For the night is dark and full of dreamers ♥

The Reaper and I

I was alone that night
When once again we met
He looked at my wrist
Then the knife at my bed

“Stop this nonsense.”
I look ugly in a rope.
“It’s not your time.”
And the pills taste like soap

“I won’t meet you no more”
But then I’ll be lost
“I don’t care about you.”
Then he left like a ghost

Hello again, love.
“You? What is this?”
 I had to find a way.
I needed you to stay.

“This is not the solution.”
I laughed at his horror
As I sharpened my knife
I smiled at my damnation

 I slit the girl’s throat
See? the blood’s not mine
I whispered to him after
I can’t wait for next time

Feathers and Bullets

I am made of bullets. I see pain everywhere I go whether I intend to or not. I feel the weight of a thousand unsaved souls in me in one moment. Yet I take a breath and the next, I feel like the world inside me had been scorched dry of its waters. I do not know why I am here. I know only that I see my destruction wherever I go. I am the grave dirt that puts an end to something alive and beautiful. I am made of something coarse, of something wrong to the core. I could never learn to love myself.

But you, oh you. I thought meeting you was a mistake. You are that bed with all its feather-stuffed pillows that I couldn’t sleep on when I came home after the war. You are too soft, too good, for something that’s been dragged and torn with her nightmares. Yet never had been a morning or night that you did not stay. You said I am welcome to leave my stains and my sins with you. You became the light in all my dark hallways. You are the reminder that I still want to be prayed for, be saved from eternal damnation–a tombstone to every piece of me I’ve buried.

Oh God, I loved you so much.

I forgot how to hate myself.

Dear Mom

Don’t try to clip my wings
I may not know who I truly am
Tell me not to trust the ground
it breaks
it suddenly shakes
it may swallow me whole

Don’t try to cage me in concrete walls
I may get lost in myself
Tell me to wander on my own
to see
to hunger for the horizon
to thirst the unknown

Don’t cry and say I’ll never return
This is my home and always will
Tell me I can build it too
In myself
With those I’ll meet
With the love that I know from you

Don’t cry and say I had abandoned you
It hurts to let go too
Send me off with a kiss
“I love you.”
“I know you’ll do well, my boo.”

You are right, it’s scary out here
I’ve fallen more than I can count
Yet mom,
Don’t tell me “I told you so”
Remind me that I can fly
Remind me that I own a piece of the sky


Tell me I can do it
Because you know I’ll do

War and Peace

She likes to believe that she’s a creature born to crave their definition of peace. Perhaps, one that bathes rather than flinches in snow-laden ground, finding the cold wind on her skin to be…therapeutic. So much different from the probing light of summer. She likes to believe that her comfort comes from the deprivation of her senses when she hides in the darkness of the night. Somehow, when she feels the world and not see it, she finds it in herself to accept it– scars and all. She likes to believe that she has ears created for Vivaldi’s Winter in F minor or Beethoven’s Moonlight sonata. There is a certain harmony  in them that could only be a product of order like that of well-planned interior design in a room so spacious. Peace, they call it–the absence of conflict in an entity such that of a soul subjected to snow’s mournful white and night’s numbing black. A one-way road that could only be achieved without oppositions.

She likes to believe  she was born to have that kind of peace in herself. But then again, she might be wrong.

As she put on her earphones and turn the volume louder for Carry on Wayward Son by Kansas to play, she now started to think that maybe their idea of peace does not mean her peace. Maybe the loudness hurting her ears was her peace. Maybe it was the harsh coldness of winter that she liked, the haunting of ghosts that she craved at night. Maybe there is no peace when there is no screaming, no blood spilled, no death that rips the heart to pieces.

She hates to admit it. That perhaps, perhaps her war is her peace. That her peace was an intersection of ways to torture herself, of pushes and pulls in the different directions of what ifs and if onlys . Maybe it is because she’s already dead and her only peace was to create a war inside herself so she can still feel alive.

“Humans are odd. They think order and chaos are somehow opposites and they try to control what won’t be. But there is grace in their failings. I think you missed that.”– Vision, Age of Ultron

The Holidays’ Special: FUN

By now, you might have noticed that I took my inspiration from Rise of the Guardians.298a4b757e4b1d3323442be9201af7fc

Memories from Tooth Fairy, wonder from North, hope from the Easter Bunny, dreams from Sandman and now fun from Jack Frost. I made fun to be the last topic since I think it is the most underrated center to have. No wonder Jack Frost seems invisible to everyone else. But if there is one thing I truly appreciate about this movie, it’s the fact that it gives importance to the present, the fun, and not just the memories and wonder of the past or the hope and dreams for the future. I mean, celebrate and dance and sing to your heart’s content! Make something that will lift your spirits even an inch. Because you darling, deserve it. Always will. I can’t possibly know what you went through this 2017 but I hope that you’ll at least have a good  end.

WAIT. On another note, have I already told you?


You are an absolutely beautiful person who has decided to live again today and I think that nothing is braver than that. If you hadn’t realize that, please don’t make it until new year to tell yourself ‘thank you’ for whatever achievement you had, small they may be. Someone in this big big world is cheering for you to be successful and happy today and onward. That’s me! Don’t give up. Okay? Let’s start the road to self-love and if you’re already there, please help other people who need it. I am rooting for you and me. XOXO

I’ll keep it short now. Lastly, I just want to say how thankful I am to all of you for accompanying me in my writing journey. I love y’all to the moon and back! To a happier 2018 everyone!


PS. THE LAST JEDI WAS AWESOME! (awesome with an exclamation point is totally an understatement).


The Holidays’ Special: HOPE

Be kind. Sometimes it is the smile of a stranger, the concern of a stranger that brings a hopeless soul’s faith back in humanity. Kindness does not necessarily entail gentle words but always gentle actions. A soft voice may carry the harshest insults but a soft pat on the shoulder carries a thousand worth of assurance. Be kind because so many hearts are barely beating and surviving for another day. It is a stranger’s ‘Are you okay?’ that can speak to a heart’s wall. It is time spared for an unknown person that restores his/her hope for herself.

Be patient. It is not easy to understand someone who does not understand why she battles her monsters while others live happily. Don’t give up on a person. Because you may not hear them beg for it out loud but every human on earth craves salvation, to be told of a reason why they still exist when they no longer want to. Sometimes, the walls that you see are just sand castles waiting for the persistent and patient waves to crumble it down. Be the waves that come back again and again for the sand castles to greet.

Be there. I think everyone should realize that a person is not just a symbol to another’s life. A person may look up from the bottom of the abyss and see you there as just you– not a light of a family to guide in the dark days or a shadow of a friend to accompany in suffocating daylight. Sometimes, in a hopeless person’s perspective, you are you– life itself distilled into a vessel with hands to hold, a shoulder to cry on and body to embrace. You are you and you mean just that to another’s existence. It does not matter what you think you are to someone else. Sometimes being you is just enough. Nothing else. To be there is to give the comfort when darkness is too much.

We are all tormented souls with immortal minds in a mortal body. Hence, there are times we feel  pain so ancient and heavy that our minds even with its knowledge cannot fathom it. Therefore, we seek the peace of Death as solution. Sometimes, we open up our mortal body, let it bleed, so our tormented soul could be numbed for a while, breathe for a while. But we fail to understand that our souls could also be free by opening our mouth to say words of compassion, by exhaling our sighs and inhaling that air to continue living, by opening our ears to the silent cries at night and the burdens that need listening to. We heal not from patching our wounds once and hurting ourselves twice. We heal with caring. We heal by helping others recover from their own battles, by seeing and knowing that we too could someday heal like them if we let ourselves to.

The darkest night will end and the sun will rise.

The Holidays’ Special: WONDER

“Black is beautiful,
But too much is charcoal.”
They frowned at my skin
And told me it’s a sin

I looked at my stretchmarks
a thriving branches of river
But all they ever saw
Were cracks in the desert

I traced my shapeless body
And witness there our galaxy
With pinpricks of black holes
And scars like supernova balls

Is it really so wrong?
To see such rawness,
To enjoy imperfection,
To marvel at its strangeness?

I pity those who don’t ask
If there is more to a face
Than what makes it ugly
To the norms of society

I pity those who call it dirty
Our skin derived from night
To be blind to an art
Just because our canvas isn’t ‘right’

Why can’t we look at each other
And know there is more?
To wonder and be a wonder
To be a light in this world

Self-acceptance in this generation is a rough road. There are a lot of ‘imperfections’ noted by society. Therefore, it takes longer to forgive ourselves for those. But I think that when you want to accept yourself, you need not look at your layers but your center. If you look at all the faces that you show to the people around you, somewhere along the line, you’ll start to hate it– the uncaring face or the knowing face or the understanding face. Truth is, it’ll wear off. And people will come and go not knowing who you are. It leaves you hating them for leaving and hating yourself for trusting. But if you look at your center and find it beautiful, then there is nothing or no one in this world that could say otherwise.



The Holidays’ Special: DREAMS

A dream is not something you achieve. It’s something you continually pursue.

I had a dream, the first dream that has awakened after reading of myths and legends and wizards and dragons. It was a dream of a hero, of an adventure to a land far far away, in a city unseen and people unmet. It was a dream where every pain hidden by every person is uncovered like a thousand age skeleton  dug and made for every man to understood and respected for the story it has to tell. It was a dream where poets and storytellers are heard, where love could mean more than the union of bodies and spoken vows but also a piece of dessert left for oneself as a small thank you for living one more day, breathing one more second. It was a dream of sailing a round world– not a flat one with edges where someone could fall to nothingness and be left unmarked in death as in life . Round, where one could go home to the sand and the flowers and the smell of cooking. To go home,  where we are all immortal to those who truly love us. Because one could be homesick for people too and long for a touch of familiarity  after soaking the infinite possibilities whispered in the open seas.

It was a happy dream. A pure and fragile one. And sometimes it scares me to lay bare these thoughts in a world where dreams are rare and dreamers more so. Yet I wish that we may never be aliens to our own dreams, childish they may be, and that the dreams of our soul always linger in our  hearts. I wish that the shelves in our minds that stores visions of the future that we dare not even speak be not covered in dust but be visited and cared for always.

There is such cruelness in this world, one that often burns the red passion of our blood into charred black of bitterness. But there is beauty, I know. Little beauty in such an enormous world.  And that beauty manifests in moments when we close our eyes to the gray skies and open our hearts to the impossible. One day, I will make poems of the world I have helped build. But now, let me live the life that life has to offer. Let me dream of that dream which is yet to come true.

As I wish you will do.

To Kim Jonghyun, you have been one to understand what it feels to be alone in a world where you can have everything. Yet you dreamed and through you, your fans also dreamed. I hope that as you go to heaven, you can now have the peace you long for.

I miss you and thank you, my dreamer.

The Holidays’ Special: MEMORIES

This is the beginning of the posts I will write for the days in between Christmas and new year’s eve (26-30). I feel like I need to not only remind but also wish you and me the better days we all want.

Dear little girl,

I remember you. I remember the old days when your hands make empires from the sand. “Dirty!” They reprimanded. But you frown simply at them. The dirt coating your fingernails are but a little sacrifice to build the streets and the castles and the towns. Surely no one dare oppose the makings of a great dynasty! They cannot simply understand that you have the soul and mind of a creator. I remember the first medal you had. It was silver. Perhaps as you bowed to receive it that day in front of smiling faces, you had bowed to your destiny of always needing to prove your worth to everybody else. If I had known it then little girl, I would have made sure to let you know that gold medal or no, you deserve every I’m proud of you and every thank you. I remember that awful fall when you were training to ride a bicycle. You had felt so embarrassed then after seeing them laugh. I could have told you that every person falls and it will never be pretty the way leaves do in autumn. It will hurt and there will be times that it will leave bruises and scars. You will be judged by those but it will also remind you of how strong you were and are. Do you remember that swollen ankle you had which worsened while you were in school? That was the incident that led to the realization that mama was not there and for the first time, you had to walk back home — alone and wounded. I remember you crying so much as you made your way with a limp, feeling an unreasonable sense of betrayal because mama did not have the superpowers to tell you’re hurt and needed her badly. My darling, it had been the first of the many lonely journeys ahead and I know it didn’t and never will be okay. It had been the first of so many times you’ll feel that crippling loneliness, the first of many when you’ll feel like blaming others and end up beating up yourself instead for expecting too much from them.

I cry as I write to you this. I cry as I tell you that until today you nurse a bitter heart. Little girl, I would have done and redone the events to keep the dreamer you. I am sorry. I am so sorry that I have left your heart, my heart, to be fed by the monsters they call disappointment, pride and depression. I recall these memories — the good and the bad to write of the little girl I lost. But you know what I realize just now little darling? That it does not matter if I had started wounded. What matters is that I keep walking and walking and walking until I found myself home. Because you did once. I know, someday, I will. Then I will invite you once again to build the empire that you’ve seen. I promise. It may not be today nor tomorrow but one day you will have a home for yourself, in yourself, as big as you like with self-worth as your medal and no gold, I assure you, could ever compare with that.

With hope at last,
A 20-year old you.


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