the words are water
and they flow,
and they flow,
and they flow,
and they also             get clogged.

the days where
imagination swirls in your head
and there's a nonstop thrum of a drum resting inside
because your mouth is shut,
unable to puke it out,
and the days where
your hands are dry,
pens inkless;

the days where you feel dead,
the days where you

You
Cannot
Take
Away
The
Rights
Of
Those
Who
Have
Nothing
Left

this is how i travel,
with a paperback clung to
my chest, fingers wrapped 'round
like birthday gift ribbons

i sail on the syllables,
the music they make.
how many homes i have,
nestled in the spaces
between paragraphs and phrases.
each chapter an
island
where i'm somebody
else

this is how i learn,
how i journey -
between pages
and tales.

do not come to
find me

Loneliness is the manila color which enchants paper as it ages.
It grows old and musky regardless of how many eyes look upon its texture.
It reaches the air of abandonment more quickly when exposed to the atmosphere and light.

An unexposed paper will stay pristine longer.
It doesn't know vacancy and longing.
It never had someone in the first place.