Her life is a melody,
an etude of melancholy
Her wrist is a violin,
where marks of practice make its toll
Her bow is a blade
sliding it deep and hard
until the notes,
colored with crimson red
oozes out

Tonight, she made up her mind
She will end the etude
that she composed all her life

The restroom is her stage,
her shadow is her audience
She will play her violin
until the last note drops

Her poetry is a wrist continuously weeping
Emending fallacy of her bare actual being
Liturgy of her demurring heart screams
Perhaps a pellucid précis of sodality's grim

Moreover, never did the words pierced thee
Ephipany to her cloaked cry, 'tis ought to be

Let me start by saying goodbye.

As to every moment you draw
near me, a sporadic mystical
event, left me in overawe of
you and your conflagrant hue
as you trail across me, I see
how glorious you ought to be;
how a great voyage you are on
and how I am of other kind, not
of your own; how we were never
to collide, nor a glimpse of me
in your memory 'twas never to
provide a hunch of who I am
Perhaps, this is how it should be
For a moon has her sun
and a comet has his journey
And the moon is to eclipse with her sun
and the comet has to go with his journey
Thus, I shall cut this heartstring,
and swim out of this drowning
sea of dreams and delusions
and breath the reality back in
Yet I will forever and always be,
an admirer of your beauty; and
maybe, in another time, you
might catch a glimpse of me
covered in blanket of darkness,
accompanied by myriad stars,
You will see me, I know you will
But you will never recognize me
for and with my eternal mediocrity

And I will end by saying hello.

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

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.

Devoured by the warm, doted kiss
of the lucent moon, offering bliss
I embraced her glow, sensing peace
as the night breeze howls, hauling mist

We shared the night together, side by side
the moon and I forever, with her I may reside
amidst the multitude of stars to guide
She shine brightly, begetting ocean tide

Yet every beauteaous thing has an ending
I thought, as we wait the sun to start beaming
The sunrise peek on the horizon, gleaming
and I part with serene, mutedly mourning

Every storm has an eye
But this certain storm
is in her eyes
Dark clouds fogged up her vision
a rain of tears flooded the lid
a sudden streak of light—
the lightning, perhaps,
flaunted; illuminating the abyss within
and there emerged her piercing scream
weaving through the gorging dusk—
which is a thunder of her own

And she spread her arms
as the night breeze kissed her face
she jumped; she fly
only to realize that
she's not an angel
nor a bird
nor a butterfly
and so she fell
yet amidst the free fall,
she unraveled her tangled knots
from there, she lost her pain
but she fell on the ground
like a fine drop of rain.

And the storm has ended.

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.

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.