Drowning Again

A ghost resurfaces

from the waters of the mind,

missing my warm kiss.



Running barefooted

on ragged wild grass,

a child ecstatically screams

as he feels

the breeze of softness

and the soothing warmth

of a rejoicing sun.

Flowers bloom

through gracious rituals,

the waves fervently crash

to the shores of relaxation,

and the colors of fate

turned from gray to sky-blue.

The Summer We Shared

Hold me

under the subtle heat

of the afternoon sun.

I want to feel

the warmth of your tanned body

kissed by sand and sea waves.

And we will hold hands

that we use to fix our brown hair

tousled by western winds

that carry the scents of flora.

At night, under the shade of tropics,

we will lie down peacefully

and look at the vast ocean of stars.


Reminiscing the start of us,

the beauty of this simplicity,

the sweet promise of souls.

The Possibility

via Daily Prompt: Baby

Born under the feast day of St. Joseph,

I saw the possibility of being a father.

Yet a bitter memory recurs every time-

the tainted blood unfit to the society

flowing in the letters of my surname.


Now I see the vast differences.


He took care of a Son despite its blessed origin

while my father never know how to raise me.

He helped his Son in building his character

while my father made a big crack in my soul.

He loved his immaculate Wife without malice

while my father took my mother’s blessed wings.


I cursed myself,

before troubled waters and raging skies

that I will stop the cycle.

The blood will remain in my system

till the death of mine.


As I reach another dimension

and see the alternate ending-

a newborn child, my son-

I will carry him on my arms

and whisper in his tiny ears,

“For me to save your soul,

I decided not to make you

in the conundrums of the earth.”


We used to draw our dreams

in multitude of colored wax sticks,

the rainbow’s possibilities.

As time stealthily passed by

our aging bodies,

our hands grew tired of reveries

and threw the crayon boxes

in the pit of immaturity.

We work and earn money

as we lost ourselves to the expectations

of a strict society filled with standards.

Until we felt the stress crawling

on our haggard faces,

we decided to pause and breathe.

Then, we returned to the box of memories

where our scribbles were buried.

We dug them up, removed the dirt,

and slowly we smiled.

Now we remember the reasons

why bliss is in the hands

of an ignorant child.

Soft Spoken

Soft Spoken


I was a hush

in a forest of noise

where roars mean power.


I lost myself

in the wilderness

of pain.


But the winter came,

blanketting the activity

of ravage.


I opened my mouth

and let out

a stream of voices.


The forest shuddered

and discovered

its alter ego.


I am

a hush

of power.