Day after day, we go through the motions
Like waves searching for shore in the middle of the ocean,
Following along as we get swept by the current
Again and again, waiting for the day it’ll end.

I was lost in this sea of people when I saw him.
A mere glimpse from my periphery, I almost missed
His tear-streaked face and his bleeding knee,
And I thought to myself, how did I not see?

My eyes caught the way his shoulders sagged
From carrying the weight of the world on his back.
He’s only a child but his fate seemed worse than Atlas,
His young body shackled by greedy insatiable hands.

I wonder if someone witnessed his despair,
Picked up a brush and decided to share
The story of a boy whose future was stolen
By heroes who were nothing but villains.

His pleas echo in every brushstroke
And while my hands can never replicate
The vivid imagery offered by paint
He can live on in the words I create.

i wonder if you still remember
the time when i wrote you a poem
in the middle of a noisy lunch hour crowd
a small table on the second floor
of the local mcdonald's.

i used to smile when i thought about it,
the days when i felt alone in a room of forty.
when i sat with people who i thought were friends
but were just as plastic
as the lunch tables we ate on.

back then, i clung to that memory
until my hands bruised and my wrists bled.
the scraps of poetry already slipped my mind
but not the pair of headphones we shared
nor the secrets we kept.

every now and then, i think about it,
a wave of soul-crushing emptiness washes over me.
i wonder how you are and how you feel,
but just like us, the fleeting thought
fades away into oblivion.

we lost touch over the years,
but i wish i didn't lose you.

The walls were caving in, and he couldn’t breathe,
The fog was too thick, and the monsters out free,
He couldn’t go back, not when people don’t believe
The things he’s been through, and the things he’s seen.

He was shackled by the weight of what he couldn’t understand,
His bones straining at the sorrow he held upon his hands,
And so he wrote the naked truth on the expanse of his flesh,
The ink he used, his own bloodshed.

But the myth of Atlas was never engraved in scars,
Nor were Van Gogh’s masterpieces a product of falling apart.
Still, their struggles became the trophies of society,
As if antlers of a prized animal displayed in full glory.

every night, i look up at the sky,
hoping, praying, for the stars to align.
every night, they look back at me,
their dying light, a shrouded mystery.

the skin i wear does not feel the same,
yet your touch still lingers, still stays.
i want to claw my skin out until it bleeds.
maybe then, you would finally leave.

the most frustrating thing
when it comes to a writer
is when everything
every word, every letter,
isn't enough to give justice to
the captivating picture of you
in the afternoon:

soaked in sweat,
grinning foolishly,
striking up a conversation
about coffee,
and how unhealthy it is
for me to drink
three cups straight,
to stay awake,

yet the bittersweet taste
stains my lips.

it spills down my throat,
covers my lungs,
and drowns them
with the addicting aroma
of coffee beans
and lazy dreams,
until i cannot seem
to breathe,

and the only thing
i can ever do
is to spill ink
for you.

Happy anniversary.

Can you believe
That it’s been a year?
I can still feel the first time,
Your hands danced on mine,
A soft presence, almost shy.
I could barely pay attention
To the film playing on television
Because there, right beside me,
A story was already unfolding,
One that was far more fascinating
Than any other mystery.

And it was.
Here we are, a year later,
The story continues to be
The most gruelling mystery
Of two people ceasing to be,
Of you & I never becoming we,
Instead, a strange, foreign word
To each other’s vocabulary.
I thought we both saw ourselves
In this picture perfect future:
Lying together on crumpled sheets,
Watching Sherlock on repeat,
Reading poetry and drinking coffee,
A state of being indescribably
Happy.

We were never meant to be that.
Only a manuscript tossed in the trash.
We loved too little, and bled too much,
Too proud to break the silence.
Too scared to end the sentence.
So let’s scrap the ending,
And go back to the beginning:

Happy anniversary.

You are gentle.
              The whisper of a breeze
                      During a summer's eve.
              The slightest tremor
                      Of a broken melody.

Yet you still play the violin.
                                   Softly.
                                   Gently.
The strings moving along
               To your song.

This is your love laid bare,
And you hope it is enough
To show her you care,
               Loud enough to hear,
               Close enough to feel,
Because the strings are your lifeline,
And the music is your heartbeat.

And oh yes, it is enough for her.
Because there is nothing louder,
                             Nothing closer,
Than the soft & gentle song
               Of a lover.

There was a tale of a young boy
Who flew the skies, lost and alone,
Seeking a place, a place called home.

Until the ends of the earth, he sought
The only dream he ever dreamed of.

He flew and flew, and so did time.
And as the years withered by,
A place...
A place called home.
Not once did he ever find.

But then, he fell and met the earth.
And for the first time since his birth,
He smiled with pure glee.

For now, under the ground,
He was truly free.

she was too fascinated by
                  the sun
shining in the sky,
that she didn't realize
how it made her
                  blind.

We are old souls
Trapped in young bodies.
And I wonder,
When can we ever be
free?

Shattered & broken
are we,
              
In the hands of time
And what shall be.

Our mortal selves
Too frail & weak.

The memory fails
To hide and seek

The forgotten light,        
The unspoken thoughts,

And the endless dancing
Through out the night.

no matter how many times
you tell yourself otherwise,

you will always walk
alone.

no other heart, no other soul,
no other happiness

can make you feel
whole

except your
own.

There is
         magic
               beyond
           the tilled earth,
       beyond the trenches
                                  of the sea,
                    and the rocks,
             and roots of trees.
                     Fickle are we to see it not!
                                right beneath our feet,
                     they lie,
                                lighting up the way
            like fireflies in the night.
       And yet we still search
for the eagles that
       fly.

As the waves come crashing in,
My skin hits the rough sandy shores,
And I could not stop thinking
Of all the many doors
I have left unclosed,
The keys of which I locked up
Deep in the walls of my soul.

Although my heart longs for
Nothing but the home I left behind,
I stand amidst the cold, hard wind
Without a flinch or doubt in mind.
And without knowing, my feet carry
On into the heart of the valley.