Lurking now and then to its oldest haunts,
there’s a ghost inside of me,
sending shivers like lightning and thunder
to the sanctuary of my mind where
I store my stories in.
There’s a moorland residing inside,
with shadows of the past spinning my demons
into the wildest desire of an infinite dance,
playing plaintive notes never meant to be memorised,
in which I can weep for a lifetime,
and a familiar wind whispers through my hair so gently,
like an old lover whose
intentions I may not recognise.
I call my body a battleground where
I have been defeated by myself several times,
and I rise every time, from the ashes, like a baby phoenix
my tail twitching at the sights of the demons
still spiralling around the moor sights.
My dresses are sewn by strong women,
so I don’t need an armour anymore
but the war continues at the cost of my body
as the old wounds whisper curses,
like an echo in the empty mansions still
inside of your horizons, ready to crumble yet
standing patiently, knowing well
that one can only get past the darkness
by entering the fire.shadow


Passing by

Was I even alive?
What if I was just passing by
this phase of humanity,
almost galloping my way towards another galaxy. What if
we all were nothing but droplets of a time that is passing
but never passes by,
Not completely
Would that be a legend, if I were to question
this inhibition for once? If I were to question the inexplicable?
Not to ignore what tingles between the toes, itches the mind?
Would that be a story worth knowing?
For once, we all were just stories,
And we begin and never end.
maybe the greatest prophesy of all was a lie
that the end is actually nigh.

Date a girl who paints

Date a girl who paints.
Date the artist that does not even know that she is an artist, date the girl who paints. Date the girl who holds her brushes like an amulet and draws in all the colours she could pour out of her heart. Date the girl who mixes extremes of shades to figure what her soul must look like. Date that girl.

Date a girl whose heart tends to flutter at the sights of a rainbow, or a rainy window, rusty at places, she would know exactly what to do to make the cracks look right. Date the girl who makes broken look beautiful, who dwell on morning milkshakes and devour the dusks and dawns at her cheekbones for some reason you could not fathom. Find the girl who paints and fall in love with her, because that’s what you always do, you always fall in love with a painting, and you will always fall in love when the painting is alive. Find the girl who paints, she will be there, smelling like ball-point pens, broken showers, stale coffee beans and acrylic paint. That’s how you will know she‘s the one.

Date the girl at the back of the bus, too engrossed with the world outside the window, too busy figuring out the afternoon chaos, too busy doodling on the back of her notebook. Try to find her heart behind her flannel, she knows how wrecked she looks, and yet how beautiful that is to be.
Find her before she flounces out. And trust me, honey, she will tell you how she does not need your love, because she really doesn’t, see if you could make some place in her heart anyway.

Fall for the artist, and make the artist fall for you like one would fall for the streets bathed in moonshine, or a dungeon of a dragon who looks just like her. She will make you her muse, and form stories around you, mould stories about you. She will be patient, she knows how beauty always unravel when it takes a little time. She will be stubborn, she has seen how evanescent this world could be so she would paint it all on a canvas to hold for the night. She will be there because her art is there, she will be there forever.

When you find the girl who paints, do not tell her nice things, or call her pretty, for art is neither nice nor pretty, art is an experience to behold, a memory to cherish, something reminiscent of a forgotten era, or an un-penned story or a heart, that does not beat for merely nice and pretty.
Keep her close, and she will show you a whole new world to witness. Give her love and she will create storms and thunder of fondness just for you. Make a home with her and she will let kingdoms emerge from the abyss of her mind, with french windows and vintage lamps.

Do not date a painter if you could not let her catch all the stardust in her sheets; if you could not let her swim in the endless moors to become a droplet of her own when she wishes to; if you’re going to leave her without love anyway, date a painter and fall for her, completely,

Life would be a never-ending roller coaster of adventure, an inspiration worth living for. All you need to do is date a girl who paints.

(Ps- This write-up is written after the idea of Rosemarie Urquico: “You should date a girl who reads.”)


Artwork by a beautiful painter who is my muse for this write-up

If I should

If I should have a dream
Instead of wings, I’d give it storms,
and see if it survives, wait for a rainbow to emerge from the wreckage,
a little rain to wash away the open battle ground.

If I should have a book
I would make it purple, for I believe that purple
flows out of my heart, and it only becomes red when it is exposed to the world,
because my purple is shy, just like me.

If I should have a poem
I would name it ‘dragon’, since it is what my soul must be like,
with glowing embers among the debris, colossal fireworks dripping from the tongue,
wrecking fists and a twitching tail.

If I should have a daughter
I would give all my words to her, spin them together
to form stories that I’ve grown inside my heart for her to feed upon,
I would give her my coins of wisdom and equality; and a heart, full of love, big enough for her to grow, stretch to fill all the space that she might need.

If I should have a home
I would fill it with stars and dreams, so that no matter
what storm tries to churn my dreams into ash, there would be a starry night anyway.
I would tape photographs on every wall of it, and it will smell like memories.

If I should have a son
I would give him a part of my flame, for him to burn down
any injustice he would see. I would gift him my stories for him
to latch his hopes, ambitions or even fear upon, and a home where love would be the only thing that’s supposed to be done loudly.

If I should have a farewell
I would give my shadow to the world to see,
my salty feet to the ocean to drink,
my bony fingers to Pappa to hold, my hands to the boy who held them,
An ear to my brother, another to my best friend- tell them I would still be listening. I would give the womb to broken sisters, tongue to silent dreamers,  eyes to walking paradoxes, and the face to my mother, it has always been hers,
they tell