send me songs to calm the raging storm in my soul

hold my hand and i’ll hold yours as we venture out

into the forest while everyone else gets blinded by the city lights;

our fingers intertwined and feelings starting to understand

how out names taste from each other’s mouth

pull me close, never let go until the sun forgets to rise

and moon blooms with the quiet night

#excerptfromthebookimightwrite 😛


We don’t forget entirely.

We always have a feeling about a situation we can no longer recall to our memory.

We might not be able to remember it, but it’s that feeling that gives you juat enough to know.

It’s like you forgot the movie but you remember the trailer.

CRIME SCENE (excerpt)

“You started the mosaic out of me. You just found the right pieces to put into place. I was your masterpiece you were determined to finish. Soon you made me into a museum full of mosaics, of miracles, and other happy things. I was covered in colors, and started helping with your masterpiece too. But then you shattered the ones that were simply glass and refused to put them back together. Instead, you turned me into a museum of tattered masterpieces, of tragedies, and other broken things. You pried my heart open like the doors of closed convenience store, not taking one single thing, but destroying everything instead. You left me like an abandoned house, a ghost town with only a resident. You left me for road to kill. The thought of your touch gives me third degree burns and you left a crime scene where my heart used to be.”

“I told the cops you had killed somebody. They asked me for a proof. They asked me for the crime scene. But the crime scene was me. I told them you ripped me. How you ripped out my heart and burned me and destroyed my mind. They told me it wasn’t true, but it was.”

“You killed the person I used to be”

Excerpt from the book i might or i might not write



They say thay time can heal all wounds

Time is going by and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.

Years will pass and you’ll feel like you’re stuck.

The older you get, the faster it goes.

Eventually, time will leave you behind.

You can never relieve the past.

You can never prevent the future.

The end is hurtling towards you.

The more time that passes, the less you have left.

Time runs out.

Time is unforgiving.

Purpose of Poetry

Poetry is putting a diaphanous veil over something unappealing, speaking regarding it just subdued enough to put into oblivion how abraded and festering and suppurate the wound is.

It’s a language of emphasizing inspiration, subjectivity – of Romanticism and painless augury, full of fanatical sentimentalism and compelling twists of the tongue.

Metaphors are hazardous travesty, using a sort of transfiguration to turn wordless sentiment into imaginable circumstances.

The way the anguish rios through yoyr body and flusters your every bones compelling you to envision misery as it pull you down to great depths and choking breaths.

The truth is, poetry is a deceiver, a fibber, an equivocator. Never fall for its exquisitely crafted stanzas causing slips into the dense fog of nostalgia.




I write to an audience that doesn’t reply (but I always keep receiving reviews which is really overwhelming). I don’t get much shares or reblogs. But I like the idea that people read them regardless.

It’s okay if you don’t post that button, but I hope my writings give impact to someone, whether good or bad, it’s good to know that someone out there was moved by my words.

I just want to make you feel the spectrum of emotions.