He  wants to watch
her asleep
as her
rhymes with
the chirping of
night crickets

He longs to stare
at her
like the
stars that flicker
through  the
darkest hours

He wishes to steal
He craves for her
warm hugs

Yet he was
the sole reason
why at the
dawn — she sobs.


Let Her

She will once again tread
into a far-flung land
in which she alone will escape
from the vulnerability of her labyrinth.

No bags to be packed.
No luggage to mind about.
Neither travel pillows nor comfy scarves will count.

She will once again take a trip with nothing
and no one to load on her back.
She will take it light and slow.

If and only if you will let her to.
If and only if you will let her go.

Entry: Passport

Image from Google images


Beautiful Emptiness

she got her drafts crumpled twice
pen running out of ink thrice
the words are hard to find
with the one behind her mind

the document remained blank
until in her musing sank
the language at the tip of her tongue
were the feelings she used to hang

she hid the sheets again
and took away the pen
for those unwritten and unseen
she decided to keep within



When you recover or discover something that nourishes your soul and brings joy, care enough about yourself to make room for it in your life.”
– Jean Shinoda Bolen


Each of us has tales to tell about how we unearthed the gift given to us – may it be in art, music or literature. We all have that safe haven where we can translate ourselves into any form of beauty (visual, auditory, printed words). We all have that sense of being at home by doing the things that we love while  attracting those who we share the same passion/hobby. It’s like reaching out a hand to a stranger, feeding enthusiasm to the world and participating to the fast-paced journey in this modern era that we live in.

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Like an uninvited visitor, something’s trying to knock and to be opened. It was years ago that this house as her heart welcomed a stranger who needed a space to sleep upon, sheets to cover from the cold, couches to cradle a weary and a broken soul. It was years ago when someone  fill in the house with a smell of a black coffee, of fragrance from daffodils and roses standing at the living room’s table every morning, of an incense so strong yet comforting. It was years ago that the books and magazines occupied every empty chair that held ideas of fictional characters. It was years ago that the windows were unlocked for believing that a tiny light from the outside would cast off the darkness of memories inside that dwelling. The house was then a safekeeping of untold stories, hidden scars, meaningless regrets that he read and heard through and through that the guest turned into a home by himself.

Yet, on one solemn night, the door shut closed, just when the stranger needed to travel another path ahead.  Yes, the doorknob, the pavement and the gate that once greeted a joyful hello seems like bare, void and untouched by now.

And here it comes another one.

Photo: GoogleImages


Chemist Crasher

at this four cornered room, covered in all white
where dusts and prickles are not welcome inside
people on their masks,  gloves and safety goggles
hands that are capable to handle each apparatus

he was but a stranger yet a meddler there
’cause he heard they do research
and yes,
he wanted to interfere.

he acted like a pro
not until he saw her coming
dressed like the others
differs from the rest

pony-tailed blonde hair
tiny strands spying through her face
brown eyes like  umber sunset
like a mocha coffee, he  guessed

lips that made him wanted
to paint the town red
smile that made him found
the happy ninth cloud

realizing this hypothesis
he knew then the fact
that with this reaction
he wanted her to interact

Photo: Pinterest



It Was

It was


back then

Pokes are taps on shoulders
Follows are long leisure walks
Likes are smiles that are brighter
Shares are midnight talks

It was

Back then,
Pictures are on photo albums
Under the table
in your living room

Back then,
walls are bricks
with decors of medals
earned from school

Simple as the
“Hi and Hellos”
from neighbors
passing by your home

Simple as the
stories written
on diaries at the
bedside under the moon

Back then

How simple

It was …