“Don’t lose yourself” ,
they said
but what exactly
do you lose?
Nothing.
You simply go through and learn
from an experience
and change.
It may be a heartbreak
that taught you not to trust,
or to seal your world away
to escape pain.
Let me tell you this;
You are not a finite thing.
You have the capacity
to do an infinity of great things
to impart what you have
your gifts and talents
and even pieces of you
to those who need it the most
be it the young artist by the park
or the old musician in the sidewalk
or the devil himself.
It’s no longer about the odds
that something will go wrong,
It’s about how much you’ll learn
from something that does

It is odd for a soul like mine
to exist in such an era as the present.
A soul who dwells in both past and future,
and seeks for a time that does not exist.

Master of roulettes,
card counting
and every other game.
Winning bets
And risking odds.
Somewhere along the road
You realise that there are no odds at all
it might be how dealers shuffle the cards
or when they drop the ball.
It is simply the chaotic order of life.
Empirical knowledge,
refined by gamblers
over the years
keeping it secret
and here I am exposing them.
To win black jack or poker,
you must pay heed of the number of cards,
To win the roulette,
you must understand its physics.
In the end,
you simply must work for your rewards
the more it screws up,
the harder it is,
The greater your rewards will be
for you have earned what you want
and learned and grew through your hard work.

I called a philosopher,
former teacher of mine
for and advice and asked;
“Good evening sir,
I have been left alone again
Could you spare some advice
For a boy who wishes to be better
In his beloved’s absence?”
He told me the secret
and key to growth,
“Gaius” he called me
“I’m proud that you’ve grown
and became a man.”
He talked to me like an equal,
sharing his knowledge about growth
he told me that
I have come a long way
that I learned to compromise
and have sacrifice
I replied with a question asking
“What must I do to grow and be better?”
and his answer shocked me.
He first told me that
He was proud of the progress I had
For the man I had grown to become
He acknowledged my pain and grievance
and reassured me.
And then told me that in order to grow
I must be patient with myself
as have I been with the woman I love
I must acknowledge
the longuers in life and everything else
that happens regardless of bias and pain
as if it were my greatest achievements
And that I must be grateful for everything
and learn from past events as if they were
the greatest gifts that I had received.
Everything else is simply there to be one
of the experiences that
I must learn from, acknowledge and be grateful for
And soon I’ll see myself blooming
for I’m a plant who started growing leaves.

We have our solo acts
the chaos of our own,
but in our song
I accompany you with
a chaos of my own.
Perfectly intertwined,
playing each note carefully.
Conjuring music and magic
conveying the tragedy of living.

Once again it’s just me and my demons
Wandering the universe in an unending venture.
A few steps in the cosmos,
a few leaps between planets
I came to realise
that you were my compass.
You lead me to places
that made me better,
shown me the way
to be the best I can be.
And for that my dear,
I am eternally grateful.

This is hard for me
I mean writing all these
All these things I’m too afraid to say
All these emotions you out to play

Happiness and sorrow
Hope and despair
And all the little things

But the point of all this is
I don’t care how hard things can be
as long as I can show you how much you mean to me
And that I love you

The devil on main street
had his flower-shop in the corner.
He sold roses,
red ones,
white ones,
and even black ones.
He soon fell in love
with one of his buyers,
a lovely brunette
with stardust eyes.
In one point of time
She fell in love too.
They acted like couples
and did well with the shop.
Months goes by
she fell out of love,
the florist feels despair
the roses wilted soon after.
The white roses became red
with the devils blood,
The red ones became black
with his soul.
He left for hell,
xeriscaping gardens
for the young girl’s view.
a garden of everlasting roses
a garden of dreams
a garden of love
emerged from the darkest corners of hell
for the young girl
taught the devil love.

on this small speck of dust
suspended in the gravity of celestial bodies
our beliefs,
our imagined self-importance,
our delusion that that we have a privileged position in the universe,
are questioned
by ourselves
in search
of absolute truth

Sometimes it takes me ages and solitude,
sometimes it takes reason and logic
for me to heal my unseen wounds.

Wounds that brings pain and confusion,
irrationality and ignorance
Wounds that raise red flags and emphasise flaws
are the wounds needed for growth.

The loss of loved ones,
always inflict me of such wounds.
Their absence wasn’t the source of my healing, they simply forced me to go through it so I could grow.
But that doesn’t mean that they’re presence stunted my growth,
They were there when I needed them most,
they loved me when I was healing from my other wounds.
Now the memory of their love is enough to heal myself of the wound of their absence.
They may be gone, but
I’ll still make them proud,
I’ll still love them
And maybe in time, I’ll see them again

The nightingale’s song,
is a melody of love and longing,
however the notes plead a sign or warning.

The loving nightingale sings before mating,
and just the same when a storm is coming.

After the violent and raging storm,
the sun shines ever so warm.

The gentle bird then preens his small wings
searching for his lost lover, hoping she’ll hear him sing.

I got addicted to the sound of your voice,
little did I know that I’ve be subconsciously recording our little talks.
Little talks that I listen to late at night,
it lulls me to sleep
and comforts me in my darkest hours.
As I play the records like vinyl,
I am able to sleep peacefully
as though you’re still with me.
For your voice is too soft and calming,
it brings me peace amidst the chaos that swallows me whole.

I wish to hear you sing again

I wish there was a rhythm
to describe the way you shine
in the midst of the engulfing darkness

I wish to hear the sound of your presence
a talented melody,
with a hidden harmony of fear.

I wish I had the comforting musicality of your voice
so that I could convey the arpeggio
that I hear in every breath you take
a shaky reminder that you’re with me

I wish that I could play the piano
in the same way you coloured my world so beautifully-
melancholy and repetition
In every stroke and every measure,
In a language that you introduced me to,
In sad smiles and tired hands.

i still fly
with tired wings

Poems and photographs are so much alike.
When I realised that a poem was
a mere record of what I felt,
an emotion captured so well,
much like how a photograph captured the moment.

It’s one of those nights
where light fades
and life gets tiring.
Lonely enough
my demons
does not even tap my shoulders,
they don’t even critique my choices
they sit there silent with a placard saying;
“You love her. We love her. Don’t let this **** bring you down.”

I failed to understand
why saints —and lovers
behave as they do,
so rash and illogical,
maybe until the point that
it’s no longer rational.
Until someone
made my heart
come alive.

I want to lay my head on your lap
having you pet me and play with my hair

Sing for you an old song,
that reminds me of you

And then talk to you about the random-est of things
seeing you smile and laugh over my silly thoughts

I hope to see you happy then,
as my consciousness slip away and drifting to sleep

Sometimes,
it’s the little things
that counts as a
highlight.

She kissed me.
She kissed the devil.
Only a beautiful soul like hers’ would kiss the ******.
And as I press my lips
hard against hers,
tasting her desire,
her pain,
her love,
her confusion.
At once
I’m in two places,
two worlds,
two lives

But what happens then if a poet broke?
Words lose meaning,
Pages end up burning,
Once so beautiful rhythms are now deafening.

I gave up.
I gave up on my dreams.
I gave up every ounce of hope.
I gave up on who I was.

I gave up on everything almost everyone held dear,
On what they only dreamt of having,
The power, the fame, the money, the pleasure.
I gave up on the very thing I lived for.

All for a shot of redemption.

I find subtle irony in it.
And now here I am...