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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

Photo by Matheus Bertelli on


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

Photo by sebastiaan stam on

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



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


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.