Will You?

Will you hurt if I leave?

Will you try to stop me?

Will you find me if I’m gone?

Will you hold me like you used to?

Will you keep your promises?

Will you ever love me like I do?

Will you say ‘I love you’ like the first time it felt real?

Will you stay if I do?

Will you?


These I Have Loved

These I have loved;

Gooey yellowish thawed slime; the reeked stench of a cheese;

Brownish sometimes pitch black liquid; sizzling in a big coffee mug;

The twinging sensation from a pungent culinary; sweats of joy and satisfaction;

The purring sound from a ball of furs;

The rhythm of a piano and flute;

The petrichor of a heavy rain; freshly damped earth;

The sound of tranquility – in aesthetic forms of soul;


The smell of books; grayish white into moldy pages;

A group of impregnable people; humorous and loyal.

Love; friendship;

Memories from another time;

Life; Truth;

These I have loved.

Inspired by The Great Lover (1915) by Rupert Brooke



I remembered that night.

The first time that we met,

you smiled at me,

my heart pulsated.

I remembered that day.

The first time we ever talked,

your voice was so gentle,

my body shimmered.

I remembered that morning.

The first time we laughed together,

your eyes shone so bright,

my head spun in circle.

It was a quixotic scheme,

that I will never erase.

One day you disappeared.

Where are you?

I need you!

Every time I kept saying goodbyes,

you wouldn’t let me.

You were there once again,

blocking my way.

I was trapped,

for the second time.

I was settled by your affection.

But you wouldn’t let me.

Then you were gone again.

I tried to run away.

You were suddenly right behind me,

pulling me into a deep trance.

I was in frenzy for the third time.

I pleaded.

I begged you to stay.

I didn’t want to disappear,

I didn’t want you to.

You would not listen,

would you?

Before answering,

you were gone again the next time I opened my eyes.


Leave me,

or love me!


I knew you were scared.

I knew we both were.

We were lost.

But we could find a way,

I know we would.

But it’s too late, isn’t it?

What are we?

We can stop pretending.

We can try.

What’s the hurt from trying?

We got nothing to lose.

Or did we?


stop this whatever we are doing!

Whatever we are now!

Be gone,

if you wish.

Don’t come back!

Don’t ever come back!

I’m begging you.



She is angry.

She is terrified.

She is overjoyed.

She is sad.

She is exhausted.

She feels like everything is impossible.

She sees no color.

She hears no cheer.

She feels no love.

She is hiding in the corner,


She is running through crowds,


She is standing under the pouring rain,


She is lost her own ego.

She is something the world forgot.

She has no hands to hold.

She is hurting.

She is empowered.

She feels alive.

She is dying.

She blames herself for everything that happens.

She loves herself,

blaming the world for leaving her behind.

She loves the pain.

She hates the gooey,


warm red ooze,

when she loses herself.

She is just an out-lander.

She is just trying to fit in.

She is just an ordinary girl.

She just wants to be normal.

But she can’t,

because the devil inside her head,

had consumed all her sanity.

Nothing can stop her.

Nothing can cure her.

Nothing will ever be the same.


she gives in to the pain,

and let her body vaporized,

into nothing but dust.

Interlude 2

A hope is what makes people dream. To dream is to set a goal, a goal for achievement. The only process that can create a tangible triumph is a conviction of self-control. There is failure, which is a deterioration of success you verbally recognize. People telling other people that there is a hope you have persisted a life in cavernous. Seemingly to get back up is another way of breaching and likely to be futile. Because submerging in anguish lures the attention in and that way people can be so enamored. What will it be for a dream to be set and to be pursuit? A harm comes within the process of chivvying and guarantees a smile of honor. But what if you fall down and you are not keen enough to get back up? I mean, it is never too late to start everything from scratch. That hope is never bliss; it is the form of repudiation in a soft argument.

Interlude 1

A baby is a reminder to cherish every inch of adversity, to connect one life to another, to secure the sin of the past. Parents are the help for it to stand up, the only reason its life is demolished, the only cure of a loss state of mind. A life is the vessel of age and maturity, a crockery of the sweetness of times. Its heart is the enemy, the killing zone, a bomb that can calcified in anytime it’s not ready to. What life has got to do with hearts if people only use their states of mind to reflect their own words? People are hypocrites. They have thousands of faces and never showed one, whereas the masks dissolved and it fused into their shallow souls. People are irrational delusion creatures with the body of a human and the sense of animals. How can they survive the Amazon of their own egos and apathy?

In The Night

When you are afraid of the dark,

whisper my name.

When you are feeling lonely,

reach me in your dream.

When you find yourself crying,

I’ll be there for you.

In the night when everybody is sleeping,

we’ll collide with the sound of peace.

In the night when the sky is Federal,

my presence will emerge along the moon.

In the night I’ll be watching you sleep.

In the night I’ll fall in love with you all over again.

In the night I’ll be yours once more.

In the night,

everything is different.

Sweetness of The Night

Calling out from afar – it seeks your name.

Biting you in the back of the tongue,

feeling its juice enter inside,


You stab at another bite.

Feeling desire.

Buds wrapped in buzz.

Sprung from powdered sugar shrubs,

and late night tongues,

that roll over into breakfast.

Bell rung,

and naked dissolve into

mastering mouthfuls of

warm bites and nibbles of shots coming.

That saturate lips,

seasoned to teasing.

The sweetness out of sugar hits the spot,

and is left full,




for nothing more.

Credit for my dearest blogger / friend, Anthony Mize

Check his blog! He’s super awesome and he’s very good in creating poems.

This one is his. I challenged him to write a poem about the hardest topic that I could think of. My first thought was “Oh, Funnel Cake!!!!!!!” (who doesn’t love it?), and HE TOOK the challenge. LOL  AND turned out, he really made a good one out of it.

So, here my friend! Your masterpiece……….

Ps: I didn’t change anything because I want it to be original. LOL thank you!!!!

The Meadow

Green grasses and colorful wildflowers.

I see them waltzing with the breezing air,

using the sounds of the wind’s direction.

It is like living in a house with a soft ground,

with a green rug full of dew drops,

and the most bluest roof so high above my head,

with an invisible illumination of bright light.

At night, all is dark and hazing.

But I can touch the sky now.

The invisible illumination of bright light is now visible.

Red, blue, yellow, purple, and green

all in one blurry and complex line.

It is like a long snake,

moving slowly towards me,

and I reach it with my bear hands but I feel nothing.

The northern lights, is it called?

Yeah, they are all everywhere above my head,

enchanting me to go to sleep.

The sounds of beautiful creatures become a lullaby to my ears.

The howling of a wolf,

the hoo-hoo sounds that an owl makes from somewhere beyond the trees,

the crickets make sounds too.

They are my nightingales,

and I don’t want them to stop.

Keep singing, my friends!

We are the dwellers of this earth.

Let us be nocturnal,

let us witness the parade of lights along this meadow’s taste.

This meadow, my friends, is our home.

Home, Family, and Myself

Home is supposed to be the only place where you want to rest your head.

Home is supposed to be where family gets together.

Family is supposed to be one of the vessels you can rely on.

Family is supposed to be the place where secrets are shared and sorrows are obscured.

There is no I among family in a home.

There is only we.

We are supposed to be a family.

I am supposed to be a member.

But we and are not one.

Myself is the one to take care of on its own.

You are the ones that supposed to be.

When myself demands the license to do as one wants,

no rights to be given and a hex you label it.

When myself pleaded the love of a family,

no mercy should be delineated and an enmity you turn over in one’s mind.

What kind of home where the war is between you and myself as supposed to be a family called? 

No home is supposed to be a death penalty of its own self.

No home is supposed to be a punishment for being born.

No home worth a life when one broken soul is still being annihilated.