we are the dunes formed
by prevailing desert winds
of people and time

bleed red and freak out
on fire then burn out

to the sun, run
forget tastes of tongue
count the smallest leaves
of trees on walls bound to grow

sea waves on bottles
cast woven patterns
delayed by meaningless curing

to the moon, fly
leave the webs they spun
liberate a conscious gale
a rift in the clouds
coupled with the rains of doubt

we only reach the top speed
with our empty tanks
an ice-cold strife
of the race called Life

throw away the maps
only to wander where?
sever the threads
only to feel what?

empty homes for the find
it only becomes real
when everything else is left behind

is to raise a wall
back to its preexistence
to halt a
read-between-the-lines
brand of resonance;
a wall to protect
those constructed surfaces
from even being scratched.
Now, you feel
              an
                  empty sting

when your access to a
digital counterpart,
a modern-day version
of a person's cognition,
is denied.
It's as if their posts are
the only way left
where you could
actually
hear the things
that couldn't be spoken of;
where you could
feel the
immeasurable heartbeats
that could never be
projected;
  and all of these
      illusions
          make you wish
              you talked more
                  in real life.

"Come, sit down." the healer says
as her patient gazes emptily.
Clinic was dim, table's a mess
"Here's a cup of tea."

The healer dusts her hands on her coat
stained from making medicine.
"What are you here for today?"
"Same as last time, but I have caved in."

"I know just what you need,"
the healer unsheathes a frame.
The patient woefully sighs and
sobs without a bit of shame.

"I can't look again, it reminds me of her!"
to a portrait of a mother and daughter.
"Don't worry," says the healer,
"Tomorrow, it will get better."

The clinic was her art studio;
the medicine were the paintings.
The healer was an artist—
an empath in broken things.

"Through art, dismantle your heart
embrace the facts of your pain.
The wounds of the past shall heal
and your love for life shall remain."

my head is in throbs
induced by the drink called 'her'
the ceiling stares back
the morning sun's painful smile
patches the hole for a while

Why do we ask for discounts
  from small businesses of
    aspiring people
  but flaunt about the price tags
of designer clothes?

Why do we celebrate the pain of
  hit sad songs but not those
    troubled people
  who wrote them
and their real stories?

Why do we hesitate to show
  our feelings towards our
    favorite people
  and resort to wasting
precious time away?

Why do we subject to our own
  beliefs and constructions the
    boundless people
  and be always ready
to judge and bring them down?

Why can't we be the kind who
  makes this world bearable to
    all kinds of people?

"Dad, fix the window!"
kids gathered to watch his craft:
woodwork cracked nail bent
he never tried to know much
but that fed them and paid rent