One lone wanderer
Meets the soul of another.
Even across the...
Night streets or ancient rivers,
Great journeys start with strangers.

We are each other’s favorite
Until the universe decides for it.
Vagabonds we would always seem—
Under the influence of a daydream.

However the world would spin—
Even when the storm is from within—
‘Neath the moon’s nightly wandering,
Ever may you remember,
Rest is what you bring.

Journeys with you have been evergreen.
One in a million, you are a rare find.
May we keep our bond and everything within
Even when our stars would get misaligned.
Remember that you will always have me.

Like no other, you’re a miracle.

Be it at rock bottom or at a dead end,
All along you have been my best friend.
Let’s honor the friendship we have declared
Together with the memories we’ve shared.
And whatever path we choose to roam,
Remember that with you, I'm home.

My anxiety told me that you hated me.
It told me that I was only a burden to you
And I was only a waste of your time.
Although I hoped that it’s not true
And that my mind was just playing tricks on me,
I was convinced.

That's why no matter how much
I wanted to talk things out,
And tell you how stormy my mind was,
I decided to just remain silent—
Even though all I wanted was to scream.

I want to say "I'm sad"
In thirty-three different languages—
Whichever you prefer,
So long as you'd get what my message is.

They asked me to chase the "light" once again,
And I hope they meant "lightnings"
Because I've been wandering around outside
In hopes of getting struck by one.

In between my internal monologues
Are bottomless pits awaiting my next mistake.
And behind my play-pretends
Are quicksands awaiting my heart to ache.

I have been blaming my own reflection.

I guess you can't wish for “a happily ever after"
When you were born to be a monster.
And I guess you need not to be kind
When you are meant to be out of your mind.

Even so, send in the clowns.

Gentle rays of sunlight
Trying to pierce through the clouds,
The morning palette
Has never been this cold.

With the wind's whispers even colder
And the rain playing Russian roulette,
The city started to wonder,
"How perfect could this day ever get?"

And as a child would sing
For the rain to go away,
The storm would answer back,
"Not today."

I noticed that I only write poems
Whenever I get to lose my courage to vent,
Fail to escape from the clutch of rock bottom,
And have no one else to comfortably talk to.

And with the quicksands of changes
That I have never opted to be stuck in,
I guess I am bound to exhaust my hand
Writing poems till the end of my days.