Author’s Note: A sunset got tangled in street cables above the lamps. Not a postcard-worthy view, but perhaps even more beautiful. What’s the point of faraway wonders before exploring your own backyard?
Atop my heart, where its two hills bend inward, lies the valley.
You sit astride— a stubborn knight, neither advancing, nor dismounting.
Why do you remain?
I never invited you, fearing your sword, its blade honed on our silence. I left the wicket ajar— a slit to watch you— watching me.
But three kin torches at my gate— scorched your sight, ignited your fear. You fled like a coward, left my depths unclaimed. Your halberd scraped my hollow; its echo—a cathedral bell, tolling the coarse-silk wound.
Or is it me— my longing—a magnet latching your armor, stabbing me?
It’s me. I refused to let you go. I stranded your ghost in this valley. Its shroud blinds me.
Author’s Note: I usually don’t let people in. Writing breaks that habit. I composed this poem with a specific notion, then thought about this blog—like a wicket slit opening to strangers. It’s where I create, think, and process. Sometimes poems crack my gate wide. I chose to share this one—probably for that very reason. Yet lately, I find myself questioning the purpose of this space at all.
If I revealed my raw self to you, peeled the makeup, stripped the cloth from my body, Bare— unfolding every crease carved in silence by time— the eternal butcher, dragging a dull blade across my skin.
Would you meet my eyes, lock them in yours, and embrace all I surrender? Or would your gaze slip, chasing youth in someone else?
Would your fingers trace the map my face has become, my eyes—Sirius at midnight— guiding you into the gorge where I’ve buried all my love?
If you leaned closer, beyond the façade of scars, you’d hear the crackle. Would you let its warmth burn through your defenses?
Yet, if you falter and turn away, my heart—a resilient pendulum, will endure stabs of every sway. With or without your love, in all that I am, I will remain.
Author’s Note: This piece took nearly a year to complete. It demanded brutal honesty, many attempts and revisions. It’s about aging, the courage to face it, and the fire of love that refuses to die—even when love itself has long been buried. For anyone who’s felt this way: this is for you. Only a few will understand.
I’ll probably tweak it again someday, but for now, this is it.
I was meant to bloom— unfurl, sing, and shine, not be tended or trimmed, not molded for duty and possession.
I was meant to bloom, not decorate an entropic cave, not drizzle in vain someone’s emptiness with the sweetness of my effervescent petals— infusing their spoiled, sour strands.
Even in the drought, I drank rainbows through my veins. My tendrils breathed warmth into soil, while the sky hid behind clumped clouds. I stretched toward muffled sunlight.
I was meant to bloom.
And then it rained, not to nourish or cleanse. Poured. Unstoppable— the ground swelled, my petals sagged, roots dislodged, my garden drenched to swamp.
Yet I stand, sturdy but hollow. They nest in my shade, leech my youth, and — call it love.
Slowly, quietly, I sink.
Still—
Dreaming of butterflies, even a wilt can reach the sun. Single ray ignites its desire.
Butterflies will come And I will bloom… as I was always meant to.
Author’s Note: Not everyone who stands tall is thriving. Not every flower is there for you to pick. For every time you bloomed in silence, offered too much, or were mistaken… This one is personal. 🌸
Author’s Note: This piece may look familiar, but like passion itself, poetry evolves. I removed the unrefined version a while ago because it felt unfinished, incomplete. I let it fully breathe, then reshaped it—until it became what it was always meant to be. This is the latest version, more final. Though still… insatiable. 🙂
I don’t want to think what’s right— what’s right anymore?
I’ve been doing all the right things: behaved right, got the right degree, married the right guy…
Still, I ended up in the wrong place— or the wrong end of the right place, at most.
A precise blueprint, yet wayward— disarrayed, veering off the ideal design.
I’m incomplete. Misaligned.
Isn’t that right? For me—it’s wrong.
Why is it wrong? I did all the right things?
Why then, amidst all these rights, do I feel misplaced— a lucky penny lost in a dry desert, gleaming in the sun, yet inconspicuous in the sand— Blindly chasing paths marked right or wrong.
Incongruous.
Why is it wrong, doing what feels right?
I’m tempted to do what’s wrong— forbidden, There’s a thrill in rebellion, a treasure awaiting discovery in the shadows.
But what if it’s not wrong? And perhaps even right— right for me.
So, if I do wrong things, maybe at least I’ll finally feel right.
Author’s Note: As the New Year unfolds, a wave of fresh inspiration has washed over me, imprinting new ideas. This is my very first attempt at writing a Haiku (though I’m not sure I like it), and it feels like a way to capture my hopes and plans for a new beginning. I wish this spark will illuminate the dark path ahead of me in 2025.
Dreams, my child, are treasures deep, Cradled in your heart where they safely sleep. While coins and jewels swell with rust, Your dreams are the riches that defy all dust.
On a tree of wishes, tags swing high, Soft tears whispered to the everlasting divine sky. Gold may glitter, diamonds may gleam, But nobody can ever steal a sweet childhood dream!
Health is wealth, the wise declare, Yet, dreams have wings beyond compare. So dream your dreams, chase them far, A priceless gift—a magical shooting star.
Your dreams are fires that never die, A beaming lighthouse—guiding you through the night. So dream big, dear child, the world is wide, Open your heart, let your dreams soar with pride.
I stare into the mirror. I see myself—those worried eyes I know so well. “What do you fear?” I ask. “I’m afraid to take this step,” she replies. “Don’t. I’ll be with you holding your hand.”
She doesn’t trust me but begins to climb. Step by slow step. I watch her go up beyond my reach. My legs tremble. My heart pounds in my ears. She reaches the highest highs, I can barely see her.
“I’m scared,” she screams as she looks down. “How will I get down?” “Jump,” I encourage her. “Impossible! I will die!” “You won’t. I will catch you,” I assure.
She hesitates. “I can’t! I’m terrified!” she cries. “Just trust me,” I whisper. “If you fall, I’ll fall… with you.”
Her quivering feet slide to the edge, I catch my breath, She plunges into the unknown. First, like a rock tossed in the wind, Then she unfolds her arms— Delicate wings, unsure they will hold her, Yet she spreads them wide in growing confidence, As feathers grow from her skin.
I hint a smile and behold her glide, A bird soaring on a gale. I extend my arms into the air. “What if I can’t do this?” I doubt myself. Terror embraces me from behind. “If you fail, I fail too,” Her mutter echoes in my heart.
She lands within me, I ripple like a drop cascading into a lake, Peacefully blending into placid waters.
Was it her or me? Who truly made it?
I stare into the mirror. I see myself—those worried eyes I know so well. “What do you fear?” she asks. “I’m scared to take this step.” “Don’t. I’ll be with you holding your hand,” she replies.
I climb with trembling legs. She will catch me, she’ll find a way— As I once did. I’ll find my wings… Just as she once found hers.
