A plastic bag floats
With the grace of a ballerina

And everyone’s eyes
Are plastered to the sky

To it, a material thing
Seemingly in love with the wind

With dance
With movement

With freedom
And for once

We all want to be one thing
We all long to be one thing


A plastic bag carried

Embraced and
Loved by the wind



Isn’t this what I have been longing for?
To uncover the universe with my bare hands

Scoop up all the stars, planets, moons and suns I could hold
And bite into their bodies

Make light of my murderous hunger just to ingest something other than darkness
That has always found a way to settle into my hollow bones I can make telescopes out of

How long has it been since I ate hope?
How long has it been since I stuffed myself with prayers and wishes?

I still believe they float somewhere in the universe or in the spaces between me and the self I’ve carried once like an injured bird
Now flying midair with a broken wing

And maybe if I reached out far enough, I’d be able taste them once again
Let their embers burn my tongue

Let them start wildfires within me
And make stars out of every sigh

Planets out of every tear
Moons out of every wish

Suns out of ever prayer
Let them make a damn universe out every breath I’ve taken

Every breath I’m taking
Every breath I will take

A universe
Out of thin air

A universe
Out of me

1st of November Entry

I wish it was easier to not be bothered by blank pages… But it’s not. Especially when your mind keeps ratting out on you just until it convinces you to write something, anything so that this page wouldn’t look as empty as how your eyes are looking lately. I’ve been so empty. Probably because I’m done with all the crying. And we all know what that means, time for a void to settle in. How fucking surprising, right? I know… I knew. I just thought it’d arrive sooner and leave immediately, before December, before my birthday, before Christmas. Because last year, this was present. This was everywhere. And that birthday was the worst. I just don’t want to feel this anymore, okay? I’m so tired of all the shit I put myself through. And like the fool I am, I still keep placing myself in the middle of the storm anyway.

If I ask the world nicely, will it whisper its answer to me?


And tell me world

      Will you tell me?

      Before I go flying off again to universes

      That only ever exist in the palms of my    

      Hands, in my bones crackling under my    

      Own weight, in my bloodstream flowing

      Life after life; death after death

And tell me world

      Will you tell me?

      Before I sail towards patched up cities     

      Merging with distant lands written in the  

      Storybooks I’ve read in the past my mind

      Will never allow me forget and the        

      Storybooks I write in the present


And tell me world

      Will you tell me?

      Before I let my heart take over and you

      Know how my heart can be–

      Drawing on walls with colors it can’t

      Even pronounce; painting on faces it

      Could barely recognize; creating

      Something without hesitation even if it

      Doesn’t know what it is it’s creating

Continue reading “If I ask the world nicely, will it whisper its answer to me?”

eternal loneliness

lonely poems waiting for another line, another hit from the master, if she was ever a master
lonely writer, doesn’t understand the veins of her own poetry
the roots she cut into several parts trying to make something out of nothing
out of everything
still trying to map out all the roads in the leaves of her entirety
lonely poet, doesn’t call me a poem, doesn’t call herself a poem
a piece of art she is
with all her complexities
her subtleties
and her inability to see the trail of dark, majestic stardust trailing behind her

the walks i take whilst the moon is still awake

going to work too early makes my mother tremble, fill up with worry
“say a little prayer before you leave,” she says, handing me a booklet she has used all these years
she tells me she had been guided by that tiny prayer book whilst she gave birth to me, my sister and my brothers
and i think to myself, maybe it will pass the same kind of protection to me
maybe not
going to work too early makes my mother tremble, fill up with worry
“leave a little later, maybe when the sun cracks open the sky and darkness would no longer be alive” she says, holding my hand a little too tight
i don’t think i can do that, mom
i’ll run late, and you know how that creates knots inside my stomach
nausea kicking in, forgetting how to breathe
forgetting how to breathe
breathe, breathe, breathe
i don’t want to see the sun shining as i walk through the same paths, drive through the same roads as i did yesterday and the days before that
going to work too early makes my mother tremble, fill up with worry
“wait until the moon and the stars are no longer in sight, will you?” she says, still holding on to me
you don’t understand, maybe i don’t too
but this is the only time i can telepathically write letters to the moon
i wonder if anyone else looks at the moon without waiting for the sun to devour it soon after
without waiting for something else, anything else to happen
going to work too early makes my mother tremble, fill up with worry
“it’s too dangerous outside” she says, her voice shaky as she stares deep into my eyes, something she doesn’t always do
i know, mom
i know
i have become afraid of this country too
hungry for streets painted with the blood of its people
blood of nameless children no longer nameless
blood in every corner, the stench tingling our noses, reminding us of all our recurring nightmares
blood and violence in a crazy mix driving everyone to their feet
to their wings
i am afraid too, mom
but mom, i have to go
outside where i can’t pretend to be blind
outside where i can feel danger’s foul and heavy breath licking my neck over and over again
outside where i can do more than just ignore what’s happening out there
because i can’t close my eyes anymore
because i can’t
because i won’t let myself
going to work too early makes my mother tremble, fill up with worry
but i step out anyway

whispers of water

The eyes of water have proved to me the eyes of life and of death, of creation and of destruction, of things we can see and of things we cannot. It flows within me, within you, within all of us. We are water.
Take off your earthly skin, let your soul take flight; your soul looks like water, feels like water.
What else has water seen? What else has water touched? What else has water devoured? What else has water destroyed and what has it created?
And in a way, are we not all these things? All these things water has seen, touched, devoured? All these things water destroyed and created? Are we all these things as we are water? Are we water?