the art of making coffee
doesn’t start with what it is thought to be.
no, it’s not a mixture of beans and water
or, warm milk and sugar together—
the art of making coffee
starts with you and me.

it starts with the truth from reality
mixed with the scar of pity,
when the night creeps in,
stars from above seeps in
and all at once, everything feared disappeared,
overcome by sweet riddles of you
that appeared.

so,  from you to me
amidst this ironic actuality—
thats how you make the perfect coffee.


— you’re the (sugar) sweetness in this reality (coffee)

The paper that you hold-
In which not only the letters are bold.
Keeps the darkest and brightest secrets-
Even if you tore it to pieces, words were still written without any regrets.

Through the notes you pass in class-
The pieces you put inside a jar of glass.
Every word was cherished-
Every memory flourished.

Holding the things we want to see and hear.
Also bearing our deepest darkest fear.
Lifeless as it seems, but feelings were written with overflowing meaning.
Expression were seen with words that are believing.

Time flies, these words are soon forgotten-
Along with the emotion and expression you have once gotten.
Hidden inside a box, a paper that's hardly beaten-
That paper that will forever treasure the feelings you have written.

never was i a coffee drinker
but in this ever-changing summer
i suddenly crave in the night of an odd number,
interrupting my slumber to an all nighter.

the city stays asleep
and the night seems to run deep
away from the echoes of reality,
i lay awake, holding a cup of coffee.

ceramic touches my lips,
slowly burning a bit of its tips.
the warmth overpowers reality’s role
as a feeling of comfort arises from my soul.
the bittersweet taste touches my heart
and beauty arises from the world’s
forgotten art.

my eyes that lived in actuality
i finally woke up to see true beauty
and it all started with a sip from a
cup of coffee.

red.


i could acknowledge all colors except for one
can only point out two hues when finding the sun.
wouldn’t really bother if such shade was gone—
until i saw you under the perfect light, wearing one.

all pigments of purple dripped down to blue
exposing the shade i never thought i’ll have something to do.
it was never suppose to be pretty, to say the least.
but like a rose blooming on twilight—
it brought me ease.

in such color, you walked around like world was canvas.
bringing back what was lost in this devoid of mass,
from being subdue in grey & green, warmth was shed—
and it all started with just you wearing red.


— you make this world a beautiful place without even trying.

the boy in mount kilimanjaro,
i was told.
how he sits on blissful soil
with head up in clouds 
looking at mixtures of azul.
under ravishing lights. 

the boy in mount kilimanjaro
his eyes i was also told . 
how the sun would turn away
or how the comets whisper
in shame-
luminous perhaps?
that's the boy in mount kilimanjaro

tonight , under no starry skies 
i met the boy in mount kilimanjaro .
eyes closed , he was looking up 
but in one breathe i made-
he opened them .
rays of galaxies shone
making pathway for the stars
from his eyes.
above us , the skies reflected his eyes-
stars appearing & dancing like fire,
flickering & twinkling in the skies
of sapphire . 

in a wind's gush
the boy turned to me,
his eyes still glistening
from the stars that left his eyes 
and onto the never ending night .
therefore , as the story goes & told 
secrets of the night unfold . 
in the eyes of the boy from mount kilimanjaro
lies the wishes of what the night skies
borrow-
the kilimanjaro stars .