In Too Deep|Tide’s Still Rising

IMG_9744Look at me, showing off a photo of my cigarette–once lit and now wasted. What are cigarettes but a unit of measurement indicating one’s happiness? At least for me it is, as it always had been. Call it a suicide in progress. What was it that made me put the light out?

I was surrounded by nature, hearing the relaxing ocean waves repeatedly kissing the shore, the crash and the roll, the ambient noise of the forest. I was finally away from the city. I was finally away from all of it. My ashtray… was a shell.

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Damn, was I happy. It wasn’t all sunshine in the woods. In fact, it was drizzling. The ground was wet and slippery, the cost of a September getaway. I was in love. I was in love with the atmosphere, enjoying the entire time it tried to push me away. Never had I felt so happy loving something that didn’t love me back–and I learn that such a feeling exists.

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I’ve always had a fascination with the ocean. I also fear it. I fear that I won’t be able to match its beauty, its power, its allure.

I can swim but I can never trust my gut. As my body touches the open waters, I am overcome with amazement; time stands still and that feeling becomes loneliness, the kind dosed with tranquility. Never had I fallen in love with something that I so deeply feared–and again I learn that such a feeling exists.

I can swim but I can never trust my gut. The ocean is permanent; it will eat me alive. Still, I wish to be one with it… ultimately. I wish to be a thing of poetry, lonely and tranquil, feared and permanent.

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Solar Flare

The sun will soon die out
of heartbreak, I reckon
She had loved too much
but the earth just kept turning.

Her thirst was never quenched,
the sky mourns for the morning
If sunlight were to become abyss
only then will he pay attention.



Fickle is a song that I wrote about surviving a massive heartbreak.  “Don’t get me wrong. This is beyond a stupid love song.” It’s not a break-up song, either. It’s about moving on and learning that some days, you just don’t get what you want, what you deserve. Fickle is a song about looking back, recounting everything that happened and finally realizing that you’re better than you were before. The lyrics of the song were heavily based on true events. From the parked car where everything had started and ended to the time he said he had a fickle heart. Aside from that, it was also inspired by the the short story, Dead Stars by Paz Marquez Benitez, the first short story written in English by a Filipino author.

we were sitting in your car,
parked alone beneath the mocking stars
and I wished it would last forever
and we decided to hold on
cause we realized this love’s too strong
for us to even care about forgetting

don’t get me wrong, this is beyond a stupid love song
don’t fool yourself, we’re just dead stars in the end

I think about the hours, the days,
all the promises we would have made
but I’ll be damned if we would ever make it

the truth that you were never mine
was all it took for my hopes to die
since all I ever was to you was yours

don’t get me wrong, this is beyond a stupid love song
don’t fool yourself, we’re just dead stars in the end
the universe had placed neon signs that paved my way out of it
sure fooled myself, we’re just dead stars in the wind

we were sitting in your car
when you said you had a fickle heart
and I wish you were proud of that.
I cried a river and a sea,
just wishing you’ll come run to me
as I, as I turn my back.

don’t get me wrong, this is not just some emotion
don’t fool yourself, we’re just dead stars in the end

now, I’m holding someone else’s hand
is that alright, or should I think of you more?

It’s closing time and I finally shut the door.


Introductory Post

First things first. My name is Maryan Dasal, and I pen poetry and music. In an attempt to save myself from going mad, I have created a blog which will contain a bunch of my works. I’ve been writing for as long as I can remember but I decided to hide them from the world because they were way too personal and I don’t want people’s criticism over my thoughts and feelings. If you’re a grammar nazi or simply a condescending asshole, understand that poems are not textbook writing and imperfection is oftentimes cryptic. Might I suggest everyone to treat my words with respect. You may copy them, but please, please do credit.

At this point, that’s all you need to know about me.