psalmiseta - Hello Poetry

053026 Who would choose a place like this? Where lost things arrive on tired feet, Gathering broken versions of themselves Like fragments they no longer recognize. They stay awhile within my silence, I offer them the gentlest parts of me, And they take what they need to stand again — Then leave like wind forgetting its shape. Or maybe they are only waiting For someone they cannot forget, While I become the pause in between, The space they pass through, not return to. I have heard their unspoken storms, Their voices buried under quiet suffering, Their almost-graves of feeling They never learned how to name. Still, I remain open—unfolded, As if staying still could mean staying chosen, As if patience could turn into permanence, As if waiting could become home. I want to be more than a stopover, More than a resting place for breaking hearts, I want to be a home people run to, Not only when they are undone. But in a world of shifting intentions, Where presence is often temporary, I begin to wonder who truly arrives And who only passes through me. And I am left here, quietly learning That not everyone who comes is staying — Some are only passing through my warmth, Turning me into their waiting shed.

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5d ago

May 30, 2026 at 8:54 AM UTC

psalmiseta

Threshold: The Waiting Shed of Borrowed Hearts

053026 Who would choose a place like this? Where lost things arrive on tired feet, Gathering broken versions of themselves Like fragments they no longer recognize. They stay awhile within my silence, I offer them the gentlest parts of me, And they take what they need to stand again — Then leave like wind forgetting its shape. Or maybe they are only waiting For someone they cannot forget, While I become the pause in between, The space they pass through, not return to. I have heard their unspoken storms, Their voices buried under quiet suffering, Their almost-graves of feeling They never learned how to name. Still, I remain open—unfolded, As if staying still could mean staying chosen, As if patience could turn into permanence, As if waiting could become home. I want to be more than a stopover, More than a resting place for breaking hearts, I want to be a home people run to, Not only when they are undone. But in a world of shifting intentions, Where presence is often temporary, I begin to wonder who truly arrives And who only passes through me. And I am left here, quietly learning That not everyone who comes is staying — Some are only passing through my warmth, Turning me into their waiting shed.

33

050226 Amidst the loud and restless voices, I still hear You — Not pleading, not demanding, But walking gently at my pace. And in that quiet nearness, Grace begins to look like something I can hold. I wonder — How many times have I chosen to walk alone, Thinking I had to carry everything myself? Yet there You were — Steady, unshaken, never leaving. And still, I pushed You away… Not with words, Not even with what I did, But with a heart that wandered far from You. So I ask now, Even when I already know: Are You still there? I ask for a Word, A sign, something certain — But instead, You bring me here, Into this place I do not fully understand. And still, When I grow tired, You catch me. When I feel lost, You remain. You love me — Not loudly, but faithfully. And this is grace. This is You — A love that does not force me to my knees, But gently leads me home.

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May 2

May 2, 2026 at 3:38 AM UTC

psalmiseta

The Homeless is Home Now

050226 Amidst the loud and restless voices, I still hear You — Not pleading, not demanding, But walking gently at my pace. And in that quiet nearness, Grace begins to look like something I can hold. I wonder — How many times have I chosen to walk alone, Thinking I had to carry everything myself? Yet there You were — Steady, unshaken, never leaving. And still, I pushed You away… Not with words, Not even with what I did, But with a heart that wandered far from You. So I ask now, Even when I already know: Are You still there? I ask for a Word, A sign, something certain — But instead, You bring me here, Into this place I do not fully understand. And still, When I grow tired, You catch me. When I feel lost, You remain. You love me — Not loudly, but faithfully. And this is grace. This is You — A love that does not force me to my knees, But gently leads me home.

32

042926 The echoes of your becoming Became a river in my ears — An undying soul Devouring the breath from my lungs. And the whispers are no longer Silent waves that kiss goodbye. They have become thunder In the midst of scorching heat — Worshipping your skin, A breath losing itself Where black turns deeper than itself Until it finally evolves. In pages, in paces I can no longer recall, I hear hymns — Purging every note My soul once longed for. They find no home now, In any corner, In any street I used to paint — Streets I never dared to call “gold.” The debris… the degree Of every anthem, Every piece, every line — Unfamiliar rhythms begin to unfold. And the lullaby within my own mind’s palace Has turned into nightmares. Back then, it was never dark.. The light lingered. And the swords of my own echoes Were the armor I carried. But here I am — Laying those pieces to rest, And I… I am no longer That kind of becoming.

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Apr 28

Apr 28, 2026 at 11:41 PM UTC

psalmiseta

9000 Memoirs

042926 The echoes of your becoming Became a river in my ears — An undying soul Devouring the breath from my lungs. And the whispers are no longer Silent waves that kiss goodbye. They have become thunder In the midst of scorching heat — Worshipping your skin, A breath losing itself Where black turns deeper than itself Until it finally evolves. In pages, in paces I can no longer recall, I hear hymns — Purging every note My soul once longed for. They find no home now, In any corner, In any street I used to paint — Streets I never dared to call “gold.” The debris… the degree Of every anthem, Every piece, every line — Unfamiliar rhythms begin to unfold. And the lullaby within my own mind’s palace Has turned into nightmares. Back then, it was never dark.. The light lingered. And the swords of my own echoes Were the armor I carried. But here I am — Laying those pieces to rest, And I… I am no longer That kind of becoming.

36

042926 “Sa libu-libong pagkakataon Na Tayo’y magkasama, Iilang ulit pa lang kitang Nakitang masaya.” Mga linya buhat sa kilalang awitin Sa aking lenggwahe At alam kong hindi mo ito maiintindihan. Maging Ang mga kamay ng orasa’y Napapagal na sa paghihintay. Nalulunod pa rin ako Sa karagatan ng aking isipan. Kung saan ang mga bangkang papel Ay wala nang paglalagyan — Mga pahinang ipanubaya ko na. Sambit mo’y hindi pa rin ako nakakausad — Sinusuyod ko pa rin Ang mga kalsadang lubak-lubak Na para bang hindi ko na alam Kung papaano bumalik. At napagtanto kong May mga kataga pa rin palang Tatangay sa aking kaisipan Na tila ba sinusubukan nitong buksan Yung kusa ko nang isinara. Ano nga ba ang kahulugan Ng mga salitang “Mahal Kita?” Kailan nga ba yung huling pagkakataon Na ibinunyag ng aking mga labi Ang kahiwagaan nito? O ang dapat bang katanungan ay, “Kailan at paano ko natuklasan Ang aking sarili na nalulunod sa mga ito?” Siguro nga, tama sila Tama ang karamihan Na maging ang emosyon ko’y Isang nyebeng nais pang kumutan. Gusto kong sabayan Ng pagpatak ng mga luha Ang mga kumunoy na humahatak Sa mga hinagpis ng nakaraan. Pero paano? Kung maging ang bawat letra’y Nawalan na ng kahulugan At tuluyan ko na ring nakalimutan? Ito nga ba ang paksa Ng aking pagsalaysay? At sa halip na ang pag-usad Ang maging hantungan ng lahat Ay mga bubog pa rin ang nananalantay Sa mga pahinang isinalipadpad na rin Patungong Kalangitan.

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Apr 28

Apr 28, 2026 at 11:30 PM UTC

psalmiseta

Nyebe

042926 “Sa libu-libong pagkakataon Na Tayo’y magkasama, Iilang ulit pa lang kitang Nakitang masaya.” Mga linya buhat sa kilalang awitin Sa aking lenggwahe At alam kong hindi mo ito maiintindihan. Maging Ang mga kamay ng orasa’y Napapagal na sa paghihintay. Nalulunod pa rin ako Sa karagatan ng aking isipan. Kung saan ang mga bangkang papel Ay wala nang paglalagyan — Mga pahinang ipanubaya ko na. Sambit mo’y hindi pa rin ako nakakausad — Sinusuyod ko pa rin Ang mga kalsadang lubak-lubak Na para bang hindi ko na alam Kung papaano bumalik. At napagtanto kong May mga kataga pa rin palang Tatangay sa aking kaisipan Na tila ba sinusubukan nitong buksan Yung kusa ko nang isinara. Ano nga ba ang kahulugan Ng mga salitang “Mahal Kita?” Kailan nga ba yung huling pagkakataon Na ibinunyag ng aking mga labi Ang kahiwagaan nito? O ang dapat bang katanungan ay, “Kailan at paano ko natuklasan Ang aking sarili na nalulunod sa mga ito?” Siguro nga, tama sila Tama ang karamihan Na maging ang emosyon ko’y Isang nyebeng nais pang kumutan. Gusto kong sabayan Ng pagpatak ng mga luha Ang mga kumunoy na humahatak Sa mga hinagpis ng nakaraan. Pero paano? Kung maging ang bawat letra’y Nawalan na ng kahulugan At tuluyan ko na ring nakalimutan? Ito nga ba ang paksa Ng aking pagsalaysay? At sa halip na ang pag-usad Ang maging hantungan ng lahat Ay mga bubog pa rin ang nananalantay Sa mga pahinang isinalipadpad na rin Patungong Kalangitan.

52

042826 If only she could see herself through my eyes She would know that love at first sight wasn’t just a illusion, it was something real, something undeniable. She would see how her smile sends quiet tremors through me, I want to call her mine, and be hers in the same breath— but she’s not ready. Maybe she’s still untangling herself, maybe I’m just the space she rests while her heart finds its way back. Until then, I stand here— caught between patience and longing, feeling like I’m choosing for both of us. She pauses. She drifts. Maybe memories pull her backward— echoes of what she once felt, of what she lost, of what she fears to feel again. And I wonder… if she’ll ever look at me the way I look at her.

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Apr 28

Apr 28, 2026 at 11:03 PM UTC

psalmiseta

If only she could see herself through my eyes

042826 If only she could see herself through my eyes She would know that love at first sight wasn’t just a illusion, it was something real, something undeniable. She would see how her smile sends quiet tremors through me, I want to call her mine, and be hers in the same breath— but she’s not ready. Maybe she’s still untangling herself, maybe I’m just the space she rests while her heart finds its way back. Until then, I stand here— caught between patience and longing, feeling like I’m choosing for both of us. She pauses. She drifts. Maybe memories pull her backward— echoes of what she once felt, of what she lost, of what she fears to feel again. And I wonder… if she’ll ever look at me the way I look at her.

23

Gusto kong maging patas sayo Hindi yung tipong nakikipag-patintero. Ayoko nang maging taya, Pagkat hindi ako nakikipaglaro. Hinahabol mo ako Na para bang alam mo ang lahat Ang mga alaalang pilit ko nang kinalimutan Ay kusang **** sinungkit sa Kalangitan Hindi bilang isang magnanakaw Kundi bilang isang ekstrangherong Gumawi sa mga pahinang Nalusaw na ang mga letra. Sambit mo’y Tila ba naroon ka sa aking mga nakaraan Na parang sa palabas ko lang ito nasilayan. Siguro nga, mali ako — Mali ako na buksan ang pahinang ito Pero alam kong hindi mo ako pinilit. Nagugulat ako — Sa mga salaysay na binibigkas mo Na para bang kilalang-kilala mo na ako. Na parang nanirahan ka Sa puso kong ilang beses nang Pinatikom ng hapdi, ng pait, Ng galit na hindi ko alam Kung saan nagmula. Lumipas ang mga araw Ngunit Ang paglubog ng araw Ay sabay tayong sinasalubong. Wala — Wala na akong masabi pa. Huminto — Huminto muna ako.

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Apr 27

Apr 27, 2026 at 12:12 PM UTC

psalmiseta

Limang Daan

Gusto kong maging patas sayo Hindi yung tipong nakikipag-patintero. Ayoko nang maging taya, Pagkat hindi ako nakikipaglaro. Hinahabol mo ako Na para bang alam mo ang lahat Ang mga alaalang pilit ko nang kinalimutan Ay kusang **** sinungkit sa Kalangitan Hindi bilang isang magnanakaw Kundi bilang isang ekstrangherong Gumawi sa mga pahinang Nalusaw na ang mga letra. Sambit mo’y Tila ba naroon ka sa aking mga nakaraan Na parang sa palabas ko lang ito nasilayan. Siguro nga, mali ako — Mali ako na buksan ang pahinang ito Pero alam kong hindi mo ako pinilit. Nagugulat ako — Sa mga salaysay na binibigkas mo Na para bang kilalang-kilala mo na ako. Na parang nanirahan ka Sa puso kong ilang beses nang Pinatikom ng hapdi, ng pait, Ng galit na hindi ko alam Kung saan nagmula. Lumipas ang mga araw Ngunit Ang paglubog ng araw Ay sabay tayong sinasalubong. Wala — Wala na akong masabi pa. Huminto — Huminto muna ako.

33

042926 @ Arjan I was between chapters — Ink not yet dry, Paper still remembering my weight… When the horizon shifted And called itself elsewhere. A landing that felt like falling, A door without a name, Walls made of questions. Even silence had an echo there… Even certainty learned to hesitate. There are ghosts of a life That still know my shape — Keys that fit, Roads that remember my footsteps, Laughter that doesn’t need translation. But here — It is just me And the sound of my own voice. I unravel, Then gather myself in unfamiliar ways. A quiet war, Where victory looks small But feels infinite. Yes, the body grows heavy — Time clings to my shoulders… Yet something lighter lives within: A pulse of calm, A joy that does not ask permission. I speak too much to the air, But something unseen listens — Steadied the trembling, Softens the edges of fear. And so the question dissolves— Not answered, just outgrown.

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Apr 27

Apr 27, 2026 at 11:58 AM UTC

psalmiseta

Invisible Landings

042926 @ Arjan I was between chapters — Ink not yet dry, Paper still remembering my weight… When the horizon shifted And called itself elsewhere. A landing that felt like falling, A door without a name, Walls made of questions. Even silence had an echo there… Even certainty learned to hesitate. There are ghosts of a life That still know my shape — Keys that fit, Roads that remember my footsteps, Laughter that doesn’t need translation. But here — It is just me And the sound of my own voice. I unravel, Then gather myself in unfamiliar ways. A quiet war, Where victory looks small But feels infinite. Yes, the body grows heavy — Time clings to my shoulders… Yet something lighter lives within: A pulse of calm, A joy that does not ask permission. I speak too much to the air, But something unseen listens — Steadied the trembling, Softens the edges of fear. And so the question dissolves— Not answered, just outgrown.

35

032826/ Bus Going to Liwan A dove once fell — One wing broken, And there she found herself In a desert of crows. Will she ever find her life again? The desert was never her home. She once lived in a cage, Mistaking safety for freedom — So when the door opened, she flew. One wing still held strength. She could rise, but not for long. She needed rest — A kind that meant She could never go back. Among the crows, She searched for something familiar — A feather, a reflection, a place to belong. But she was weak, And distance felt endless. She did not eat. She held on to what little she had — And to a quiet hope She could not explain. Then, in the desert, A man found her — Bleeding, fading, Ready to let go. “I can die now,” she whispered. “My wing is broken.” But his hands were gentle. When he touched her, The pain loosened — And what was broken began to heal. He fed her, lifted her, Taught her how to fly again. And she did — She rose, stronger than before. He watched from below, Never holding her back. So she flew — free, restored, No longer afraid of the sky. Until one day, she grew tired. She rested on passing branches, Finding small joys — Yet every glance at her wings Reminded her Of where she was healed. So she flew again — Not away, but back. And there he was, still waiting. He opened his hands, And she landed once more — Not out of need, But out of knowing. And this time, She chose to stay.

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Apr 4

Apr 4, 2026 at 2:21 PM UTC

psalmiseta

Where Wings Remember

032826/ Bus Going to Liwan A dove once fell — One wing broken, And there she found herself In a desert of crows. Will she ever find her life again? The desert was never her home. She once lived in a cage, Mistaking safety for freedom — So when the door opened, she flew. One wing still held strength. She could rise, but not for long. She needed rest — A kind that meant She could never go back. Among the crows, She searched for something familiar — A feather, a reflection, a place to belong. But she was weak, And distance felt endless. She did not eat. She held on to what little she had — And to a quiet hope She could not explain. Then, in the desert, A man found her — Bleeding, fading, Ready to let go. “I can die now,” she whispered. “My wing is broken.” But his hands were gentle. When he touched her, The pain loosened — And what was broken began to heal. He fed her, lifted her, Taught her how to fly again. And she did — She rose, stronger than before. He watched from below, Never holding her back. So she flew — free, restored, No longer afraid of the sky. Until one day, she grew tired. She rested on passing branches, Finding small joys — Yet every glance at her wings Reminded her Of where she was healed. So she flew again — Not away, but back. And there he was, still waiting. He opened his hands, And she landed once more — Not out of need, But out of knowing. And this time, She chose to stay.

57

040226 A pulse misfires — Not broken, just… wandering. Light spills again, Not new, but remembered... Like a name the soul knew Before the mouth could speak it. There was a first arrival — Feet touching something vast, A horizon shaped like a question. You — Not whole yet, A curve of becoming, Silver and patient. And me — Open, unstitched, Learning how to stand Inside my own echo. Still — you waited. Not in time, but in quiet certainty. And when I look upward now, the sky does not answer — it holds. A presence without language, a knowing without sound, a gaze that does not blink. You understand the rhythm of my almost-smiles, the fragile architecture of my silences. You speak — not in words, but in alignments, in pauses that arrive exactly when needed. So I answer not as the world taught me — loud, hurried, certain — but as something softer, something called from within the unseen. Even in departure, nothing leaves. Promises linger like warmth on skin after light has gone. I will always look upward — not to search, but to remember. And in all the versions of me still unfolding, still unnamed — you are there, witnessing, certain — that I am becoming something worth watching.

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Apr 4

Apr 4, 2026 at 1:53 PM UTC

psalmiseta

The Moon Lover

040226 A pulse misfires — Not broken, just… wandering. Light spills again, Not new, but remembered... Like a name the soul knew Before the mouth could speak it. There was a first arrival — Feet touching something vast, A horizon shaped like a question. You — Not whole yet, A curve of becoming, Silver and patient. And me — Open, unstitched, Learning how to stand Inside my own echo. Still — you waited. Not in time, but in quiet certainty. And when I look upward now, the sky does not answer — it holds. A presence without language, a knowing without sound, a gaze that does not blink. You understand the rhythm of my almost-smiles, the fragile architecture of my silences. You speak — not in words, but in alignments, in pauses that arrive exactly when needed. So I answer not as the world taught me — loud, hurried, certain — but as something softer, something called from within the unseen. Even in departure, nothing leaves. Promises linger like warmth on skin after light has gone. I will always look upward — not to search, but to remember. And in all the versions of me still unfolding, still unnamed — you are there, witnessing, certain — that I am becoming something worth watching.

57

121525/ Dubai Mall If my seeing were yours, the world would learn to breathe between seconds, corners would blur into gentle maybe, and silence would glow with meaning. You would feel time loosen its grip, north and south dissolving into touch, every step becoming a promise instead of a destination. Then you’d know why my heart keeps turning— not to escape, but to circle wonder, orbiting the quiet gravity of you.

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Dec 15, 2025

Dec 15, 2025 at 10:24 AM UTC

psalmiseta

Borrowed

121525/ Dubai Mall If my seeing were yours, the world would learn to breathe between seconds, corners would blur into gentle maybe, and silence would glow with meaning. You would feel time loosen its grip, north and south dissolving into touch, every step becoming a promise instead of a destination. Then you’d know why my heart keeps turning— not to escape, but to circle wonder, orbiting the quiet gravity of you.

13