, reality sets in when you wake up and come to the realization that you’ll never get to share a summer’s day at the park singing out to your favorite tunes, you’ll never get an e-mail after many months of not talking just to see how you are, and you’ll never get to see, touch, or hear that person’s voice ever again. It’s a scary feeling because you never want to forget…even the smallest things…but you do. You go through your psychotic phase of trying to balance dreams, nightmares, and reality. A loved one passing away really fucks you up…In the end, there’s nothing more rewarding than being able to pick yourself up from the hugest obstacle you can over come, with a better understanding and appreciation of life itself.

…And this is where I go back to my so-called “passion” for writing. I’ll admit, I was a lot better before he left. Maybe because I always looked forward to his input with the content of my writing. It was as if I lived in my own little world and he was the only one who understood it…

I’ve only started writing again recently. But it’s not because I’m passionate about the subject matter that I relay. Neither am I here to impress you with the fancy words I conjure up or what Webster’s Thesaurus has to offer. Sure, a lot of people will think it’s cliché to say “I write for me and no one else,” and it may not have been fully true for me back then, but I do now. These are my ingenuous thoughts, not ingenious (there’s a difference…props to Jesse for seeing the play on play with words in a previous FB Status entry!), put into formations of sentences to paragraphs to blog. I am not always an open book. I don’t expect five star ratings or eProps or 10, 000 followers…If you can relate to me and I’ve done you some good…great! If I’ve wasted 15 minutes of your life…even better. This is me being completely honest with myself for the whole world to see. This is me letting everything go so that my mind can run freely in tangents. All boundaries are lost, all walls are shaken. I can openly admit, you will never see me at my truest and purest form other than what I write because this is when I’m the most vulnerable and real to even myself.

So thank you for reading…thank you for appreciating…thank you for relating…
In life, you learn more about yourself each and every day.
Just like taking notes in school, I’m just documenting mine.

falling in fall...

Heavy heart...hard to breathe. Mixed emotions running through me. Want to cry...fall asleep but this pain won't let me be. "Please stop thinking." "Just relax!" "Give her time and soon it'll pass." A reason to smile, or even a laugh...I'd do anything to get that back.

*Maybe I have SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder) or maybe I'm just exhausted from all the work I've had this week. For some reason I can't shake that tormented gut feeling you get when your eyes start to well up and you cry. I know I'm missing him...missing him a lot lately. I have optimism that just like the other times, this will pass. But for now, let me be...*

a prose.

She sat at her dresser, looking at the motionless reflection that stood infront of her. She studied her long luscious locks of black hair, which fell like strands of fine ebony silk in such a way the old fashioned French could only describe as bien cuit or done to perfection. Her skin smooth to the touch, like a porcelain goddess there were no wrinkles visible to the naked eye, not even the tiniest ripple of age. Her luminous eyes could see through any man's soul, and her stares burned imprints of desire and lust into their brains making them weak and unhinged...Insanity! She smiled and it shone like genuine pearls incandescently lit by the sun's rays. She had everything, yet she had nothing. Her mirrored image was but a canvas of black and white. The absence of colors. There were no vibrant pigments to wrap her in blankets of warmth and tenderness. There were no hues of blue to cool her down on a hot summer's day.

She closed her eyes and felt herself fall into a trance. Her dream was a different world...a world of certainty and strength. A world of love and sensitivity. A world of union instead of divisibility. If she could dream forever, the life of intemperance would be in her hands. If she could dream forever, the existence of reality would be just a distant memory. If she could dream forever, the dictionary would lose its word called "purpose." The painter of dreams lived in her mind, body, and soul. She knew it was time to separate normality with divinity as she awoke. To dream, dream, dream. To lay in the lap of the painter...to entrust the keeper of the canvas. To dream a life worth living, is a dream she knew all too well. And so, she was the painter of reality and she was the painter of the norm. He was her painter in dreams to follow....and hand in hand they became one.

J. Lacsamana

picture a difference

Universal diversities lead to social complexities
And instead of making friends, we choose to make enemies.
It's the struggle that brings a person to their knees.
THE REAL STRUGGLE?
Those people working hard to provide for their families.

Down the street, derogatory remarks are being exchanged.
In the alley, some hopeless soul is shooting venomous liquid into his veins
To get fuckin' high out of his brain.
By-standers look at this guy like he's insane.
BUT THE REALITY IS...he does it to stop the pain.
It's our own negligence to blame.

Real eyes, realize the demise of this man's cries.
He is the sole example of those souls trapped, needing to be consoled
The most tragic story ever told.
He is the HUNGER, the ANGER that we choose to ignore.
He is the SADNESS, the MADNESS in which we close our doors.
He is the RICH, the YOUNG, the OLD, the POOR.
The REVOLUTIONIST, the ACTIVIST all in one core.
Everything that we choose to blindfold our minds to see.
Everything that if we worked to eliminate would set our souls free.
Everything that we deny ourselves to be.

But take a look around you and see,
just how many third worlds are dying of poverty.

THE ANSWER?
Starts with you and me.
Making dreams of UNITY, dreams of EQUALITY, into REALITY.

J. Lacsamana 07.08.09

it is sweet and most fitting...

Wilfred Owen
Dulce Et Decorum Est
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.

GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!-- An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And floundering like a man in fire or lime.--
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

Pleasant and Beautiful Existence....before a Country's Morality...a lie. Came across this poem in an old histoire book of mine. It's very powerful isn't it? It signifies the realization that traditional values about war were altered by the first 'modern war.' In a world where countries are constantly at war with one another the rotten truth of human selfishness is inevitable. Why do we struggle to have so much control? So much power? and Why must we do the extreme to gain that power; knowing that there are detrimental consequences? I never could understand it. Yet there are times I want that self-control and power for myself...

'e' is for english

Dug through the old files...aka my old English binder from high school. Came across a piece that reminded me of how young, liberated kids generate such unique ideas when projects are handed to them. This is an excerpt from an English project we did in Grade 12. The main objective was to translate a part of William Shakespeare's Ophelia into modern day English. The rest speaks for itself. Translations have been emphasized in BOLD.

To be or not to be; that is the question:
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And, by opposing, end them.
Living large or 86 it? That’s got me wack:
How to best represent my own self:
When da Man’s in my lunch,
Go medieval on the candy-ass sucka,
And pop a cap in him?

To die, to sleep -
No more and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to – ‘tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished.
The big Chill –
No mo serious beatdown, no mo
Pretendas wantin’ to zero
Me out – that something sweet sweet
That you don’t be frontin’.

To, to sleep.
To sleep, perchance to dream. Ay there’s the rub,
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil.
Must give us pause.
Stone Cold.
After mama done picked out my casket.
Will I be spinnin’ in my pine basket
When I have deceased existin
Whoa, that’s jammin my flow.
There it is.

There’s the respect
That makes calamity of so long life,
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th’ opressors wrong, the proud man’s contumely,
Why you gets no luv,
Who gonna flip burgers at McD’s and drive the
Hoopty,
The scrub’s dissin, the slob man’s pissin
The shanks from ex-bitches, Five O draggin
You,

The pangs of disprized love, the law’s delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
Big Willy dissin you, an the snaps
From punk when you just want to be chillen

The patient merit of th’ unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a barebodkin? Who would these fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat a weary life,
When you can just off yourself
With a saucy shiv? Why should you keep it real,
When you bad-trippin with all this shit rippin,
But for some horror-the-horror pop up after death,

But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country from whose bourn
No traveler returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
The undiscovered hood be a dead end
For all road dawgs, stump you ass,
So you chillin in your skanky hood
Not blazin off to some newjack hood?

Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.
Soft you, now,
The fair Ophelia – Nymph in thy orisions
Be all my sins remembered.
I ain’t keepin it real,
And so all my bling-bling
Done got all greasy,
And all my mad phat plans
Done turned out sleezy
And they just runnin on fumes.
Ya knawmeanz,
Fly Ophelia! – Boo, when you give a shout out
Gots to have all my bad recognized.

We recited the lines in crew necks, chains, and bucket hats! Haha. How we translated and where we got the words from is far beyond my memory. Needless to say my group and I ACED our project with flying colors! But that's probably because our teacher didn't understand anything we were saying...she just liked our swagger. Yepp.

political retrospect

I wrote this poem a couple months after my friend passed away. I've been on a writer's block since then. Until I find my inspiration...Enjoy!

October 19, 2007

The subliminal aspiration for world unification is just imagination, a magical organization. And everyone's attention is drawn to mass destruction, TO WAR to racial abomination, TO WAR and deadly arbitrations. So where's the emancipation in this country that we call liberation. Is it right to kill a population who's trying to build a nation? Yet we hang our heads up high with pride and gratification when it's our very own pretension that causes our lack of contribution to a place of resolution, a heavenly disposition. It's the destitution of communication that leads to confusion and discrimination, then thoughts of infuriation, the final blow is an assassination...another of God's creations lost to an unfortunate situation, another victim for examination. It's a tragic ideation that our lives are up for instinction because of our separation of appreciation to other cultures and traditions. So tell me, is it worth all the contemplation? To draw to the same conclusion of the same underlying question...

Where's the vision in division?

Realization. The end of a war we call "The System."


J.Lacsamana