"Poetry is
the music of a poets mind
where words replace the notes"

Michael Creese, Landscape (2014), oil on canvas.

Michael Creese — one of my favourite artists ever.

Michael Creese, Landscape (2014), oil on canvas.

Michael Creese — one of my favourite artists ever.

Maybe this is the reason I suddenly stopped writing — not because of pain or even my muse that’s starting to crumble, but because I feel like I’m giving too much of myself to the world that doesn’t deserve to know the details.

But how can I stop when it is the only thing that keeps me sane when I head to my palace of darkness? I fill those walls of ash and gray with useless writings and meaningless musings and…

never mind.


It hurts to pick up the pen, it hurts to go near the keyboard.

Yet looking at an empty notebook page hurts more; it hurts more not to write

maxwelldpoetry; The Heartbroken Poet

Soon, if not now, you’ll look back at the days you were in clubs and bars looking or finding someone to talk to, to flirt with or maybe even score. Those are just temporary bliss, and your hangover will even stay longer than that. It is a memory that will slowly fade, for our brain is programmed to do that to make room for new memories, but the moment you do become happy, I promise you, you’ll know exactly how I’m feeling right now.

Nobody knows the true and exact meaning of happiness, but one thing’s for sure: it can only be felt by the heart.

Grow Up With Me
Keaton Henson
And while picking from pillows each feather,
let’s both stay away from the edge of the bed,
forcing us closer together.
"Violence does not always take visible form, and not all wounds gush blood."
Haruki Murakami, 1Q84 
A message from Anonymous
Who is your first friend you ever made in college?

Vienne, and after all these years, we’re still tight like super glue.

After almost a month or two of not being able to open this account, finally, I had the chance to do so. For the time being that I wasn’t able to check this blog, I made a new one over Blogger.com. I honestly thought that it could suffice my want to blog something, write something or whatnot, but I was wrong. My journal didn’t suffice as well, since they’re filled with sketches that I’ve been trying to do. 

But now I’m back and I feel like my sanity is slowly coming back as well. Truthfully, I missed Tumblr. Staying on its pages for hours ‘til end and just talking with friends and seeing some things that amuse me. But for now, this will forevermore stay as my online journal. Updates may not be as often as they were before, but I’ll still try. There’s no harm in trying anyway.

So yeah. I guess this will be the end of this post. Tata for now.

Untitled Poem No. 2

It sickens me
when I try to grab a pen and  paper
and scribble my thoughts like before.

How free I was then
before you walked in my life.
But I have to admit,
it was pain that made me function
with my ill-writing poetry —

and sappy love stories —

and mushy thoughts.

It was pain that kept me going,
it was the fuel that I needed;
the creative juices;

the discharge that my mind needed;
the food for my muse, the air for her lungs
her life —

it was everything.

All that changed on the day I met you.
Sad songs didn’t seem to bother me anymore,
although I’ve always had a liking for that.

Love songs suddenly meant a lot,
and with every thought,
every action,
every word,

all I thought about was you.

Your arms slowly caging in to me
to wrap this ill-framed physique;
lips slowly coming in like the zoom
of a camera on a wonderful film.

Just like that, metaphors, similes
and everything else in between crumbled
the same way my poems and proses did.

Because all those metaphors and similes and
everything else in between
suddenly came to life —

and it was you.

I’m in awe of your power over me
and frustrated with what you did,
for how can you be the lowest of my writing,
when you’re the best thing that happened to me?