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Rogue Aug 2018
I have immured my heart in a bottle and entrust its fate on to the uncharted oceans, in hopes of finding its way unto you.

In a world that I could never fathom, an outburst of wind of fate seemingly uttered with beguiling promise of love blows at the very moment we least expect. Oftentimes, it is marked by a vehement gush with the force of a cyclone. Sometimes, they could caress one's bare face in tranquility, less likely to be heeded upon.

But the winds cannot be withheld. And those winds steered my bottled heart safely passed through the formidable hurricane, atop the perilous riptides, as it takes an unpredictable yet regulated route—the most delicate course on its extensive adventure—the course towards you. Disregarding your walls, they come barging in your chambers. Beggeting forth, as they often do, an intoxicating idea of the future accompanied by the promise of ardor. And the winds hushed upon reaching you as it sings the song proclaiming glory of a fulfilled quest.

As your face gets cascaded by the reds and oranges of the fading sun, you picked up the bottle, twisted its cork, and allowed my heart to taste the bliss of freedom after being kept out of touch, unable to bathe in the relish for a long time.

You admired its beauty as it is situated on the palm of your hands, as if entrusting the kismet on your ruling.

But you decided it was too precious for you; too fragile to hold on to. It doesn't worth the risk.

Thereupon, you dispose it back into the bottle, whispering mindless vindication and apologies in hopes of obliterating the guilt, as you threw it as far away from you as you could; back into the great unknown.

It was then that the strong winds of fate never presented itself, as if abandoning my bottled heart. It was left floating in the ocean back and forth without reaching a definite destination.

Forsaken. Misguided. Lost.

Never bound to reach the arms it belongs to.
Rogue Mar 2018
If my heart is bound to swerve one day;
thou shall never let go of my hand;
nor mourn in the shade of the cypress tree,
for I need thine soul to understand.
Thou shall not seek another,
only hearth shall warm you in rain
Thou shall not hear a nightingale,
lest its song might put you in pain.

Thou shall be the bamboo that bend,
or a field of golden wheat that sway;
haply forthwith the fate shall lend
back to thy arms, I come next day.
Hold my hand and take me home.
Rogue Jan 2018
When did a smile become a challenge?
A widespread facade?
A sign of danger?
A mask?
We're all so fake happy.
Rogue Jan 2018
I have built a body out of words
like how a melody needs a body to resound
from the ends of your hair
to the tips of your toes as you spin around
like a ballerina trapped in an old music box
swriling in a harmony of its existence,
engulfed into notes as if breath of life,
that made her alive
and live

I have made life out of poetry
for there are so much words to lay into stacks of paper
for there are so much rhymes to fit into one's ears
for there are so much things that I wanna hear
for myself
to fill me

Until I realized words are also used on things other than filling emptiness.
If not for the words, I bet every writer is empty. :)
Rogue Nov 2017
The blanket of stars draped over the sky
lighting up your path towards another book
Dip your feet into your overflowing ink of acquired wisdom,
Step on the blank first page of your own tome,
and dance your way across the page
Fill every inch
Write every name
Paint every memory
For a moment is all we are
And this moment is yours
the season, in which the bud will finally bloom
A girl you once were,
but now shall be regarded as a blossomed lady

And I will always be by your side
whenever you get tired
of dancing
of writing
of filling the blank paper
whenever your feet swell
whenever you run out of ink
whenever it gets hard to turn the pages,
I will be by your side

Let us turn every page of today into yesterday
For my bestfriend, Jen. Happy 18th birthday! I love you girl.
Rogue Oct 2017
The sun is long gone, leaving tracks of hazy promise of return
Perhaps a jettison, I am, that of which I am to spurn
With sprinkles of stardust and dimming moonbeam, I yearned
nothing but a light to hold on to, even the palest will do

Yet the ever so generous God gave me not the palest
For a beacon of wonder I can hardly believe exists
did come over my orbit, a sojourn I expect the least
And a bond is made between the two

The light that overwhelms me and the stars that surround
forever I am caught up glimmering in astound,
making me want to find more than what I found--
those little pieces that makes you, you
The moon is in love with the comet, not with her sun.
Rogue Sep 2017
Amidst the restless nights I walk alone
weaving past the streets of cobblestone

Toting on my mind is a notion overlooked,
I'm a connoisseur of allegory and oftentimes rebuke

"You ignorants! You do not know,
Like an ailment, silence grows

and without haste, it will devour you,
'til the words once chromatic lose its hue"

Yet my forewarning like fine raindrops fell
Resonated not, never even a moment to dwell

as to that exploit perforated an ephipany:
My voice will never be heard, that is ought to be;

and my words will nevermore transpierce thee,
For I am silence and silence is me.
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