I once had this peculiar dream
where the purest thing left within me
was vanishing away softly
and I couldn’t get it back unless it was on a price tag
and during that blissful dream
I paid $50 to a fortune teller
even though the words of a scam was written on her face with permanent ink
with a dim light above our heads
she pulls out a crystal ball with scratches and small little cracks on it
as if it has been used as a toy way before
I take my palms out and interlock with her fingertips
she began to send tiny shock waves that tingled down my spine
during the process the crystal ball started to break more and more
until she lets go of me with a gasp expression
I asked what was wrong but she didn’t respond
her face turned pale like snow and after she calmed herself down she rose me to my feet
“I saw a glimpse of you..from the past, present, and future and yet your soul was still at ease with numbness” she said
I was confused at first until I saw my reflection on the cracked crystal ball
“Your soul is tired and it begs to be heard” she said with a sad expression
at first I paid her to read my fortune
but now she tries to be a psychic (a horrible one at most) upon my behalf
after the secession was over I wanted to give het a tip but she refused
saying I should pay back when I become pure

but how can ones’ soul become pure again,
when it only found comfort in sorrow?

it was a hot summer day
where the crickets hummed in tune
while the raging sun leaves remnants of sweat pouring down my forehead
the sidewalk was burning up every millisecond
to the point were you’re able to fry bacon on the concrete instead of using a grill
during that time period
I was learning how to ride a bike without training wheels
but unfortunately no one was around to keep me up float
so there I was in the middle of the sidewalk
with my pink sparkly bicycle and my small helmet attached to my head
one foot was on the ground while the other was touching the boiling concrete surface
with one big push
I began to move forward but in wobbly directions
trying to keep myself steady on the pedals
until a moment later a crack on the sidewalk hit the front wheel
and soon my body collapsed onto the ground
with my knees first and then my entire torso
I weeped with pain but the burning sun
was the only one who heard me
I yelled for my parents but only silence responded to me
my knees were scraped and had small cuts with blood oozed all the way down till it touched my shoelaces
those few minutes felt like hours
and until the sun faded away slowly
I began to recover from my tears
I tried to stand but gravity pushed me down
with little strength in me I used my bicycle as a tool to push me up until I was able to stand with a limping manner
I was not the same person no more
and so as I walked home
my parents finally came to me asking questions of what happened to my knees
but I kept my voice low
for it was only the raging sun that heard my mourning hours
and that was enough for me

Remember those pleasant times
when back then we used to believe the moon was following us
aside from all the other cars in the road
maybe the moon wanted to make sure we get home safely?
or maybe it wanted to tell us a secret up close
since the sun cannot keep a secret at all?
as we gazed upon its shining glory through the car window
questions of "why?" started to appear in my head
but it is when we only got home
my questions began to fade away like star dust
but now that is in the past when we were both young and naive
now I continue to gaze upon the moon
even though I had already been told by society that the moon isn't a chaser of sorts
bust just stays in one place before the sun comes in to take their shift
but can't a girl not wonder?
if perhaps the moon still watches with care,
tracing paths we no longer dare?
Though logic tells me it stands still,
my heart whispers it follows still
a guardian in silver hue,
casting dreams both old and new.
The world demands we shed such whims,
trade stardust thoughts for grounded hymns,
but I, defiant, hold them tight
these fragments of childhood light.
For in the quiet of the night,
when reason bows to softer skies,
I see the moon through younger eyes
and wonder, endlessly,
“why not?"

Their is a fig tree that is pierced within me
a seed that lays still in my throat
and with every waking hour it grows
creating bittersweet leaves that leave my heart sore
and vines that wrap around my lungs,
suffocating me whenever I ponder.
And yet I am still breathing,
but it still hurts in the process.
I try to call a doctor to my aid,
but they have no antidote for me aside from prayers.
I even went to a botanist for answers,
but they just shake their heads with a sorry look in their eyes.
So I tend to the tree myself,
learning to prune its anguish and nurture its growth.
I whisper to the roots lodged in my chest,
pleading for peace instead of pain.
And slowly, as seasons shift,
the leaves soften, their bitterness fading,
the vines loosen their merciless grip.
What once strangled becomes a sanctuary
a quiet grove within my being.
The fig tree no longer harms me;
it blooms.
Its fruit tastes of resilience,
sweetness born from struggle,
and I learn to savor what I once feared

Born beneath the fleeting sun
our feet capture the grasp of shadows
with only the little humanity we have left
we try to find hope
but we can’t even acquire a fragile hope at best
so for now we can only do a quiet prayer
for a sign of gratitude to ease our minds
the wind doesn’t whisper to our backs with gentle breaths
the stars won’t shine our direction to keep us at the right track
the earth’s soil is cold with rough edges underneath
and we only have tough road that we can climb
but it will try to weigh us down
no easy lines for us to go but rather trails filled with spirals
that lead to nowhere
the night does not grant us rain
but rather long nights to only see nothing in the sky
yet we are determined to stand
hoping to win the righteousness in a time of need
within the darkness a great inferno rises
a beautiful spark that burns when approached
we huddle around and chant songs of liberty
defying the constellations that look down with pity
our scars form maps with no traces of the truth
our hearts beat in the rhythm of drums
so loud that it makes our ears ring
the luck we have is not ours to hold in our palms
it is through the pain we learn to heal
with every step, we fight with our anguish, then strive with guilt
we look upon the people who have mercy on their side
their glided lives with easy tracks
the mixture of envy and jealousy fuels our beating hearts
for we are not the lucky ones
with only our little strength to pull us through
and even though we are not shown with the hands of peace
we build a desire of strength for our own