A truth, one that can’t be found through imagination alone. What’s that like?

A fateful encounter, one that brings great changes. What’s that like? 

I think, a door to a bright new world is opening a little at a time. 


true tears

countless rose petals journeying swiftly under the moonlight sky

like insects, they hurled quickly through the air

to where the moon sets her eyes

never knowing what the end would be or the future to be

they flee to the silver light with their hopes and their dreams

flickering light opening the sea

words become dismal promise brought by the thrill of uncertainty

marching towards the uninhabited

reaching forward ceaselessly

only to make known what true tears will be.

sparkling eyes, flapping wings

a beatless dance to the moon colored witch

until they die, falling back to the mouth of moving darkness

bringing forth the endless swim of one’s dying feelings

inspired, compelled by one’s final tears.

sixth sense

I had a disturbing dream

fear gurgled out of its cradle

unstable fragment of a time

I never knew existed

until it appeared luminously


There was a woman

Her name I didn’t know 

she spoke to me about how I lost to two other women

I saw him too.

drowning in sin with lust to those women

my heart raced as if something was amiss

the knowledge was revealed to me-

What was I supposed to do?



5 kilometers per second

That day the greatest missile was launched. It was so massive and it only left us gawking at the smoke crowding its path. You and I stood there, together , along the fields of sugar cane as we tried to reach the last image of it before it disappeared on us to outer space. 

I think I understood then why you were so different from other people and at the same time, I knew, without a doubt that you were definitely not looking at me. 

And I cried behind your back as we continued our way home. It was because you were so nice to me that I couldn’t catch my tears from escaping.

It was rather sad to be feeling so lonely on a day when it was bright and sunny.




Mr. Life

Mr. Life’s a fool

He makes you feel you’re a lost soul

in this universe

that knows not you nor I

but somehow, we still survive

and forge ahead

relationships and people

who never go out of style

and yet still feel old all the time

and Time

we never learned from time

I ask certain people

and all they said were unedited excuses

with the same cover

perhaps, they’ve made a multi-million record

out of the ideas that left their heads and lived in their mouths

even if ideas came from different colors and eyes

still, they weren’t free to climb

Mr. Life and his mischievous plots

for us and them.

A river flows in you


blue blur bright close up

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In case you miss the fragments of your childhood

Don’t tell your mom.


Eat beside your notebook.

Sit next to a piano for hours, or days

And create–

the river that flows within you

until you get drunk with words and die a natural death.

Maybe in springtime,

When the trees are plump

And the rabbits have played among the

Lavender fields with the squirrels,

You can run on the grass with much ease

Let your feet fulfill their promise

To the earth that held your

Tiny voice and knee-wounds

At 6 years old.

Allow this gentle river to sink your wounds;

And the scars reminiscent to the days

That came but long forgotten.

Tell your friends how you wished the leaves

To swirl onto a clay pot

That had most of your secrets in the afternoon hidden.

When the sky kissed your back farewell

and the river sang an ode

to a passer-by

that spoke to you all this time.




Tune me up, perhaps, the night star would glance back at me

To single out the hymn now imbued in this body

All colors may articulate what a painting would not want to display

When the music gathered the piece of me every day.

Heavy bricks may rain duly to this kaleidoscopic Poppies

And this mood could trickle down to its terminal censure

Owing to your hands painting the song

scribbling with regards to my temperamental hues.

You could get these hands to clap in unison

Seconds may pass but the tune would still want to be rough

Such a character isolating caress, it would allow

Brimming with desire blasting off calumny.

To that one man, His music is all.

I sent out letters cascading through outer space

While you gloated the stardom

And painted new planets, I wondered what my role was in this

Alluring universe. Through which I saw

Dimly lit parallel lines that never would elucidate—

We’d bypass each other’s brass rings

And will be left out gawking.

Will this remain a storybook of our indelicate suffering,

Or would this remain an ethereal world of my own?




where were you?

gray monkeys

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Where were you when the river murmured to me and the elf told a history?

Where were you when I hanged mostly for words, words that hanged you for someone else?

Where were you when the grass flipped to the other side to show me nicely how it was like to come back to life?

Where were you when the trees point at a distance towards a sky so distant but free?

Where were you when the irresistible grasp time and time again held the ropes of a peculiar heart?

Where were you when the light divided the iris of my eyes spending damnation from a swift serving hand of ignorance?

Where were you when the wall echoed to me the sound made by the self which created it?

Where were you among us and thorns?

Where were you when words convened to build a silent shelter for a hopeless invitation towards a mountain far above the clouds so much louder than the parade of constant goodbyes?

Where were you in this postmodern time you, godly man?

Where were you when God only knew what you would choose to chew to make me blue?

Where were you when the wild horses and the screaming voices wrote to me in my memory?

Where were you when the frog grew more of his limbs dragging behind you more of his noisy reproach?

Where were you among the sheets, white paper, and fallen bugs?

Where were you when the frightened ones fell over and over a thousand times?

Where were you headed towards when you said you would come back before dinner time?

Where were you when all the dogs went to heaven?

Where were you when the poem rolled back with the toothbrush, elastic band, and the power of observation?

Where were you when the rain whispered to meet me another sunny day?

Where were you when the light receded miles away feeling endless impressive shocks from a backseat?

Where were you when you had easy money and I had to call you out for your own protein pills?

Where were you partying when we parted over the phone?

Where were you when 90% of the adolescents were trying to be deep and the other 10% were just pouring all sweetened compliments?

Where were you when the night became simplified?

Where were you making a hole out of a dangerous soul?




nature person girl forest

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Search for the traces, search for evidence or for witnesses

Lest the yearning departs the chest

Search for an image in every photograph

Where all symbolic charms are faded in the background

Search it dearly, search it well

For if this bear any fruit

Let it be in tranquil seas afloat

Search it everywhere from books or magazines

That was left on the workspace

Perhaps the dust could tell if your face

Settled in his consciousness

And if time reveals the hour for which

your language bespoke

Let this be the sign for which the heart awaits

For its groom.

All the memories will once again

Cross the heart and crush the spirit in half

But my love, if all is not taken care of

What glory shall prepare you

For a journey anew

If the ships have been released from the ropes

Of its grip, and the anchor has been raised to sleep

What cloth shall you hoist to gather all the birds from afar?

Is it not your desire to meet the hopes of your heart?

Search well, search

For dreams mirror the dark side

Completely different to imagine

For this reality renders you to sit and outside

A good stare of the world where tears drift

And wound your spine.

blue funk#1

person sitting on rock on body of water

Photo by Keegan Houser on Pexels.com


Recently, I’ve been spending so much time watching the view from afar. From where I sat, everything looked right in place. Time moves slowly when I stare outside from a glass window. The weather hasn’t been good lately. I heard typhoons come and go in some parts of my country, and so I get the same sky almost every day. I looked outside, past the new buildings to the sea covered by the inseparable clouds. I think I have become obsessed with the clouds. It almost always blocks my view of the other side. But why am I so concerned of this other side? Have I become so discontent of my place that I want to escape from it? Perhaps, the other side can have that answer? I seem to have full of doubts. And I wonder if I have spent my time on unnecessary things. What has become of my vision? I guess it shows me the wrong distance. My eyes can see from my house to a neighbor’s greengrocer’s. And yet, I still wonder if I have stretched it enough or overstretched it already, what must I do? Everything in my sight becomes seemingly monochromatic… if one is the artist where should she look for this inspiration? In this story, where is that place? I guess I have gradually taken this dark character. I do not see anything at all. Beauty has fled, gone, enclosed somewhere I couldn’t open. I have become obsessed with the birds and the rock. Everything transforms into clouds, birds and the rock. Oh, I could not have been more creative if not frustrating. I have cut my hair the shortest. I feel I can do something bad in this body. I looked for something to break and I found my hair, and yet I asked if there were still some things I could tear or break. I do not like to stare the abyss I know it’s pulling me in, but this path has led me to it. I wonder just when did this void grow this big?


woman wearing black jacket standing near ocean with swan and birds

Photo by GEORGE DESIPRIS on Pexels.com


Thoughts about birds are fascinating

Though I can only count as many

This world is fascinating

Because it gives us birds

Birds like the Albatross, pigeons, canaries, and doves

How they live and find their mate

How they adapt and survive

They are fascinating as with the eyes of a child.

The Albatross of Galapagos Island…

Is that how I envision paradise?

The albatross isn’t it from the lyrics of a song by the Little River Band ‘Cool Change?’

Wow! Time for a cool change…cool change…cool change…

Sailing on a cool and bright clear water…staring at a full moon like a lover…

At the moment, I’d love to freshly smell this little world

Where words can only paint this picture beautifully

And music carries them to our ears

And they live to tell the tale

Of people who dream their greatest dreams.

But the albatross flies and swims in this beautifully huge ocean

And can remain flying in years…

The albatross has everything under his long and strong wings

If not happy for what the world gives it then, is it lonely?

Those birds that flock around the city

sitting on a wire

do they whisper, a dream they desire? Or are they like us—

trying to observe the world without a permanent address and live only for the time?

Little birds in my city sit on a wire like armies of birds they wait for the time

When jeepneys honk their loudest sound, the birds jump off the wire and  fly

I thought they’d leave and say goodbye

instead, they go back and sit one more time…again…and again…

until it rains heavy and the air feels cold without the sun in the sky

this repetition takes the melancholic view of my city

and the people of the city can’t seem to notice how the birds have whispered

over the roofs of their luxurious cars

And I wonder if only we use the sky with only the moon and the stars at night

and forget the rest that reside?

I wonder if birds stare at the same sky to throw a question for people, how so beautiful is the night without them, birds dancing under the moonlight?






aquatic plants background beautiful beauty

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I’d like to be attuned to myself.

I’d like to feel more of my self.

I’d like to get accustomed to my own habits, my dreams, my pain, and my strength, just me and nothing else.

I’m a fire.

I burn with desire, it’s wild and extreme.

Being boastful is just one of the many things to describe me and yet even with people’s words, I try not to lean on them.

At least not anymore.

Because I am boastful I want to write about the self, myself, after all, I speak better when I talk about my own rather than others.

So, apology to this body where cells are now bathing with a cesspool of radical aspiration that harms its form.

Apology to the brain which now delivers the message of an inquiring self

Apology to my heart that keeps pumping out the pain and joy in words and has saturated the body with sentimentality or enough vitality

Apology to the tissues that keep spreading itself and creating a pain-proof shield to my wounded ego

I’d like to give myself a balm for my classic antics.

I’d like to be free from the scratches of those who thought of limiting their art

I’d like to believe that I’m free to practice what I believe to be true without the threat of being linguistically short, standard-driven and music-free… I prefer the softbound, not the hard one…

I’m waiting for the bus ride

Down to the yellow landscape

Where a garden blooms in vagrancy

Together with the shoes, I got for a poem

And my feet fueled by my heart’s song

People thought I’m in search of a priest or therapy—-

On my walk, a priest brightly bowed in excellence

Thus, my journey begins with greetings to the wonderful few

I have come to a slope

Where children run with their arms stretched

They are the children of the slope

The ones who inherit the future of gold

I run to the open field with gestures full of radiant smiles

But a rope is tied around my hands

and thought that the past has suffered too.

It’s whispering every hunting…


Now we have reached the pond

Where calloused feet are washed

And the pond shows a being

Different and the same

Not a fiction of a flourishing tale—

Between what’s around me and within that pond

I can no longer say

Neither the truth or lie would tell

Perhaps that’s my faith in a dream

Manifested in this beautifully heralded place within.

I had this idea in mind.

It may be silly or bright

But I had this thought in sight

Water and oil don’t mix

but if you add in soy sauce or some fresh veggies then you have my country’s stir-fried dish.

It’s delicious and a staple food on our table.

I guess what I’m trying to say is…

There are things that mix instantly or not

but there are also alternatives or add-ons made available

for two different things to mix and taste even better

This is insanely a bad analogy, but hear what I have to say–

the self can be an enemy or a friend

it does not matter. It does not have to matter—

Everything would still be you.

Always derive from You.

I guess the world will just have to come to terms with that—

not the stir-fried dish but with the

practical fact. (?)






The thoughts that we have

adolescence adorable blur child

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What thoughts do I have of you tonight?

Weird dreams appeared to me wild and vain

Walking down the path to good health

I could not be much more self-aware

That under the Narra trees in summer

A sea of scent perfumes the air

And into the vortex a new aspire began

Profoundly spiraling a world that I didn’t see

And the flaws of a woman weren’t a diamond in his chest

That it may bore glitters of a sailing memory

So that you wouldn’t have to preach

Such a woman who bore her soul upon

The navy-blue rocks of her dreams.

What thoughts of me do you have tonight?

A well-furnished room for immaturity

Dangling chandeliers of jealousy

Lighting the room where putrid foals lay scattered on the floor

To the kitchen where boundless memories of a sick language

Engulfed. You could not

Even be more self-unconscious

How non-nourishing our lives have been

Stepping on sharp wet glasses and making

It a beautiful slumber.

Indeed. Beneath the pillows we let out a spell

That fairies of the future may wake us up one day

From this endless chant where no one knows

Even the cries of the ants on the mountain

Ridges hails the cry for help that echoes echoing

Down the ocean of fog and into this

Dominating self-realization

That our lives have consistently

Made a fall as we keep bouncing back to

The wooden plank we had set up for our own safety

Thus, it’s almost as if we fostered a dream

Where doves and butterflies we could

never see resting…and nesting…cocooning…

under the nurturing Narra tree.

What thoughts of a future do we have for one another?

Perhaps, a dream none of us can foretell.




Unless you heard me…

person wearing red hoodie

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Who does not have a dark past?

Who does not have a story to tell about an old fear?

Who does not have to remember an ugly scar?

Who wants any of it?

Who does not want to forget all that transpired that day?

Who does not get hurt of a past being ridiculed?

Who does not want a chance to feel again?

Who does not want a peaceful now?

Who does not want a happy life?


Can you hear my story?

Your back has fled the minute the mouth took its first breath.

Can you bear my story?

Your hand has said ‘no’ what the tongue would not like to bite.

Can you please put away your things and read my story?

Your eyes wanted to sleep buried in your own fantasy.

Can you smell my story at least?

You wrapped yourself with a fur blanket.

Can you stay and never look away perhaps?

You remained silent and silence became a cold corpse lying beside a peculiar frame.


Please don’t tell me I didn’t tell you.

Please don’t say I didn’t have nightmares like you do.

Please don’t make me say things I didn’t want to hear myself.

Please don’t tell me it’s my fault again.


Unless you listen to my story, please don’t tell me things that kill me.

, and

please don’t judge me unless you’ve slept with my sorrow and history.


I don’t want to be just a dream you visit when you are asleep at night and forget when the morning light peeks through your eyes.

My Love Is Not Black

At night I don’t sing the tunes in blues

And perhaps, you’d think of me most

Being the sentimental sensational lover.

That might be true but tonight is

An ordinary night when I and my shadow

Walk around the Plaza to look for some warm and delectable feasts.

It is night and the sky has spread its cushion

Not for rest but for a graveyard shift

This night with our hands clasping will become

Hands with wings as I deliver the shadow

To his work                  and walk in similarly predictable feet.

Sleeping wouldn’t be without his arms and legs

And abs and chest…if only I am not in a dream state.

But the mouse will check my room, and I am with a steady companion

Not as hard as the night the other time when

We live to love for the day.

But it was only nearly yesterday when I last remember

the day to feel some newly baked bagels and roast chicken, and oh that saucy pasta

without the need for fear.


Here I am bedding myself for tomorrow is a date with

My beautiful shadow again

down to

Avenues where we no longer pull our hands apart simply because

The black sky would visit us on that day.


sky dancer

two white birds

Photo by NARENDER JASWAL on Pexels.com


beneath the dusty clouds

I have not found a robin

except in prose-poetry

where letters and music flew by

the vale now is swollen

and twilight comes descending

the egret’s beak is filled with

fish or symmetrical vertebrates

ancient rocks chuckle to me the

old lies

and I trace my veins a pulsate-beat

to give up all the earthly beasts

Up, up in the sky

A sky dancer passed by

She saw the crocodile slipped back

To the swamp and the water

Cease to ripple with the beat

Of ten-thousand birds churning

Except in prose poetry the heron

Found the egret fondling

And the sky dancer found the robin.



a poem untitled

silhouette photography of woman

Photo by Pete Johnson on Pexels.com


Play the prelude for me

Cascading strobe of light

On your piano keys

With shadow poetry.


Wherever the scenes

And frightening imaginations

Lure me, the light would still flicker on and off for me.

At night when this pen


Floats steadily yet too swiftly towards the

Bard’s musical entry

Blushing with goat’s eyes and rose-colored reflections.


I want this poetry to fall on puddles

Gathering ripples and the lips of her muse.


What kind of a man rejects the truth?

What kind of a man denies his fruits?

Does a man only remember the pleasure and not the promise?

What kind of a man is that?

What kind of man tells you not to live your own life?

What kind of a man blames you for all things that glitter?

What kind of a man takes every scoop?

What kind of a man is that?

What kind of hurt does a man capable of castrating a child, a woman, a mother, a sister?

What kind of a man mistake you for another?

What kind of a man is that?

What kind of a man turns you into a monster, a witch, a demon of yourself?

Full of rage?

What kind of man forces you to please the kind of a man that he is?

What kind of a man questions the kind of a woman you are?

What kind of pain is this? What kind of a man keeps you longing for a poem untitled?

Just what kind of pain is there for a woman who believes

For a woman who shares

For a woman who cares

For a woman who loves

For a woman who dares

For a woman who endures

For a woman who feels

For a woman who weeps

For a woman who keeps

For a woman who feeds

For a woman who prays

For a woman who stays?

What kind of pain must we endure for a poem untitled?

Just what kind of pain this is…




branches daylight environment flowers

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I thought I was the ONLY one who heard that subtle and beautiful music. That I was the only one pouring the blood of my heart out—when words called upon words…I felt the tiny tingling touch of a pathetic child trying to run for the words of the other, wanting to touch you with equal substance and humor. But as each day passed by, a new bud of uncertainty always showed itself. I felt your words and my words moved away from the protected circle and found a new master to admire.

A lot of visitors visit you in your prison. They listen to you, they talk to you just like me…they understand you more than I understand you no matter how hard I try to hear with my own heart and listen with my own soul. And you…understand them…you admire them…you can hear them…you smile with that vicious fascination towards their understanding of you…and conversations between you and them have grown bigger in size and number…and I look at you…hurt…with jealousy…here in my prison…because you stop talking to me…stop listening to me…you no longer see me…perhaps my words and the music they play…no longer get to you…no longer touching your fingers…and so they break in silence.

So, I learned…not to reach you…I learned to stop reaching for your eyes…I learned to go back to my own prison…in the middle…so no walls or bars could touch my back or my hair…or my perfume…or you. Because I felt…jealous…little…unknown…unnamed…no one. I’m nobody around you and your listening, visiting, magical friends.


So, before more of this pride gets in my way I got myself a question: what’s this crying and helpless child doing …running around…for your attention? Just what am I doing? Dragging myself to you like an old piece of soiled clothes…expecting you could wash it clean for me…

then, maybe I started to realize that this kind of thing…burns you out…so you tend to look elsewhere for rest.

You and me…me and you…when words call upon words…ignore the music, the weight, the beauty that I just want the you and me to take care of with a new face, a new smile, a new shade—but in the end the lights shut off, the ink dries up and emptiness flows to me like tears dragging the bubbly feelings of a careful touch to wintry clouds…Didn’t we agree with you and me…me and you? But I feel that painting the walls to create symbolic messages, a code, a bible for you and me to see, for me to know and understand you and me…it left me… feeling anxious…undeserving…so dishonesty slowly eroded the surfaced soil to reveal that sense of nothingness between those words… and that engulfing emptiness rushed to me again like a giant storm surge…and I just…felt lost around you…and…me.

Jealousy gave me lips to bite in spite and anger. Doubt covered my eyes a fog… And emptiness…well, made me feel that I lost you…and me to you.


Can you still find me? Would we still look for us? Well, the fog isn’t clearing up. Please forgive me… I don’t want to misunderstand.

I fed you rice and salt for breakfast, I heard, a good body was a mana.

I gave you water for your dense body, it cleansed yesterday’s old pile of residue.

We won’t have more of this every day, for working hard doesn’t mean earning much.

Sometimes. It simply means be grateful for what you have.

My dear, there will be times when sickness will devour your body, and

My eyes can only watch and pray for money don’t come when we are ill,

But when we are well.

We look for shelter elsewhere and make do of bamboo shacks, and

banana leaves. You called out and said the gods must have hated my family!

And pointed the neatly painted walls of Aling Nena’s residence on a hillock

For many years, you said, Aling Nena will have to please me one day.

As you witness her roaring voice to river folks who would want nothing, but water for their cows

And pigs.

Every day, you start your day with a frowning face, busy hands and days old shirt.

For earning much means working harder. Mana will not come but only for the rich

Climbing up the hill would mean heavy legs and failing eyes.

But Aling Nena would have to please you one day, and today is that day.

You brought an ax to enter her room, you made your way to claim her blood

And, pour them down on your bamboo shacks. Now, God must hate my family!

And soon, it will rise up your new home with her blood.




Friendship day







We found each other like how one would find her eyeglasses on a bedside table. Anxiously trying to see face to face the familiar monologue of a broken piece, and when we did our footprints traced the entire space with jazz music, colorful nights, and warm meals. Compartimos las herridas con limón, tequila y sal. I hope that even if stars live and die, our friendship stays. Happy Friendnniversary mis amigos mejores! Os extraño mucho. Espero que están bien en sus trabajos, familias y relaciones de corazón. Vamos a seguir el sueño de nuestros futuro especialmente viajar al otro parte del mundo. Mucho gusto!



a 30-second thought


There’s no one right now in particular really.

I still have the name lists from yesterday’s friendship recruitment service. I have been notified of the no new policy for talent acquisition exchange yet.

I guess my heart’s friendship management company isn’t interested in hiring right now.

But I see someone visit the office, you know presenting five proposals and sometimes, doing a ten-minute demo on fancy friendship lessons.

Just like today, someone came to me at the lounge and asked how the interview came or if the admin like the funny, athletic and inspiring types.

But well, I just smiled and said, you can give them your best shot. “Are you presenting today?”

He said, yes with such a poker-clownish about to shit face.

Dude, good luck was what I said. I cheered him on! Can you believe that?

I told him that I’ll be relocated to the company’s third branch.

And his face from the cheerful and over-the-moon shine now to the sorrowful, have mercy don’t leave me yet, I’m scared now face.

It was a fun day, to say the least.

But that was all it. I mean, we don’t need to be necessarily the “We are meant to be, this is it, O my God what a wonderful world neurotic psychotic hypersensitive freaks of the young minds of friendship, right?

But well, there’s someone though. I know someone from somewhere who sings and has that bedroom voice…whew, yea boy a bedroom voice and a bedroom bed with a bedroom shirt and socks and trousers on the floor, a pen and a silver copy of his dandy notebook for poetry and a camera for beauty in shadows…in the light where stars can disappear and rainbows fall into letters and master weavers of dreams, and more friendships and sweet and nothing and bitter and floating and a guitar, lyrics, plucking…plucking his guitar…and I heard he’s presenting tomorrow…somewhere…but I don’t know… I’m invited if only I could get in the same bedroom where magic rides to coffee shops to schools to rainforests behind the city’s progressive state in front of the trains and buses and private car rides to friendships and forever to

Present to


well, back to reality I’m sure that, I know someone with that quality and qualification.


you know, I love this friendly conversation. Have I answered your friendly question?



See you later when you fancy the three stars and the sun on your way home, ok?





not a desert cloud

you wrote your words like a prayer for me

healing waves rushed to my ribs

small seeds sprouting, astonishing

attraction. You can’t always touch a painting

this way, such kindness would’ve melted the

awkward colors.


You’re blessed with bliss by the divine

And talent knows her master’s sun

Your hand and eyes they know so well

The slightest doubt within tiny

Desert clouds.


Sweetheart, the politics of a conscious man

May frisk a friend to a dangerous submission

But with you, reign nothing sly neither is the man

Let’s eat, and I’ll pour you wine to

Revel our hearts breezy equal care


Sometimes I wonder if God has made you

The golden key to unknown windows and

Locked doors…you dress up with such loving words.


Within my bosom, I feel I have the sun’s worth

Raining light towards this forbidden log house

Thank you for rolling my lips to a certain smile

My cheeks glow with so much sunshine

My heart’s no longer the odd desert cloud.







Rapid shots of images


I came home late today. Later than usual. I met a friend from college and I was asked for an evening. We worked in the same block, surprise, my friend squandered all the time working behind our building. I didn’t know my friend was close by. A happy feeling!

Going home was a bit hard. There was traffic everywhere. Roads had been destroyed and re-widened. I called for a motorcycle. My body was heavy…heavy were my legs. But before I hopped on, I gave my friend a warm hug, but it felt like I was the one who needed it more.

The motorcycle was the scooter type. A rose-colored toy was driven by a random guy. “To this address, please,” I said. I had drunken tears. While on the road, I thought my tears were precious, I looked away so, it wouldn’t fall. The city life, nightlife was vigorously rough. Distantly looking away with tears about to drop.

And now you ask me about photographs and yesterday, the moon… Oh, that was rough. They transformed me, once again to be the sentimental, emotional snotty girl I was. “Sweetheart, tissue please.”

When I looked away all the buildings turned into frames of unrecognizable images. With my eyes blocked with warm liquid and my hair tossed by the nightly wind, they were rapidly changing frames one after the other. It was rough. My head hurts.

Sweetheart, perhaps I did not know anything about photography. Hues, shades, contrast, time conceived-perceived were dictionary terms for me. The pictures in my life were not taken by me. My face on paper or on the profile was not captured by my hands. Everything surreal to me. That’s why

I want to imagine to re-capture the desire and the unstated evidence of life and shadows within those clicks with words. Perhaps at the touch of a camera, my hands, oh they are such a nervous wreck. My tears and the camera would have dropped significantly in unison and break them into pieces. Perhaps, to you, sweetheart that would have been a deadly sight.

But I have always had this urge. That one day, I may get to capture my first image. That the day will come that I might see the image with the kind of lens that only you have. And my hands would cease to shake and just move swiftly like that of a Pro.

Perhaps. Or I might as well just be nurturing this absurdity. Who knew.

The wintry moon, the spring flowers, the summer seas, and the autumn sky, sweetheart, what do you think? May I?


white and black moon with black skies and body of water photography during night time

Photo by GEORGE DESIPRIS on Pexels.com

…in this sultry evening, I surrendered all my defining colors. The sense of loss that I felt inside brought me an immense feeling of melancholy. Tonight, my feet sailed away to alleys, and creeks in hopes of retrieving that old symphony. I moved to yellow flame, orange flame, red flame, blue flame and in between yellow, orange, red and blue…but I was only met with words of a midnight-blue with a tinge of a yellow soul. Cold and frozen that hard grass and roses froze a timeless brood. They were wrapped by the pallid arms of ivy that propped the whole city. All there was a miasma; the sulfuric atmosphere of death and hell. The perfection of tonight can only get better without my groove. The tempest-state of some savage crimson carving bears on his battered wings. I can’t wait for the shedding of tears…the shedding of my tears for you when all the fowls are fearfully kept behind the auburn curtains of lunacy.

The invite

pink leafed trees

Photo by Lisa Fotios on Pexels.com


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 Pexels.com


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 Pexels.com

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 Pexels.com


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 Pexels.com

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 Pexels.com


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

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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 Pexels.com

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 Pexels.com

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

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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 Pexels.com

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

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…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

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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 float..fly 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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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.