I’d never thought I liked poetry. To be honest, I thought of it as something cheesy and head-in-the-clouds-ish (silly me).

One day, poetry just came to me. Unexpectedly. Unplanned.

Bam, for once in my life, I resonated with the poems I read and listened to. I was hooked. No idea why.

Soooo, for whatever reasons, I started writing poems. I become cheesy and head-in-the-cloud-ish. And it’s fun to be.

My poems are fragmented and don’t follow any rules. They’re purely my feelings, thoughts, dreams, imagination, life events, nonsensical whispers, anything really. They’re raw, unprocessed, unedited, and unrefined. They’re simply for anyone who can resonate.

On some days, rhythms just come out naturally to me. On some other days, I come across great ideas when reading a book, sifting through my journal, glancing out of the windows, bopping my head to my favorite Spotify playlist, and I grab my phone to capture the words.

Sometimes, my mind goes blank and I stop writing. But somehow, magically, I still keep this new interest going for months. I hope I can keep this beauty for as long as I can in my life. It makes my life more…poetic.

Anyway, the poems I wrote—I decided to share some of my favorites here.


you are the blue sky

that I can only stare

my hands reach out

but the silence shouts

you’re the dream

i’m too afraid to lose

waking up one morning

facing the silence i choose

ash and dust

love or lust

all that’s left was ash and dust


the passion was dead

lying stark naked

vulnerable and dismayed

dreams and hope decayed

that feeling we left to rot

just breathe its last breath

crossed paths

somehow they crossed paths

out of the blue, in the dark

burn their own bridges

there was no way to come back

to where they used to meet

buried illusions

the illusions were corpses

waiting to be buried

no way they became true

there would be a fee

for dragging the corpses around

couldn’t get out of coffins and soil

soft skin were so fresh and moist

but slowly it putrefied

mental breakdown piercings

mental breakdown piercings

one for releasing myself

the other for reaching freedom

the sound and the pain

when the needles poked through

my skin and cartilage

were to remind me of a memorable time

it took a few seconds

to create wounds

but it would take months

for the wounds to be healed

with the conditions

that we don’t touch them

leave them alone

and care for them properly

something we forgot to do

when we started out

noon nap


eyes opened wide

heart beated loud

the orange fragments

popped up in my mind

created a hollow hole inside

turned my memory gray

took my noon nap away


i was confused of who i really was

i gazed at the stars

was there an answer for me?

glittery, shiny, blinky

i counted and connected the glowy dots

then i forgot the numbers, the connections

i started again

running around in circles

favorite playlist

i listen to it on bright days

i listen to it on blue days

sometimes i hum

sometimes i strum

and rarely do i wonder

can the notes and lyrics ever be delivered

to wherever you are

because i know they can’t

it’s only me here singing

and turning up the volume

to forget the world around

for a while


there’s no point in acting like a hypocrite

because people do notice

lies, stabs, bad deeds

there’s nothing we can cover them with


there’s no need to tantalize

the truth will shine

as bright as the sky

only the fools try to close their eyes

and it’s just a matter of time

before they realize

the truth

the obnoxious truth

is what we can’t ignore

it’s forever there

torturing us—fools


missing comes like waves of a calm sea

touching the shore without it even knowing

fragmented, unexpected, throughout the day

sometimes burning, sometimes numb

not fierce enough to ache

not light enough to forget

green or gray

the green dot

is gray today

can it tell me

that’s everything okay

remind me of the good

terrify me by the bad

my puffy love

she’s got soft fur

she murmurs a purr

her tail is so straight

pushes all my stuff away

orange, white, gray

she’s who makes my day


flimsy excuses

lip-deep words

superficial gestures

skin-deep caring

perfunctory acts

half-hearted attempts

insincere treatment

for the umpteenth time

just fail to fool me

So…that’s all for now. I’ll post new poems when I successfully conquer my laziness.

By the way, some poems I really love recently: If I Was a Love Poet & Theories About the Universe.

I’m gonna be honest, I’m not much of a love poet
but if I was to wake up tomorrow morning and decide that I was gonna write about love
my first poem
it would be about you
about how I love you the same way I learned how to ride a bike
but reckless
with no training wheels or elbow pads so my scars can tell the story of how I fell for you

I know this is going to sound weird, but sometimes,
I pray that God somehow turns you back into one of my ribs
Just so I would never have to spend an entire day without you…

– Rudy Francisco

When I want something with my whole
being, and the universe withholds it from me, I hope the universe thinks to herself: “Silly girl. She thinks this is what she wants, but she does not understand how it will hurt.

– Blythe Baird

Updated: Oct 29, 2021

calico and marmalade

calico looked at marmalade
while sitting inside, a safe space, next to the fireplace
marmalade glanced at calico and quickly rolled its eyes
while sitting outside, in the dark, on the fence
calico was looking at that dot next to marmalade
there were only two colors
either soothing or destructive
either present or wandering
either there or not
but that was the only thing calico could hold onto
the only thing it could stare at
to heal its sickness
the sickness of missing that orange warmth
the only thing left it could grieve on
unknown, without the fear of disturbance
calico was choked by the words it wished it could blurt out
but it couldn’t
so it kept sitting inside, looking, and staring at the dot
in silence

on its last leg

when the pink bubbles popped
there came the shadowy darkness
she was thrilled and weary
she was intoxicated and jaded
the beautiful prose was on its last leg
or was there any at all?


that warmth is the comfort they seek
short-lived, momentary, fleeting
a glass of lukewarm milk before bed
a hot bathtub after a worn-out day
that warmth cannot redefine the kismet
nor change the problems they face
just two intertwining hands
dilly-dallying aimlessly and indecisively

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