Onto another death

a brain fart

In my world, it is a repetition of dying that defines a risk.

It is a series of diving from a cliff, acquiring countless wounds only to let myself garner more scars.

It is a chain of nights drinking until my brain could no longer mask the raindrops stored inside, traversing through the sun and storm only to wake once more with a magical bucket of beer.

It is a succession of stabbing myself with fictional glimpses of what-could-be despite repeatedly finishing with a what-never-was.

It is a sequence of unresolved conflicts, of meaningless nights of escapism, of empty laughter, and of futile attempts to hold on to the fragile string of hope.

It is pain and poignancy circling through all emotions but never leaving, attached to every second, to every utterance of I wish I were dead.

And I am dead.

But for all the paradoxical reasons that the universe fails to comprehend, I am alive.

To take another risk.

To die anew.


a warning, a goodbye

I must warn you: I am a book no stranger to impossible. I possess words that are so foolishly entwined that reading me shall surely scathe your time. Hence, I highly recommend that you drop me, and look for other books that are not in turmoil.

Go, now.


Did I stutter?

I said, leave.

A stubborn reader, I see.

Allow me to further delineate what you will to venture:

My verbs are sloths sleeping on a bright day, and my adjectives are the dull moments after the rain. My metaphors are flies captured by a Venus Flytrap — weak, fragile, but furious.

My sentences only seem to end; they rarely begin. In fact, most of me is an ending — the paragraphs, the phrases, the words, the letters, the period. I am an ending that continues for a lifetime of pages — you would surely wish to begin. You would seek for the once upon a time, but I am both a maze and a waterless desert; the moment you come near is the time you thirst to leave.

I am not impossibly incomprehensible.

You would thirst and crave for comprehension like a lunatic seeking for sanity; you shall only find madness in me.

So leave my dusty covers on the corner where you have found me. Seek the rational, tales that do not endlessly end.

Seek comprehension.

Seek the possible.



A paradox


Source: Google Images. Photo not mine.

Was I really the fire that caused you to melt?

Do you know how it feels to be asked the sun

when all you can offer is the splendour of its reflection

placed in a vast, night sky,

together with the incomprehensible wonder of diamonds –

breathing and demised?


Do you know how it feels to be asked a rainbow

when all you can offer is the rain that comes before –

the one that contains droplets

which could be of both

glee and poignancy?


Do you know how it feels to have the world

that witnesses clarity in darkness,

light in shadows,

and jubilee in melancholy,

But still not be desired?


Do you know how it feels, my dear,

to have everything

which, in your eyes,



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.





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.

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.”