The invite

pink leafed trees

Photo by Lisa Fotios on


Come on. Let’s take a picture together.

With a panoramic view and a psychedelic feel

I want us to make love with the Lord’s every creation

With our eyes open for wounds, and hands for healing.


People aren’t poems, but we reduce them into words

And describe them with a ginger beard and gingerbread?

Oh no, I don’t know where this talk is going

After all, I bed you so poetically

That my feet desire a walk to where your eyes gaze at

Even desperately.


And now, I’m plagued with love bites.

Undoubtedly, as the rainbow falls over my heiress beauty

Believing you are more than enough!





close up photo of assorted color of push pins on map

Photo by Aksonsat Uanthoeng on


Even shadows have weight

That seeps through the marrow

Of the righteous nape.

If I have my way, I want to collect

All the accompanying nameless

Friends that only grow bigger

With ignorance left on the


I want for a single hour

Sway the arms that fully stretch

Around a cold corpse bed without

The grasses and weeds folding in fear, and

Sandal straps being torn.

SNAILish life

brown snail

Photo by Johannes Plenio on

Young lad, isn’t she a picture of a cunning beauty?

Trudging slowly on various surfaces leaving all her desires with a slime, highly predictable and dangerously cute.  

Yet a slow life is what she sees… and prolonged journeys.

Every once in a while, she turns her head side to side to see if there are other movements around, and when she finds none, her journey continues until a weird guy appears in sight.


The first to see the other is her but the last to disappear is also her. Funny how she’s able to see all happening at once.


But if there’s one thing our little snail should be happy about, it’s seeing everything unfolds before her eyes like she only knows the mystery in Pandora’s box.


Yes, there’s beauty in slow life but only if your eyes want to see…

and sometimes, seeing requires an overwhelming amount of curiosity and concentration.


In their absence,


what you’ll find out there is not the sound…nor the traces or what’s around but the stale fragments of a forgotten mystery.



In the Late Second Half

underwater photo of woman wearing green and black dress

Photo by Engin Akyurt on


You flatter me that much, young lad. You and your daring playfulness. I want to get lost too. For a minute I thought your lips are cursed by a sorcerer, the ancient Magus.

It’s dark, isn’t it? Wild but not free since we get to catch each other’s hands only in verse poetry. How our thoughts can go like some sixth sense, do we bear? Or the telepathic sense that you know me, I know you but only in sacred words, wild guesses, and seasonal waves.

Oh my, sitting and laughing next to you in postmodern times, I revere the intimacy there.


But also, the most treacherous lie. My feigned heart gets sold to metaphors and fluid proses that I might choose “something frivolous and monotonous,” over passion and liberty if only to safeguard what’s valuable to me in the late second-half of an astral memory.


Young lad, I guess things can be blinding when we only choose what we want to see like the music that your hands want to play, and your voice wants to sing among the many albums and other compositions there are ready for ones pick up.


And yet all we can do is wait for that one blooming beauty to fall open for you and me…


But do we know the answer?


 I guess we need to listen closely.

oh please skip the coffee line




yellow plush toy

Photo by Pixabay on

Oh please skip the coffee line if only to make random thoughts to ponder on for the day

I can’t make up my mind yet but if one will corner me into saying glazed words of lollipops and cranberries, oh please skip the coffee line…I might fall into the habit of continued illusion and make a garden outside my house then, let you take me home.

I can share a cup of coffee with you but it may not be for anything grand but try to avoid that coffee line for me and spare the death of my poor heart that gets drumrolls whenever a word of paradise escapes your mouth.

oh dear, please skip the coffee line that only comes out of a color carton when lovers hit the movies for a fun air and a dramatic dialogue.

No young lad, I might enjoy the invitation and get my cute self a new set of clothes…the one with polka dots, a pair of dancing shoes, and a feathered ponytail. Because it looks like we’ll take a ride downtown.

So no young lad, we are not doing any of that…so please skip the coffee line early in the morning before I can even drink my own version of sweet coffee.

but I can reconsider once I have finished the book I’m reading…you said something about bitter tears and the universe, right? I think I can make valuable exceptions.

to the forest where there are fireflies

defocused image of lights

Photo by Miguel Á. Padriñán on


and maybe you were right… about many things. Maybe I was wrong. Perhaps I did not search for any star in particular…no sense of direction was what it felt within. Not Polaris or the big dipper…Perhaps I was trying to shoot my arrows towards certainty…I hit it. Probably… but it collapsed like a domino down to its sophisticated intricacies. Still, there were only inconsistencies…and the proud uncertainty. I’ve had my eyes opened to the heavenly bodies…all of them tell me one thing. They project the height of Babel—no way near the grip of poor human hands. It may crumble…and the crumbling may take a million years…but when it does…aren’t we the next generation of random star lust awaiting the swift pan of a divine hand?  Merely passing by…on a journey to relapse. (?)

But I refuse to be the objective one. Making me stand on a platform looking at the world as if the creation of a miniature series. I want to belong…to be in a world… not to be around it; bespectacled, bedazzled.

The heavens allow the intimacies to spread through one’s head…like an awesome planetarium for confessions to come at play to hold high one’s head and, to have eyes to fall for. I want to witness the conspiracies, the grace of miracles and, the brittleness of the human bones. I raise my head to trace the magnificence of a stained ceiling. I forgot the ground. The forest and the waterfall that are blessed with a few heaps of fireflies; the smell of commonplace.



Come play along with me to the forest where there are fireflies swirling, making loops and curves…Let us get lost in the woods and find ourselves an entire earth of description to this feeling that keeps mutilating our souls…The gods may have painted the firmament but, their legs were well-rested on the ground…and their hands were paintbrushes of alchemy and magic…they washed their brush down the stream within the forest…they asked around…and around they all answered the heavens bounty…and that stars were fireflies grazing the woods with tiny lights of wisdom and truth.



amethyst dust

abstract break broken broken glass

Photo by Pixabay on

glass crystals unheld on the footpath by the ones who illuminated like grains of amethyst dust you— floated… and my dolce muñeca’s devotion’s core CRACKED. Looking for a new place to believe in even if I had to howl just to get around the blades. The outer cracks seemed hard to take in. I can see through the window a peppered world; more like it’s going to hurt soon. Trying to catch what I’ve been chasing; a genuine spark but it’s not quite alright hiding in black and white of lost cracks. Tomorrow I’ll sing you a happy tune, tonight, it’s alright to get covered in the cracks. Everything has gone backward when your troubled fingers touched the wild edges. You were ever holding the sight of the sensitive cracks that were once caught by the light. Oh no, tender youth could not brace themselves. In the mirror all the kisses got covered; they turned into the air when the surprise came what I could not find anywhere to dream about. For a minute I thought the edges of the blades are singing dreadful songs in summer pretending to be just pure crystals. It feels like it’s hard to live within the cracked space with multiple confusions. But even when I know the hurt that’s going to hurt, you’ll learn to get around the pain. The face of a swapped raindrop, the moon leaves the sky this evening to learn how not to shoot out of the heart. The silvery moon was miserable without her comfortable shoes walking on the sods. A vision trick under the night’s streak of light calls out a name but only to myself. Tell me, where’s your hiding place? I want to ask before the light eludes me.

If I may speak…



background beach beautiful bright

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels

…this detrimental affair disengaged us in verbal confabulations. Perhaps I told you something I shouldn’t. Perhaps you were right to confront the shadow that follows the setting sun. Shadow; the living captive of the sun’s blinding back. Why do you suppose she follows the setting sun? Because she could not look away…look away… now that you have bid farewell as the golden evening, how else do you mean to cast your light and give shelter to this lowly captive shadow of the light? Certainly, you are not one to drag your chair and pretend you make no noise, are you? You got tired of the simple concoction one earnestly prepared for your mouth to taste; not for your eyes to see. You do not suppose the shadow to run around without a compass… you do not suppose this shadow to know your grief whilst in the dark… unless you let there be light. Why carry the burden of shutting your mouth; your light, instead of asking the shadow to rest under your spread of wings? Why do you assume to be the shadows’ spokesperson? Aren’t you the one with the strongest desire to see her around your collarbone? She’s not cold. She’s warmer than you thought— confounded by humidity and evening pursuits.  Ask her and you will not be deprived of an answer. Make your colors known and you will not be held responsible. Why hide behind the breast of short moments when an entire blanket of a blackened body can bless you a wonderful night if you call? Although, you were right about the songster and, the soft whispers of love. ..the unbearable longing and the deepest of all passions. 

Did I confuse myself one second once again? Perhaps…a course of action compelled me to commit to.

The sun is about to completely set and just, where are you catching my shadow? ….please…pretty please…catch it before it dances away your fingertips.

The nymph’s reply to a young lad

woman standing on rice field during cloudy day

Photo by bruce mars on

Two years ago-


Around this time, I started planting grains of rice again and filled three hectares of land. I grew them until they became an epitome of beauty and abundance. Because the job was laborious and, the heat of the sun was too strong it scorched the stalks, I got scared and ended up sitting on a half-boulder; waiting for signs of rain. The rain felt rather stingy and didn’t shed some drops for me. I’ve been passing my time with a heart alarm. Weeks after, the rain came. An unfriendly rain came and tried to sink my rice fields. With a heart alarm, I hurriedly jumped off the boulder and dug a lot of side holes for excess water. I got completely soaked and my clothes all covered with mud, my lips didn’t stop shaking and the mud continued to suck my body in until dusk.  I was lucky a neighbor came for ropes and pulled me out of the pit. Three days after images of ripples and soil erosion carved my soil where they left my rice stalks kiss the earth. For what I could salvage I harvested them but for those I couldn’t, I tied them with abaca ropes and stocked them behind my house. I left them there, I couldn’t remember how long, because I couldn’t bury them even though they looked damn hopeless; precisely why I couldn’t bury them.

Young lad around this time also, I met someone I didn’t expect just like the unfriendly rain, I was unfriendly to him too. So, I tried to wrestle myself, I didn’t want the thoughts even his voice to invade my fields. I was so full of angst and hate and my heart alarm only increased. I didn’t notice my legs that were already sinking down the pit until he came with ropes and pulled me out like a worried-sick neighbor. Only then I realized that I had a friend who had been watching me ever since I started planting rice in the fields. He saw me sitting on the half-boulder with his heart alarm; precisely why he came after me in the rain because he saw me tying the stalks and piling them up somewhere even the sun wouldn’t reach. But he buried them with leaves and now mushrooms have grown in them; lots of them. They all looked damn beautiful.

Young lad the stalks that kissed the earth still remind me of the past. The images are still vivid. But you know, my hands learned a new way of digging side holes for excess water and my hands can do a little carpentry now, too. So even if the memories keep me awake at times, I think I know how to find joy somewhere around it. Now my hands are busy planting corn and chili peppers. You’d love how they have matured nicely!

Young lad even if the winter old man pokes you and nudges you with his heart alarm, know that an old man, though wise and attuned to the reality of the world, he still sits on his rocking chair awaiting the zesty smell of spring. And your hands, although, they found other ways to keep them wander and wonder, they are still your hands with your ten fingertips on them. With the memories of mountain peaks and dirty highways, soft clouds and a radiant sunshine, fancy reptilian friends, the gushing wind, the running rivers and, the whole world of language and letters, you can still go back; back to being happy. You can still live and be surprised. The blue horizon, didn’t you capture them a long time ago? And yet, look at them now, they still come back to you bluer than ever. Young lad, I didn’t expect help to come or a neighbor to lift me up but, they still came. They came for me.

That neighbor was just like you, young lad. He read about Nietzsche and Faulkner too. He was a musician. He plucked his guitar and sang with his band. His hair overflowed in his head like molten dark chocolates. And his beard draped the corners of his face. He talked about philosophy, education and complexity theory too. He enjoyed photography and, this so-called “here and now”. He even had symbolic tattoos in his body and his physical frame was more like you. I thought of him like the wind, my Zephyr. Because he could come back today and leave the next day. And I am still okay…

Young lad, I leave you with your provisions this time, wishing to learn more about you.

Small but not flat

The impossibility of making friends and forming connections virtually…perhaps I’ll leave it as it is. Regretfully impossible. Since all life forms and communications happen virtually then it should not count as something one could look forward to. My world is small but not flat. Rain showers go back to oceans, seeds to a grown up tree, wilted flower to a new bud in spring, sounds made by beasts to pristine music of the woods, exciting people with their visionary thoughts to preposterous hiccups one could fall…such a world indeed. I change my picture as with the changing of the wind. Old photographs and existing connections must be tucked away, I’d say. I guess if you throw sunflowers seeds to the east it would grow pine trees instead. If you paint the sky red in the south, it would be silver in the north or in the west. Water is water but what we make of it is what matters. And if it turns out to be vapor in my hands, it’ll come back to you a storm? So when you say I pick the stars for you and make you a galaxy in your hands, is it not something worth believing? Just because a friend ,no, a spineless, formless vapor do not have eyes or feet or hands to touch you…so it would not have any meaning to it? My world is small but not flat… Words are words only because they are is inconceivable because those words that spoke to me didn’t require a lot to take me…and the force of life they’ve shown was more than enough to believe the existence of another. This world is small but not flat…any thing thrown out of the window, any thing captured on land, any bonds shared no matter the conditions, what remains in that is faith. With it I may turn a blind eye or open it wide…

part of your world

How many of your friends will I get to see? How many thorns and leaves will they trudge before me? Young lad, you always visit me with your little friends of fun and the light they exude in your photograph demonstrates a world on the flip side. While I am cooking and eating darkness in my plate, yours is a slate of fresh days with real leaves, and warm earth. How can you hold on to something as rare and beautiful as the life of light in your palms? How did you do it young lad? There’s everything I see that’s still unknown to me…Everything in this world yet I can’t get to see. Is the world from there so different from here? I can’t wait for you to tell me. Young lad, where else can I pick those real fruits? Where are those valleys with rivers? I’d love to sit and wash my face from old poetry. Where can I have them when I am living behind the white curtains, a bunk bed and a tainted window for the sick people? There are only whites as pale as my bloodless lips, cold hands and weak feet. And my food is served before me. The water I drink is not from the Himalayas but from modern capsules that says “nature’s spring water.” Young lad, beyond my window are rugged rooftops and a grey sky. It always rains here and when you said that rain can make your skin glow I felt like bathing under it oh the fun I’ll never get to feel and will be left unknown to me. Young lad, I’m eager to hear from you. Your music is what I only know of as I write. May the breeze really carry not only the smell of a morning dew, the enthusiasm of your small friends but a new life for me too. 

Idiotly smiling too



Young lad, today I am looking outside the glass window of a local hospital. Outside are white, puffy and lazy clouds. They’re staring at me, curious of why I am where I am instead of walking down the street of Tamarind. You see, I am idiotly smiling too to read such words of benevolence from you. I didn’t think that the skies under your feet are the same skies that left me awe-inspired. It’s a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. The azure sky overflows no longer with sheer emptiness; now it has become less of an empty white sheet because you got yourself installed in my skyline like a Christmas candy. I’m looking at you with great interest and anticipation. I wish someday where your friends found their home and group of acrobats, I can pay them a huge smile. A huge smile that I am idiotly propagating as we touch eyes. Thank you for being hopelessly charming in your own cloudy way. Knowing that you’re not hiding in mystery is like one layer of the skies being blissfully folded and I have move on one flying second from my place of exile. The clouds really look different today, brighter than ever. 

Young lad, would these clouds that smudge my holy canvas be the brightest when you can sing for me? Young lad, I can idiotly hear your melody and it makes me idiotly smile for it.

Blurring line

lunar eclipse cycle

Photo by Hossam M. Omar on

I’m impressed by your honey-tossed view in life. Such mentality has brought you only happy thoughts of surviving and living. I could not help but think that fun for you comes naturally because you speak as though the universe breathes within you. I do not remember the season or any tossing of a coin which makes me think the way I do. Believe me, I am not as graceful as the flowerets running down the hills of life under the rainy sunshine. In fact, I am always gasping for air. I’m drowning even though I’m filled with warm wind and galloping horses. They said, “Give someone a lemon and he’ll make you lemonade.” Throw him some stones and he’ll give you bread.” Make him a cup of coffee and he’ll give you days of music and laughter.” All these are wonderful takeaways in life. I do not oppose any of it. Young lad, I love life and all its nuances but that doesn’t mean I get to live it as passionately as you.

But, I dream about cuddles and birthday candles that I could summon in battle. The sound of an encircling arm slicing up the wind to protect me melts all my unwanted inhibitions. I chase after beautiful marbles and orange seashells at night when everyone else is hibernating. Relentlessly until I get over winter blues and vowed anew the true meaning of self-preservation and power.

I would gladly take your hand should you feel the need to take me to a marvelous firmament in spring. The heights where you take the colors of deep intoxications and the eerie voices, I would undoubtedly plummet with you perhaps, the promise of smiles and silence could bear new stalks within me. Young lad, nature has always fulfilled its roles and promises to humanity in many ways instinctively and magically, however, watching this has gradually become random letters leaving home one by one from words I could unspeakably express mostly due to self-disenfranchisement. This pains me all over. No matter what good intentions these precious marigolds hand me, the feeling of ghoulish cold and memories of insignificance always find a way to unleash Fenrir from her multi-layered seal inside my arteries; of course, the hunt for enmity has me pleading for a goodbye to fresh air and glorious days.

 Young lad let me take the backseat next to the window so, I could come and peek behind the rich arch and enjoy the pure light that comes forth within you. Only then shall I make it out of this heavy; blurring lines.



Death row

The executioner: Do you have any last words before your execution?

Prisoner: No, sir.

abstract anatomy art blur

Photo by Pixabay on

Executioner: Do you have any last words before your execution?

Prisoner: No, sir.

Executioner: Family?

Prisoner: (For my dearest sister Olivia and little Josephine) No, sir!


Good enough reasons are good enough for a reason.

What last message would I have good enough to make things right?

I am on the last day of my journey yet, I am not free to know where my spirit would fall

Would it be with my maker or would it be with my slayer?

These questions, although they are good enough, don’t make me feel at ease in the face of my death sentence.

But of course, what any good enough reasons will I be able to come up to fool my brain not to think this way,

Is there any good enough reason other than a lame excuse?

You ask me a question I could not answer my friend, he said.

For the wages of sin is death.

Am I expected to be enthusiastic about this today?

Perhaps, having the right attitude can supersede fear—

This time of day?


Prisoner: Wouldn’t you speak ill towards me? I broke the law. Killed my friend, raped my sister and, sold my child. I’m proud that I even made it this far with my brain still at the center and my heart in place.

Executioner: Yeah, you’re right. Congratulations! You spent your life in line with your good enough reasons. But I’ll have you know that even I, the executioner, have my good enough reasons as well. Slicing your head and stabbing your heart would be good enough reasons, too.

Prisoner: Oh that? Well someone has got to do it anyway, I’m glad it’s you. Please just put a smile on my face today. It would be my first in a long time.


the sound of the chains being dragged by my feet                                                                    the silence of the halls with my double handcuffs                                                                    the door on the other side                                                                                                                    I wonder if all of these would be good enough.                                                                            Dearest sister Olivia and little Josephine, would this be enough?                                              Too bad I don’t have all the time in the world to pay for what I did behind bars               My life will be completely stopped before your train arrives in Alcatraz

I was told that my execution will be quick, I prayed hard that it would last longer than 10 minutes. I begged the judge that he might extend the hours so dearest sister Olivia and little Josephine can relish their time to desperately hate me enough.

Only then I can take their hatred in the afterlife and ask my maker for forgiveness and spare my dearest sister Olivia and beautiful Josephine from further wretchedness…


Oh God, please make my reasons good enough. 










Death row

The executioner: Do you have any last words before your execution?

Prisoner: No, sir.

abstract anatomy art blur

Photo by Pixabay on

Executioner: Do you have any last words before your execution?

Prisoner: No, sir.

Executioner: Family?

Prisoner: (For my dearest sister Olivia and little Josephine) No, sir!


Good enough reasons are good enough for a reason.

What last message would I have good enough to make things right?

I am on the last day of my journey yet, I am not free to know where my spirit would fall

Would it be with my maker or would it be with my slayer?

These questions, although they are good enough, don’t make me feel at ease in the face of my death sentence.

But of course, what any good enough reasons will I be able to come up to fool my brain not to think this way,

Is there any good enough reason other than a lame excuse?

You ask me a question I could not answer my friend, he said.

For the wages of sin is death.

Am I expected to be enthusiastic about this today?

Perhaps, having the right attitude can supersede fear—

This time of day?


Prisoner: Wouldn’t you speak ill towards me? I broke the law. Killed my friend, raped my sister and, sold my child. I’m proud that I even made it this far with my brain still at the center and my heart in place.

Executioner: Yeah, you’re right. Congratulations! You spent your life in line with your good enough reasons. But I’ll have you know that even I, the executioner, have my good enough reasons as well. Slicing your head and stabbing your heart would be good enough reasons, too.

Prisoner: Oh that? Well someone has got to do it anyway, I’m glad it’s you. Please just put a smile on my face today. It would be my first in a long time.


the sound of the chains being dragged by my feet                                                                    the silence of the halls with my double handcuffs                                                                    the door on the other side                                                                                                                    I wonder if all of these would be good enough.                                                                            Dearest sister Olivia and little Josephine, would this be enough?                                              Too bad I don’t have all the time in the world to pay for what I did behind bars               My life will be completely stopped before your train arrives in Alcatraz

I was told that my execution will be quick, I prayed hard that it would last longer than 10 minutes. I begged the judge that he might extend the hours so dearest sister Olivia and little Josephine can relish their time to desperately hate me enough.

Only then I can take their hatred in the afterlife and ask my maker for forgiveness and spare my dearest sister Olivia and beautiful Josephine from further wretchedness…


Oh God, please make my reasons good enough. 










the fear of a lonely cup

blur coffee cold cup

Photo by Pixabay on

…should the valley host a spread of daffodils and towering sequoia trees, soft mosses and, migrating birds, will you be there to share this delight or, will you stay lonely as a cup? 

Outside is full of surprises. This wonderment has never shut our eyes close. Nature has always something feisty coming up on her sleeve and, everything simply appears rich and beautiful. It’s true. However, seeing things lovely as they are, I wonder if all of us really loved it. Most people would exclaim, “Oh, how beautiful! It’s relaxing. It impacts my life in a different kind of way!” But do we really mean what we say?

Would saying mean things to something already beautiful strange? For example, when you are on top of a mountain overlooking the city with light fog and a slightly cold feeling, you’d say I dislike this view. There’s nothing good about a city only beautiful when watched from above.

Or, when you are at the beach listening to the majestic sound of the waves with flying seagulls and fair weather, you’d still feel out of place and lonely. You say I don’t understand why initially people would say that this place is beautiful when it’s not.

If you ever speak to someone and both of you are looking at a masterpiece say a painting, together you say “incredible.” But you don’t know if it is incredibly beautiful or incredibly ugly unless you ask the other properly for clarity. But for some reasons, we don’t ask others for the clarity of what they mean. We assume that they feel the same way as we do because it’s normal; that’s what it should be.

And even if the other person desires to say further of what he wants to say, he doesn’t say anything to change it at all. And why is that? Are we only here to pursue other people’s expectations? Can’t we just say the view is not beautiful in fact it’s horrible? Free of guilt?

Is it because it’s NOT normal? To be normal. What does normalcy in this world mean? And where does it get us?

Why is it so hard to break free from this horrible state?

Fear. The fear to be odd; to be NOT normal. To be different from others.

Do we only see the world this way?

Where is honesty? Sincerity? True compassion and love for that matter? We say what the other person wants to hear. If we say otherwise, will be tagged as offensive, perverted, a hypocrite, dumb, crazy and, strange.

Do people come off naïve for asking this?

Because if it does then, it would be heartbreaking to go outside to see the valley with the spread of daffodils and, towering sequoia trees with flying seagulls, soft mosses and, migrating birds like this.

Perhaps, the reason why some people no matter how beautiful the world outside is, they still choose to stay lonely as a cup inside.

Surprises, wonderment become dull tales.

Yet, that’s one way of looking at things, right?


The joy that we feel came from humanity’s blooming fear

Mean-spirited angels

Walking on earth like precious flesh

With the blood of royalties and, howling nobility

but we nip our wings out of fear

we talk the language of the world

we plunge into more parodies

to create a world of equals

of normalcy

of trendy hypocrisy

We camouflage we become it

We flag our opinions and individuality

We forget our wings

We hide that we are mean-spirited angels

Seeking the end of the world.


The musicians music

adult conceptual concert dark

Photo by OVAN on

What’s it like to be a musician? Being a musician…a musician…what does that suppose to mean? Living in music…music? variant sounds…they make up music… music to the human soul…How philosophical. The metaphysical aspect is profound too. …Music has gone a long way in influencing every person… 

A friend once told me about his roommate who ceaselessly played with his guitar… That friend of his said, “I need to practice more. It’s not enough.” loudly, passionately in their room…My friend asked so when is your next gig? With the way you perform, I bet you’re ready to entertain. 

His friend remained silent. As if the answer didn’t matter. Or if there was really an answer he could give to a curious roommate….not sure. 

He played his guitar but never talked…he practiced but never smiled…the room although there were two of them was devoid of the other’s existence…

Weren’t they supposed to be talking? communicating? helping? about a stated need or the unstated need? Any thing. Anything that matters.

My friend although not worried… he did play with his guitar. But one’s music and the other’s music, I thought had the element of separation too. Technically, they were really good. But somehow, I felt lost. Both had unleashed their power.  I can see purple, red, blue and green…strong and powerful…With all these mixes of colors, I thought something was off; missing.

Music…the sound of music…though they are universal…timeless…endless…for these two people, the way they create and play their music, I feel like falling into the abyss…

You see them playing like spiders..thrashing webs, threading…waiting…waiting…but no matter how beautifully made were the nets above… below a shadow was cast. So I was there underneath their cobwebs… it was engulfing…cold… black…breathless… it felt like a prison… like inside the eye of a storm…

Their expressions unchanged; so was their music. I was certain that what I felt was sheer displacement.

“Were you happy? Were you okay?” I wanted to ask. 


But it seemed the answer wasn’t ready yet. The preparations… incomplete.


Entertainment… To entertain…were rather big words to them. 







The day you said goodnight

light landscape sky sunset

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a tangerine forest sprouted luminously within. The walls didn’t seem to form spears or became an octagon. Not the shape of a protractor…half of it? Ok. I know it had to do with Pi. The Pi in a pie? Cat-lycious!

  Perfectly as they were even after you made the sea drown during high tide. Beautiful… even more beautiful when you built yourself up inside the semantics of your own language. You had won the night the amuletic paradise! The starry dust all turned blind. ..the only one capable of shutting them…You.

I saw a lion and a lioness..oh were they kissing? Horses without wings…could they be floating? Floating…in space…flying in time. The bottoms were filled with painted flowers. I could see flowers yet to bloom…too darkened for my own eyes to pile in my memory. ..              Oh, the cat. The significant cat. I almost lost my focus. If I hadn’t been too careless…the moon too far out to reach…her tears would not even touch. Would it have been better for the tears to fall upwards? Fall upwards. You mean to flow upwards.


The cat seemed to be looking eastward. Was she looking at that Pegasus a la izquierda? That must be her lover…Flying..floating..far way..distancing..towards a home so out of the cat’s longing years.

They are a family now. What a lovely sight to see. ..the sight of a new family that my whiskers could never felt…could never known.. could never have.

I was told off goodnight…but the day he said goodnight, I already had the moon with two flying…floating horses..without wings…with a little horse…happily…merrily… the sight of a family served before my cat-ly eyes.

Thanks for the branch though…My Magdalene bridge. It made me but not towards the Pegasus but beyond the moon…the horses…to the pitched black sky.


without a loud cry…




That tiny dewdrop is a dream


blade of grass blur bright close up

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…while others build their dreams out of bricks and washed stones, some build them from gentle crystals alone. People think if it’s made of rocks it will endure but I whisper with a faint curiosity…even tiny dewdrops can create an entirely different dreamscape. It can endure but not for very long. Temporary, fragile, moving and, breathing enclosed in a superficial sphere where one can sit and just wave at the present power within. Dreams are subjected to disappear. But don’t be anxious about unnecessary things. Isn’t everything made to withstand the changing conditions? Or bend. Or change? Yes, around us is ephemeral. It can show you paintings of everything untouchable but dare I say, what one can not touch ignites passion and inspires miracles. 

Soon this dewdrop will fall off. It may turn into vapor. But while it’s falling off, it shines and reflects rainbows in your eyes. You can witness true magic in action. While it vaporizes fragments of a dream return to the sky to craft new shapes of clouds above. Before you know it, it has matured and is ready to pour you monsoon. 

Tiny drops of tiny dreams tracing the edges of a leaf…sometimes they descend in intervals but carry the same image of a dream; manufacturing them whenever light glances at them. 

When one dreams, the rest of the background fades away. When one desires the dream to come true the focus shifts to the dream alone; magnifying it as your arms reach towards. It’s like you are taken off from the reality giving you the chance to explore your true potential. And when you don’t give up, that tiny dewdrop of dreams falls off into your hand. It’s yours. 

Listen to the blurring sound of the crowd cheering for you. ..they may be the ants holding the branch steady or the romantic butterfly flapping its wings around to remind you that within that dream of yours, you are never alone. The breeze may tickle the dew and distort the shape but it won’t let you drop in vain. There’s life everywhere. When you find it difficult to inhale inside, the breeze tells you there’s more to breathe outside. 

Everything works for you unspeakably…and all you have to do is hold on to that only dream.

Tell me, friend

classic blue coupe die cast model

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Tell me, friend. How am I supposed to tell the difference? Between you and an old friend. Tell me, friend, if I say green would you say blue? If I say nice would you say no? If I show you a picture would say you’re fine? That is why. It’s a struggle to tell you that you are very much alike. In beauty, in philosophy, in music even in the body. Tell me, friend. Are you his reincarnate? I read you and play along with your music and this satiable understanding always struck me: you are another person. Silly for the angels to marvel at you. Silly for me though without wings marvel at you. Tell me, friend. How could this be? Whenever the words slip out of your mouth, they slip out because the truth wants to come out. But this truth tells me otherwise. Your eyes, beard, skin, lips, and hair are reasons to show me much of my old friend. Tell me, friend. Are you his reincarnate? How am I supposed to tell the difference? If this existential wealth draws out my name, praises my soul but steals my thoughts. Tell me, friend. Are you an old friend? Tell me, friend. Are you his reincarnate? Your hands know the danger of the strings and yet, they know how to web letters and make music. Your voice is the voice of an old friend; an old friend who disappeared. Tell me, friend. If this fondness makes any sense that I without wings become fixated; fascinated by the sameness of the semblance. Tell me, friend. Silly I am. Silly I am. I see that old friend in you. I’m out of the purple-blue. Tell me, friend. Tell me, friend, oh if it is you.

consider yourself that…

time lapse photography of water splashing on brown rock during dytime

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Cover the cold with a silk robe before the midnight rests on your shoulders…later the soft music of rain will visit you in your sleep…don’t hold back. The corners of the city will say their blunders but, you would not hear them all…for you shall ask your ears to fold. Falling dews on the leaves will draw out your sorrows but they will not dry until its 8 o’ clock…catch the first trip to get you hidden from the storm of ill wind. Tuck your silk robe loosely where you can still see the lavender fringes but don’t wait for the crows to talk or the Falcon to land on your arm…let no one tell you how the sunshine will be or how the crooked metal sound when it clanks. Just like the river… no matter the length of its bed; may it be angry or lively no one is bothered by it; it won’t tell you how pebbles and rocks tear its divine flow nor would it show you anything unwanted… unless triggered by emotions… Unless triggered by your emotions, don’t turn rivers into seas.


Just imagine how much of a fool I’ve made myself. Always taking matters lightly from baseless assumptions. You see, I haven’t really thought about what an editor does even its definition won’t give it away until I was offered the job. Acting recklessly was my best key in life always saying “I can do it. I’m very good at it. I have done this and that. That should be easy. I’ll take the job.  Watch me!” I know. I can feel the annoyance.

Well, listening to the sound of a harp can make it less stressful, won’t it?

I understand that optimism can help you in times like this but without the experience and the proper understanding of the job itself, I’d say, this makes me no less than a ‘fake.’

Deceiving oneself can only take you higher than where you’ve already been and when your daily dose of medicine is served, you realize how pathetic you are when someone better appears in your plain sight, a real editor for that matter can shut you instantly; naturally.

“I hate my guts.” because I feel not having it won’t save me the face of shame. Hate to admit I only have my guts. Without it I’m reduced to something smaller than dust.

I realized this two years ago. If you’d ask me, I haven’t really made any progress since that day.

Shouldn’t it be the total opposite? I mean, you already realized your shortcoming next to that should have been a list of things you could do to change that, right? But that wasn’t the case for me.

One character said “For people like us (working maids), we don’t get to choose the environment we are in. What we can do is to choose our own path when we are there and decide to move forward no matter what.” How fine her resolve was. Not much like mine.

I’ve never worked as an earnest and devoted maid, but what she said somehow hurts my pride but at the same time release me from my belief all because she thought of something I could never have thought of for myself.

I’m always completely mistaken when I tell myself “I am a professional. I got a degree. I have studied enough. I got the advantage. I just know this.”

These arrogance, conceit, and selfishness always have taught me a lesson or two but, I was stubborn as a pile of dead rock. Yet I continue to walk down this dark path as if there’s nothing I can do or could have done to reverse it and make it better.

“I hate my guts.” I have looked down on people through and through like a decease that cannot be healed by mere touch. This may be far shown by my actions or words but, my thoughts have gradually made its conscious effort. Truth be told It hurts because the pain is real.

Ever since I felt it, I’ve always kept my distance from people whom I thought would get hurt or burdened by me before we could even form a good friendship. I never gave them the credit. I thought “They don’t deserve this side of me. Or “I don’t deserve them.”


But you know, I also realize that, whether they deserve, burdened by me or not, I could not really stop what they think and feel about me. What I’m saying is the decision to be with me or accept me is their option and not mine. I just believe their own resolve and move forward.

Though it’s easier said than done.




Someone appeared in my life. I could tell I was out of his league. I didn’t like his guts then. He sizzled luminous light while I fizzled out. I’m not sure if a straightforward comparison would be appropriate base from age and experience however this was what I felt before. Something I could not even properly address then.  

I gave out a grimace of disgust. I looked at him and I was convinced that this person must be crushed. I could only point out his areas of opportunities. Something like “Time to get rid of the weed.” was spiraling in my head during his first day. How ugly and uncool of me.


A flat-out bad impression for someone who had done nothing but good things. Months after I learned about him. He was a real pro, eloquent and articulate. The person I misunderstood was a boss. The real editor-in-chief. There I go my pride was once again trampled on.


If I could be lathered with humility, I would have gotten a beautiful friendship without getting the painful burns every time we crossed paths. All days would have been awesome. (wonderful exaggeration)


Indeed, I may have to practice humility.


I want to continuously shine. When I shine that means I am not hiding behind a wall. People can see me and won’t have me misunderstood. But an artificial shine is clearly no match for the original. In the end, I am apologizing. I probably have reached my quota.


This time I chuckle at the bitter taste of the truth. Pathetic.


Oh Pride how could I not love you? 


I could have asked for his help. I could have said what I wanted to say. Could have chosen a different approach. A reset or a reverse would have been nice. I kept wondering, if I had taken a different path, the outcome would have been different. (?)

But I will leave that to destiny instead. I mean, if I have the audacity to fool around I may at least try not to screw it again.




Facing reality now, I should know the right thing to do. Whatever decision I make, I’ll make sure to be happy. Without regrets. 

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we can make you land a spot on the internet

It can make you big

But somehow, it didn’t really make me hold on to that.

I did remember people

of all sorts

Good and happy sometimes clingy

But the question didn’t disappear

only made matters worst

We got along though

I guess getting along these days is a requirement

a normal happy field

fairly emotional

They are happy; I am happy-

a comedy is taking form.

But my feelings refused to get settled

didn’t want to be nested







I knew that a pendulum clock would never stop on one side

by gravitation or battery-loss

Because once it leans on one side, the other side 

becomes haunted.

I’ve been listening to this song.

And I’ve been seeing the same person from that song

And yet, every time I try to change-

That person never leaves the whole idea.


I have never seen someone who’s truly happy.

But that’s because I didn’t think I was capable of looking at other people’s good things with good faith.


I’ve tried pulling up some strings to make things simpler

I’ve tried…and tried

And it only brought me this-

A galaxy born out of some words of displeasure.

From there, how complicated things must have been.

The He-Devil took this life

I got sunburned waiting for the Herb today

The nagging woe

A decade of still distraught

Chronic pain, addiction, & depression—
instead of Two

In a sea of static

The idiosyncratic eye left my soul

With an assault rifle

Disintegrating fragments of devilish

The forthcoming verge


the string of messages in hand,

& the assault rifle took this life—

But the third person I remain

the static Ocean with the new Label

You said there was a new chapter

On the Horizon;

the uncertain place without a partner

supportive of his genius

towards the alley with the

assault rifle

But the third person I remain

Hope stood with the Devil in black—

A privy to his creative brilliance

Ruthless that they hang-out

To grow up down the road

His grandfather could care less

One by one piece by piece no remorse

This musical obsession found me the Devils

Crafted homemade spices from a Mexican herb

In 2011 entrenched in the club circuits

Befriended the heroin

To make further advancements

In hand, the assault rifle

With the Infectious flash mobs

A local fixture; at the center

Took this life

In search of a reason


blasted with a shotgun


To hold the air of mystery with a relative ease

But the third person I remain.


The plush fabric of the night strained me

my olden bleat of pity found me again tonight

against the soft cushion with a pleasant depiction of you so long-drawn-out

Trespassing sight of flickering lights held my whimpers upright

for I have been coiled up by the heavy ropes of our precious pinkies

You are the purple flowers in daylight where bees

make patterns of their sugar lips pressed onto my doleful skin

With the night sky making cracks; branching out, I am nailed

on my bed frightened to be known

This love; this faith in you ‘til now

Have been the pillars I used to change my mind’s laser beam trajectory

Engraved in my heart’s crest forking;

getting lost within the beast’s flames

Many things become reminders of the past

Like a ring on the sun

Like merciful petals blooming one by one to show you to me

Lewdly as I recite your poems

The rhymes seem to desynchronize

With your physique leaning on me

Night and day, what a forlorn girl I have become.

Glitters of pleasure may die unnamed

Like a sudden shake from a long dream

I wish for the night clouds to gather

Drops to fall

To drive out the flames

To tell him that despite all this

No matter how far we may be

I still care for him

Even though

The memories project a shipwreck image off the coast of oblivion; nearly drowned.






Here I am.                                                                                                                                                On my toes again

With His Highness Sheikh Hamdan bin Mohammed Al Maktoum, Crown Prince of Dubai, I’d like to tap on my words to give rise to a new tune.                                                                  If I may, It’d be the sweetest.

Perhaps a song will be made flesh.


From an article on google, I found his name

Thought the name was intriguing

I read through the pages

It budded out to some more pages and now, I’m interested.

Until my head knocked out some sense in me.

His Highness smelled honor and true justice

May this poem warrant me no death penalty

But His Highness spoke wisdom in His poetry

And hooked my heart like a fierce Falcon

His poems I long to deserve

to be able to plant them through my deeds.

May this nourish the lives of my comrades

From the land that nursed

And protected my people.


My land watered my flesh and taught me

Better things with Pride and Dignity.

Penning this does not steam my fears away

It does not seal the raving sea within

Oh, have mercy!

I do not pray to be pried for a breach of any law.                                                                            I adore the Prince like a child; like the biggest fan.


Did two of my face’s bright windows

and wooden door awaken the depths of impossibility?                                                                A real Prince married to a pauper: a pauper to a real Prince.                                                        This I ought to be the truth.

To stand in love with the Crown Prince; a stranger to me but never to my country.              Even I knew the odd one out.


Prince,                                                                                                                                                   (it has a beautiful sound to it.)


The vast sand where your people have set up their Bedouin

To shelter other tribes from the coldest nights;

To shield their skin born out of embers from the frowning sun

Truly was majestic.

How the strength of desires immortal amplified the splendid stories of every person—

You lead them as the camels with their humps on their back in a jovial mood; attentive to the curse of the living nature.

When sandstorm whirls any present debris to hurt your friends

Your arms are spread before them so that

Each sorrow is painted clean

With you; the omnipresent man of your Kingdom.



The world is a walking sin                                                                                                                    (it cultivates pain and oppression)

It hogs greed and livens up power

It survives through clanging metals; banging tanks instead of music and the rhythm of a poet.

I breathe fear from amongst my veins

I folded my heart in sick rejoice;

Not to have faith for those who locked their eyes against your eloquent pursuits.


I remember, as a child, the smell of

burnt leaves that do not leave my skin unless I bathe.

My loneliness destroys my bosom

Every time the cry of silence dominates.

But as a repercussion, I call out to the wind

To seek your protection.


Perhaps I adore you

And the rumors alongside you.

O, what do I know?


But with you, My Prince

to whom the stars worship,

to whom the seafarers find on a dangerous cruise

His life a delicate

His wings of hardened gold

And, clothes a spotless—

I sing my praise to the Highest

For in my dreams, I once desired

A chance, a time to feel a true Prince

in my stride.


O, what a dream; a steadfast one.                                                                                                    O, what do I have to illuminate?                                                                                                          I wonder.


With His army aiming to win every battle

Granted one dares to speak ill of His name

Will blow the mightiest Tower away



I do not possess what the precious Dolls have; a fragile body and a glass house.

But my home is lumped by people with calloused feet and toiling hands

and I only have the sun in my heart.

I walk without fame

Not well-acquainted with Dirhams

But if one can find love and prosper joy

What’s wrong with that?


I saw a pale blue light illuminating the mountain peak

Right before darkness invades to immobilize the city

Before this sentiment transforms into madness

to sadness

Head over to my house and,

Bring me the gift of endurance to which I owe this ‘would be’ masterfully crafted moment.














Tears stem from somewhere so divine.
While looking at tainted skies
Of reveled streets to more stretching lines
Numbered trails;  fresh and heavy 
days that are no more
I know not what they mean.
Quarks and energy have become empty texts
Strange and sad that they creased piped rain
Tears caused by no immediate, identifiable grief
I know not what they mean?

I found a man he seemed so fond of life

He wasn’t merely passing by

I thought we could sit by the Fire

For what appeared to be a new chapter in sight

There all gone without the Light.

Today the rain ruined my umbrella
My hair as if a man had poured sweet wine over, my arms flapped like a native duck.
And It all came back how you would wish a raincoat was sent for me.
Today the rain had broken up in the air and my feet were too idle for everyone’s stomping shoes to get a seat among the vultures in the zoo. But the servant leads like soft rain pattering; leaking through the roof.

Then there are smiles and

Little banter 

There are days but no 


cemented floors and walls

Caging souls inside holes 

Trees but no birds are singing 

Mini boats of escapism

Hanging close to real living 

A way of life or just away 

From living?


Dreams are all clanging inside this tawdry piggy bank.

How wonderful if only to spend it in an hour. Arguments could be avoided and spirit would have been lifted. 

Blockbuster rose

She might just be a rose with faux mink eyelashes 

Blood red petals with everlasting sweetness 

Surprise! Surprise! She might just make a great girlfriend 

Underneath the redness is a stinging bareness. 

She’s a blockbuster rose surviving the harsh soil 

Filling fragrance under the same sky or the impossible black hole

The only thing she might not do is to make you pluck her away 

From the brown earth that turned her into a thriving rose, a persistent blockbuster. 




Every drop of milk is sound against sound. Every time I miss you a thought always glides and I’m reminded that Love is never linear. When I read a book, watch a film, climb the highest mountain and pause to think, I start to dream. When I dream I get so sappy so romantic so enthusiastic that many times I realize that I’ve left my sanity in a different vortex. I’ve once envisioned myself up there, there on top of the mountain, writing names to every star my eyes could reach, breathing every ounce of you along with the whistling leaves of the night, feeling so mighty whenever my skin remembers your fire. I think I could moan better than Madonna by just staring at your eyes. My ears are for love they hear your silly and naughty outburst and I just couldn’t help but give it another moan… 

You and I together, let’s be vulnerable to turn the shadows into one single silhouette as we recline. 


The world on the sides

Most of the time we stand at the center surrounded by guests. We think full. Today I’m at the periphery where two different ends meet, the sea licking the shore, the river flows and comes out to a place unknown– words jump out of a great thought and my shadow grows taller behind me, risking hyperbolé, to be a better stick.



Is a word to mean everything for someone; the soul can recognize alone.

Loving someone intensely but without haste is such that—–

Like feeling you flesh and bones with zero probability. 






I have been told that of the gods and goddesses 

I have been warned of their wrath 

I have been spoken to

by many 

But I cared less of what was told- a history 

But here now I ask you 

If you are prepared to die abandoned or if you’ve seen some sing in despair

and yet continue to blow the ashes this life has given knowing

the consequences of unreturned passion that sifts within 

Once, in that embrace, I was convinced that 

No matter, we all have to suffer-

to go through what we ought to and surrender most of our physical value in order to lay the carpet for whichever path the sun chooses to illuminate 

Or would you let it?

I want to know if you’re ready to sweep the floor from unwanted sadness 

Ready to excuse yourself from immense boredom 

To help you grow, to lead you on

to have so much compassion towards the pain of others and to the pain you made for yourself 

I’m interested to know if you’re interested to live, day by day,

In this world that never lacks commodity 

What was turned to oblivion then now becomes a necessity 

I’d like to know if you can still turn your back, to look at what was left behind now is in front of you

and say here’s where I stand, I know what’s beneath me and from here I’m marking a new path 

I’m going without turning my back.

Because even the gods and goddesses know of God.






There’s a bonsai plant in my room

Probably not the red rose in your head

The flower we constantly give to someone –

A dear friend, beloved mom or to our short of love self

Not the yellow and white chrysanthemums in a glass vase

There is a bonsai plant in my room in front of my TV set occupying the brown shelf

It makes sense how this bonsai spins wonder more than the shows on my TV screen

How my eyes tend to look at its way subconsciously every time I move around my cabin room

It seems it’s calling me, attracting me the bonsai way

One afternoon I found myself throwing tantrums to this sublime bonsai

When suddenly I stopped.

I realized how it stood still even at the fan of air as a response of my “what the heck is going on- roaring self”

There is a bonsai plant that greets me in the morning with a steady look and a knowing grace

When I’m sour graping after a good night’s dream.

I have a fetish for bonsai plants

When I see one distant memories start a slideshow

And I remember passing by Peace Street with three grand houses in my adolescence

The orange house, the white house and the black house

Among these houses I love the white house most because

they have rubber pots with bonsai plants and every morning I see Doctor Robberts watering her plants

Some bonsai plants are shaped as fish, some a tower, some ducks

But I love the bonsai shaped as a cage most

I thought I could live there somehow

Doctor Robberts has one big pair of orange metal scissors and

Every Sunday afternoon she would snip the leaves growing out of the aluminum rings and greet other passers-by with an old smile

Her house has that autumn feel as some flower puffs, narra leaves and flowerets fall on the ground giving off an aromatic smell to lil neighbors like me

There is a bonsai plant in my room and it’s gaining prominence in my heart that sure is in bloom. 







Love letters #1 how we connect the awkward way

FB_IMG_15013181125488358That was supposed to be the night I opened my heart to tell you the truth that I held inside. I thought about how to start, many times. The introduction was right but the body and the closing lines messed up. Those words were not the ones I wanted to say, at least, not the ones I’d like you to hear on a last day. But funny how this life somewhat changed the situation. Either we ended up all too serious or we ended up the comical way. 

The thing about us

Was supposed to be this not that 

Shouldn’t we sit there–

no, we don’t even care 

The intention was to discuss prior concerns,

hey the interview, I knew. I knew! I knew? 

All but the best except my spoiled coffee 

The night simply peeled off the awkward way. 


Like in some twisted fate,

They rolled it. Like in some sick way, they both kept testing each other’s reaction. Waiting for some signs, the green light to just go ahead and speed up..

“He likes her; She likes him”

Probably even deeper than that, who knew?

If only the other one knew. (?)

Like two strangers, they just kept pushing; pushing the same one wall towards each other.

Always with a question —

No better cure.

The song of heartbreak fills the air
As the peacock sits on the mountain peak
The beasts recognize her sorrows tune
And sit behind the queen most high!
Exiles a wishful thinking
Of a throbbing past below her chin
O come with me, sit with us
Heartbreak it is that we must nurse!