A wish

Gate Collanges_1

Source: Google Images. Photo not mine.

“I wish life had a pause button,” I said, my eyes glinting against the diamonds in the sky.

On that night, I remember being embraced by the cold breeze while my hand was warmed by yours. The vehicles outside relentlessly rushed through the road, oblivious that in this enormous world full of chaos, there existed a kind of peace impossible to be translated to the words of poetry. We stood behind an old, rusty gate, isolating us from the disastrous world, while our hands were ironed by the flames of our hearts.

On that night, we were flowers blooming in the midst of a lethal storm, seeds sprouting in the height of drought. We were the successful version of Romeo and Juliet, and the joyful rendition of Cleopatra and Mark Antony. We were life in death, and hope in defeat. And I wished for nothing but to stay in that moment, to linger until our hands burn before life proceeds.

On that night, we were granted that pause; we lived in a limited infinity. But soon, life demanded that it, once again, play.

On that night, we crossed that old, rusty barrier before time took away the freshness of our story. We became synonymous with that gate – old and rusty, albeit it no longer hid us from the chaos of the world for turmoil grew within our very core.  Our hands grew cold; the flames in our hearts receded.  And when the peace we once experienced finally faded together with the rushing vehicles, I then remembered your reply: “Why pause? So you can play it again?”

On that night, I did not wish for a stop button.

Perhaps, if I did so and the heavens were merciful, we would still be standing before that old, rusty gate, our hands ironed by the flames of our hearts.

Perhaps, our infinity would not be limited.

Perhaps, there would not be any perhaps.




To and with the uncertain

To that dishonest man who is an exception to my distrust.


Photo not mine. Source: Google Images

Life once asked whether or not I wanted to jump off a cliff. As a response, I asked her where I would land. She just shrugged, implying that she, of course, could not reveal.

Usually, whenever Life offers such questions– those that possess too much uncertainty- I would hand her a firm and direct ‘no’.  After all, who wants to risk being grappled by a terrifying unknown? Well, there may be some daredevils who would enlist themselves, but clearly, I am not one of them.

But for a reason that dimly lit inside my always-frightened head, I managed to say yes to Life; I jumped.

You see, Life herself is an uncertain creature. She would say yes when she means no, and no when she means yes. But one thing we all know is that she is not entirely merciless; she would sometimes offer the vaguest hint of what is to come through a wink, a subtle smile, or even through an inaudible whisper.

When she asked me about the cliff, she mouthed It’s time, or so I think. I can never be so sure whether I just hallucinated, or fell for her unnecessary tricks of vagueness. But with whatever it was that she did (or did not do), it caused a portion of my fears to be converted into light – a dim yet powerful one in this case. It illuminated a box of memories which was labelled Escapism. When I opened them under the faint light, all the stories of how I said no to the beautiful what-could-have-been’s flashed before my eyes. At that moment, I realized that it was Life’s way of saying that falling off that cliff is a journey I wouldn’t want to be stored together with all those missed chances.

Now, I am still falling deeper towards the uncertain.

And whether or not a terrifying unknown awaits to grapple me, I hold onto Life’s obscure hint:

It’s time, she said.



Source: Google Images. Photo not mine.

Because in reality, parallel stories can intersect.

You are the echo to the silent howls of my misery.

You are a forgery to the unfathomable melancholy I possess.

But indeed, the world must be drowning with incomprehensible paradoxes for you are also the only genuine light to ever illuminate my path.

You morph my howls into songs of euphoria, my poignancy to luminescence.

You haul me from the excruciating world of loneliness towards the blinding haven of your presence.

And as my tears—once of a hurricane- transform into droplets of an after-drought, you become the echo to my grateful smiles.

Now you resound my laughter.

Now you forge my joy.

And it is now that I realize that my story rests in front of a mirror.

And my dear, you are the tale on the other side.

A Puzzle

The puzzles we leave for others to figure are sometimes those that we can’t solve ourselves. 


The image of her crouched on a bed, her one hand dangling at the edge from where red fluid spills, haunts herself.

Why did I do it?” She asks repeatedly, wishing for a voice to miraculously respond amidst the darkness she is in. She has no body now, but she’s no spirit. She is a thought, perhaps. An unresolved, thinking idea… if there is such a thing.

She glares at the body – her body- in that image. Her face twists in a certain way that displays both pain and delight.  What a paradox, she whispers. True enough, it is too ironic to think how such a morbid act could offer ecstasy.

Suddenly, voices from all around her – wherever she is- begin to echo. Why did she do it? There are thousands of voices. Only one question.

A mellow voice with a punctuated accent repeats this over and over, a tinge of fury at the end of every word. Another voice says this silently, almost like a whisper, but simultaneously rumbles in this dark dimension, a melancholic aura hiding in its every utterance. There’s also this voice, the one that outweighs all the rest, which is so fragile yet firm. Every word seems like a hell load for it, like an ant forced to carry a truck. This voice just resounds until all the other ones unnoticeably fade. Why did she do it? It asks one last time. This, before, What could I have possibly done wrong?

She exists as thought, but she finds herself pondering on this last question and on the one even she herself asks. Maybe it was all me, she answers that fragile, seemingly familiar voice. Maybe you do not have anything to do with this. She tries to remove the maybe in order to sound more convincing. She fails. Perhaps that maybe is the only thing she is sure of.

Why did I do it? She repeats yet again. Maybe…..


Maybe I was curious.

Maybe I was out of my mind.

Maybe I wanted to be “cool”.

Maybe I was exhausted from all of life’s bullshit.

Maybe all of this holds true.

Maybe I also do not know.

She lasts there almost perpetually, darkness surrounding her like flood of ink engulfing her alive – except she no longer is. She just ponders, seeking for answers, while the picture – now becoming hazy- rests before her. It takes multitudes before this picture blends with the darkness she is in. Soon enough, she begins to be consumed by the shadows too, albeit she is only a thought; how unfathomable, yes.

Before the last of her is consumed, that fragile voice repeats its question for the very last time, this time with momentary sobs, “What could I have possibly done wrong?”

She struggles for an answer, wanting to offer even a bit of consolation.

Maybe –

She attempts to finish, but before she does, she is gone. Forever.





The Question


Source: Google Images. Photo not mine.

“Will you write about me?” he asks with sheer delight, his brown eyes glinting against the melancholic light of the lamp.

Immediately, I envision my pen touching delicate papers as it flows to the rhythm of poetry. It slowly creates an image that transforms from a blur to a more concrete picture.

In that image, I see him with his brown eyes — those that always reflect the vastness he hides as though the night sky chose his soul to secure it. I see his smile clinging to his ears like he’s a rose being blessed by rain after a drought. And I see his mellow hands dance through my face, feeling almost like a metaphor for those three golden words.

But as the picture materializes better, I begin to see the truth in minute details: the night sky in his eyes contains nothing but a fading diamond; the rose in his smile — actually lifeless- forces a bright facade as drought pursues; and the sways of his hands whisper not the three golden words but a silent three-word plea — Please, save me.

And I know that as much as I want to fuel that diamond, to cease the drought, and to rescue him from the emptiness he himself has embraced, I could not — unless he himself break free from the strings of her eyes, her smiles, her words.

Will I write for him? It resounds. But I know that in so doing, he would just be temporarily relieved from the devastating love he embraces, filtering the love my poetry offers.

And when the time comes when he has gathered enough pieces of himself only to be shattered again, he would leave me drowning in my perpetually rejected poetry.

It must have taken me forever, but with those three golden words dangling at the tip of my tongue, I finally say, “No.”



A writer’s appeal

I want to make a poem for you —
A poem that would free all the beauty trapped inside your masked soul.
A poem that would make an orchestra out of words; one which would play a harmony in resonance with the music that is you.
A poem that would leave a fragrance as sweet as your smiles, and a mark as powerful as your presence.
A poem that would display every speck of wonder you are hiding.
A poem that would reveal.
A poem that would be generous.
A poem that would give justice.
A poem that would simply be you.

I want to make a poem for you…
if only you would give me the pen.


A two-minute poem sparked by a sudden burst of emotion. 

They say she has a nice tattoo.

On her wrists lie black, zigzag lines that appear to be vintage.

They say it’s classic and simple;

they want one too.

They say she has a unique tattoo.

It’s not like the semi-colon cliché that is all over the internet.

It’s one of a kind – intelligently thought, they say.

They ask for the idea’s source.

They say she has an awesome tattoo.

It’s not too girly, not too manly.

It just has the right amount of “coolness”, they say.

They sought for one.

There are a lot more beauty that could be added from what they say.

But at the end of the day,

they fail to see

the deception behind its physical reality.

Let’s hear her:

She thinks she has the worst tattoo.

It is deceptive –

inexplicably cunning.

Its beauty radiates,

but its origin is frightful.

They think it’s heaven.

when it’s actually hell.

When the sun sets,

she sees it as a bridge to comfort,

imagining it to be slices of agony

where red fluid drips eternally.

She  dreams of it cradling her,

singing her a lullaby until she drifts off

towards nothingness –

a flight to the surreal.

It’s the one that puts her at rest

in the middle of the war she’s under.

It ceases the fire of guns,

and puts the canyons on hold.

But when the light sheds its rays again,

her bridge falls.

Her haven ruptures.

The war restarts.

And while she struggles to stay alive

in the middle of the deafening splashes of bombs,

She is continually being told – rather mocked-

how pretty her tattoo is.