In a world of puddles,
Dare to be an ocean.

Of course I can't remember the first time I thought of something good about myself. But I remember hating my skin because others hated it too.

Not everyone was born as mesmizing as Mona Lisa, capturing the heart of a certain Da Vinci and being immortalized in a masterpiece.

Some are birthed like a venus flytrap, often overlooked or overly looked at for being different. But their strongness is to be applauded, and their beauty entices you to feel them until you can't let go. Their charm makes the goddess of beauty ashamed of its name.

I was born of ashes and smokes and volcanic eruption, and also of rivers and harps that gave pain and joy to my mother and father.

My eyes are made of cosmic dusts, you can see galaxies in them. My lips are strong as fishing knots able to spit hooks, catch whales, and tame them.

Every word I speak seduces the one who listens, and like the Titanic, it is too late to realize that you have encountered an ice berg.

My heart is carved in diamonds and salvation, strong on the outside but there is heaven within after you pass through forests of healed anxiety and scars.

My pen always writes novels and poetry and secret love letters to the moon. But my glass window walls them, I am not sure if ever she has heard them.

My feet take me to my room, for there is my comfort and there are my books.

I am not as mesmerizing as Mona Lisa - possessing beauty of the golden ratio - but I can be The Starry Night, a masterpiece made under various weather conditions. Maybe seen as a failure at first, but turned out to be one of the best.

Traveller, scuba-diver
Sailor swearing wherever she goes
But never in front of a crowd
No, if you want to
apologize for something
you've said,
better find out where she's hiding.

Look where it's darkest,
but bring a flashlight;
she wears black
to hide from spiders and snakes.

At night she buries herself six feet below the ground
and she paints her face with a smile every morning.
Her mascara is waterproof and her shaking hands
buried deep inside the pockets of a beautiful coat
while she tells exciting tales of sorbet happiness.

She is a conundrum, weaves lies from silver thread
and hides behind red lipstick smiles over coffee cups.
She whispers false promises to you and herself
between Egyptian cotton sheets, skin illuminated
by the glow of the sun rising behind a high-rise.

This girl is careless but made of glass, and her eyes
catch every word you say, and carry it along, but
her words are not those you preserve in your heart.
She bursts into flames in the middle of an ocean;
she will never be anyone’s to take, or understand.

If we could chat to a film hero,
Would we learn more than zero?
Let's say we talk to Robin Hood,
Was he really all that good?
Romping around in hosiery in the woods,
Was Robin Hood, in bed, really so good?
What about Maid Marian in that snood?
Did she have more than a fling?
With his archer's sling?
Stuff of legends, film stars,
History of those days afar.......