To Love a Writer

Have you ever fallen
in love with a writer
whose words cling too dearly
to him and everyone around him?

Have you ever seen
the world in his eyes
where almost everything and everyone
are as interesting as the other?

Have you ever spoken
to him so seriously
where he looks at you and looks away
as if he’s watching a soul walk away?

Have you ever known
the books he’s read
which contain the confessions
he could never ever speak of?

Have you ever read
what he wrote
which would lead you to ask
if he’s him or someone else?

To love a writer
is no easy task.
You may hold him in your arms
but his mind will let him escape.

To love a writer
is like loving Math.
You need to solve first
before you understand the whole picture.

He’ll let you
decipher him
in ways
he would want you to.

But the things
he wants you
to know the most
are hidden away from everyone.

He’d speak of words
he truly means
and at the same time
he doesn’t.

And in every perspective he uses
in a story, a sentence or a phrase,
may or may not be a clue
to what he wants to say.

Because writers are people
who want to be found
and at the same time,

Your face is filled with constellations my heart has wanted to see. Maybe that’s why you can break it so easily – because you already had something it wanted, and only time had to pass by just to let my heart communicate its feelings to my mind.


If I were a bird that got freed from my cage and if you were the wind that blew according to your will, how desperate would you be to push me back to where I escaped from after knowing about the dangers I would fly to in search for you without knowing that your arms have always been there for me?

A little girl mourns for dead flowers. I ask her why she does that.

She says, “They were once alive. Being flowers doesn’t make them less worth it for mourning.

But little girl, nobody gets to know flowers. You can’t just mourn for random things or people.

She stares at me before saying, “It’s because you’re too cold and ignorant towards life that you do not care enough for anyone or anything that can no longer live.

First Love

First love,
the train left.
You were there
and I watched you go away.

First love,
why did you do that?
Was I disgusting or ugly,
Or just someone who can’t make you stay?

First love,
I cried.
I never knew what I did wrong,
and questions filled my mind.

First love,
I’m still waiting.
I still have the questions
and you never gave the answers.

First love,
I’m still broken.
You met me whole,
and left me shattered to pieces.

First love,
come back to me.
Have I not loved you enough?
I’ve run out of love for myself.

First love,
answer me.
Why do you not speak
when all you need is a yes or no?

First love,
where are you?
Are you with a girl?
Are you gonna break her too?

First love,
I loved you.
And if you’re ever wondering,
I hopelessly still do.

Wanting to Drown

Wanting to Drown

This lovely photo is by Alex Stoddard.

I am the diver
of a killing ocean
I dive to know
how deep it takes
to kill me.

I take a deep breath
then go into it
letting everything it takes
to take what I gathered
and steal what I have.

I know that
it will kill me
and in its act of murder
I am more than willing
to help him kill a monster.

You see,
I am a diver
of a killing ocean.
I am the diver
committing suicide.



You’re a ghost. If you are seen, people will get frightened of you. Your existence is always a debate to others. Not everyone believes that you exist. Only a few people are into ghost hunting and among those few, only a rare individual will wish to see you again.

Once and Then

Once and Then

The lovely piece of art isn’t mine. As much as I would like to mention who’s behind it, I have no idea who it is.

he made me feel
like I’m everything
in one body.

That I’m what
I want,
he wants,
and that’s enough.

But then,
he changed.

He made me feel
like I’m nothing
in one body.

That I’m what
I hate,
he hates,
and I’m never enough.

He broke me after
he had finished

If you are a hurricane, then I am the land. You are not destroying me, you’re destroying what’s built upon me—what hides me from the sky. You make old trees fall to invite people to give life to other seeds. You cause destruction for realization.