describe how my eyes pierce through you,
beyond the windows of your beautiful soul
tell them how my glance
stayed with you for weeks

can maybe for a moment,
your breath hitched
and that static surged
from a brush of fabric?

see the skeleton in my body
and how they shivered
at the sight of you
see the depths of my soul
and how they're raging in fire
see how the trillion cells of my body
react in front of the likes of you
tell them how it left a mark
on your mind for days

I wish the warmth of my presence
linger bit longer than I hope it did

I want you to say in your chaste lips
'she had such a sad smile,
but she would laugh
till her rib cage tremble
beneath her tan skin'
I want to make you pause for a sec
'her laughs are like cries of a raven,
how it oddly resonates
a maiden hiding in plea'
I want it all pierced by your tongue

describe me like the lyrics you write
when you're needing of company
on lazy afternoons, even late at night
times when you write with your soul
and not with your hand on paper
melodies that could carve deep
into people's hearts
recite it like you're missing a place
from a different era in time

let this serve as a favor
all I wish is for once
the remnants of me
pass through your lips
sing a sad love song
dedicated for me

— a poem I wish you'd write for me

at times I wonder,
from an elusive time
and place unreachable
where time no longer exists for me
this one's for the generations after mine
what would they do, as they
come across my poetry
and as they seep into the pages
they will delve into the sadness
of my sweet sorrow letters for thee
will they ever thought the same?
thinking more of our narratives
that should have been—
but was never put into paper
of a love that never came to be
wishing that it became a love story
rather than a story of me
loving thou unrequitedly

this must be a writer's curse
to feel everything, to not feeling at all
it is to let the mind pump to its beat
and letting the heart up high to soar

alas, this is where I have put my fate onto
to write and write and write
and let the pen scar the paper’s skin
for it to run its ink to the course
running, and running till the end of time
as long as till my hands bleed ink
it is to miss the things that doesn't exist
or at least in my head, it's there they reside
as it makes the rhythm of my heart reverberate

they are now a part of me, it always have been
it just took long for me to find and master it
bend it, and let it go onto my will
as much as I don't want them to be
it became my limbs, my everything
it is a part of me
the words are flowing down my veins
I am not alive if it wasn't for words
my heart won't ever grow tired
as it's the purpose why I'm living
and no one can take it away from me

Sometimes I wish
My pencil will break
and that my heart will finally choose rest
little one, aren't you exhausted?
Of how the world give you thoughts
that makes you run and run to the void
When will this head of mine
come back down the clouds?
Till when will these eyes stay
blinded by a reality far from truth?

Sometimes I want to blame this heart
for taking in too much, too much
excessively from what it can ought to take
I want to hold a grudge, for it ever falling
to wonders that tears itself from reality
Don't strange, delicate things
draws us humans more onto it?
Why am I so eerily drawn
to such things far off this planet?
A dream that's far from my grasp.
So far off.

Won't somebody, anybody, I beg
wake me up from this dream already?

— shatter me already

to be a writer..

it’s an awfully emotional adventure.

it doesn’t mean
you’ve always got a pen in hand.
it also doesn’t mean
you’ve got too many voices in your head.

to be a writer
means to fall in love young,
and to never fall out of love.
because like a true love,
the words will never leave you
or never let you down.

to be a writer
means that you want it;
you crave the aligned phrases,
the scratch of lead on paper,
the depth of the ink soaking in.
the beauty that the words leave behind.

to be a writer
means that you need it,
that without it,
you’re not sure how you’d speak
without a voice.
it means that early in the morning,
when your cheeks are stained with tears
and your heart is trembling
within its cage
the flow of words
coming from inside
is the only thing that can save you.

to be a writer..

is an awfully wonderful adventure.

I could never tell you
exactly what's going on inside my head,
so I'll write instead.
Drown my thoughts in paper & lead.
Keep my hands alive,
and my expression dead.

Darling
never trust me
after all
my whole career
is based off
making tragedies
sound beautiful

whatever floats yer boat
paint a picture
sing a song
even write a note
just get out
and tell yer story
whatever floats yer boat

the message
is important
you could paint
it on a goat
just get out
and tell yer story
whatever floats yer boat

a writer sings
a painter paints
an author uses words
it's no good
unless the message
isn't seen or heard

keeping thoughts as secret
isn't good and here is why
because sharing brings them life
and otherwise they'll die

write a letter
do a play
or even bake a cake
the message
it is important
who cares what form it takes

say it loud
or scream it
even put it in a song
opinions
are for sharing
even if they're wrong

a writer sings
a painter paints
an author uses words
it's no good
unless the message
isn't seen or heard

keeping thoughts as secret
isn't good and here is why
because sharing brings them life
and otherwise they'll die

paint a picture
sing a song
even write a note
just get out
and tell yer story
whatever floats yer boat