Losing you feels like my body ripping at the seams
(Losing you feels like birthing a new purpose)
Losing you feels like the cry of an abandoned babe
(Losing you feels like a new search is beginning)
Losing you feels like foundation crumbling in my fingers
(Losing you feels like rebuilding myself)
Losing you feels like all the pain of a lifetime bottled into a single jar
(Losing you feels like love is present everywhere now)
Losing you feels like a rage from the core of my being
(Losing you feels like making every action purposeful)
Losing you feels like breaking everything I once deemed as sacred
(Losing you feels like now I understand what it means to hold something as sacred)
Losing you feels like the sky will always be black
Like it will always be raining
(Losing you feels like a new duty has been cast upon me from the heavens
Like the feeling of rain on my skin)
Losing you feels like the burning
Like the old scars no longer matter to me at all
(Losing you feels like the fire is now warmer
Like there are new wounds scaring over)
Losing you feels like gasping under crashing waves
Like drowning
(Losing you feels like every breathe is important
Like the first gasp of air)
Losing you feels like a forever famine
(Losing you is like planting a single seed to feed a million)
Losing you feels like a life long battle
(Losing you feels like an initiation to become a warrior)
Losing you feels like the universe is void
(Losing you feels like you’re filling all the holes inside of me)
Losing you feels like a death of my own
Like I will never be the same
(Losing you feels like an opening
Like life has taken on new meaning)
Losing you (is gaining an angel)

Lost inside my thoughts at night, silence is muted by the noise of my own mind. A deafening
silence.
Life and death, so fragile, such short moments. Why do we live by them? Time itself is
defined by life and death. By the rise and fall of the sun everyday.
How to define this I am going through right now? I don't feel alive nor dead. Time does not
seem to exist here and now, as the entire known world to me.
Like a caterpillar, trapped inside a cocoon, morphing myself to a butterfly, unaware of the
changes on the outside, of the perils awaiting for her on the outside as she gets out in the
search of the prettiest flowers on the path that leads to her partner, having to guess what
way to go.
Will I emerge as a butterfly or as a moth? Can one choose? Defined by genetics, sure. But
that does not apply here. Self awareness and focus are probably the defining factors in this
case. And if so, I shall emerge out of my cocoon as a beautiful Monarch, to cross the globe
after my soulmate, in a difficult but rewarding journey. Facing all forces of nature to find her,
and to finally be with her to the end of my short existence.
I don't want to leave this capsule as a moth, to hide in the shades and wonder through the
night. I want to emerge as one of her kind, a beautifully delicately coloured butterfly glowing
and reflecting every ray of sunlight that finds her delicate silklike wings.

Miraculous is a father’s love
When his child’s screaming in his ear

Exceptional how he can bear
High decibels without complaint.

His behavior emulates a saint:
But instead of changing water into wine

He does something much more divine—
Transforms frustration into joy.

How simple is his ploy
Gently covering intermittently
The source of high-volume sound

His sense of timing is profound
Creating novel, unique rhythms
By interrupting the one-note noise
With silence, not violence

Amazing is his patience
As the magic of complexity
Distracts his progeny from overwhelming woes
And produces giggles in its wake.

Sometimes life’s trials we can take
To create beauty from chaos and
Complex rhythms from discordant noise.

Yet friends will often speed our choice
Distracting us from life’s turmoil and
Helping us see the wondrous possibilities.

She tumbled through her 20s, stammered through her 30s and sits comfortably in her 40s. With each fall, she endured numerous cuts, scars and bruises.

You would hardly recognize her. To the point where she became something.

She became a circle (but really her name nor her form matters).

Her name matters as much as where she got those bruises from.

Finding out who did it is not the solution, in fact it’s hardly the problem.

The truth is long gone before the court is even in session. It is dissolved into deep cravings for drama and mystery.

But remember to kiss their feet for their insincerity, their ingenuity, their ignorance.

Only by cutting, scarring and bruising, can we mold beautifully disfigured shapes.

it comes in threes
ruins of nothing and chaos
There's only one choice in the dark
And that is to become light

The first sparkles are shy
But they can see glimpses of colors it might find
The second glow is stirring
it does what it takes to rebuild what had been missing
With the third it's complete light
Warmth for hearts and lightness for minds
Ready to blossom, unconfined