​When I’m gone,
Do you promise to remember what the sound of my voice felt like? 
How my fingers slipped into your palm
How your wrist felt my pulse.
Remember the way you smiled
When I inked you in my poetry,
When every word had something to speak of you.
Remember the gleam in my eyes
As they reflected yours, 
How my name echoed with yours.
Remember the way I espied you
A way none else could
With belief more than yours on yourself. 
Remember my warmth, when you’re stranded out cold
Remember every second, when you had my hand to hold. 
When I bid adios, when all of me will fade, Every shade, 
My voice, my image, my essence, 
Do you promise to keep me safe
In your Reminiscence? 

~ Words Above Swords ~

Kindness is a sin

​I plucked flowers from my tiara, scattered them upon the graves.
I bled and drops were dropped,
to let all know,longanimity isn’t theirs alone.
With my tears, I stained every sheet,
For the callous to know, that sentient lives still exist.
My song emanated as I traversed through every ground
To let poignancy know, what hope must sound.
Left imprints on the sand wherever I tread,
To set an example, so that people could follow my footsteps,
But here I am, getting chased by demons instead.

~ Words Above Swords ~

A Change, for the Sake of Bliss

My life’s book I wrote
Filled it with melancholic anecdotes,
But he was the only jubilant chapter
Worth changing my theme for

~ Words Above Swords ~

Shameless, or Courageous?

​Not your fault…it just doesn’t matter anymore to you. Don’t deny, you don’t have to… my fault, as always. But it isn’t the same anymore, you know.  I touched your face, but it isn’t the same. It’s cold, as cold as I’ve turned you. No wonder my fault, and I mean it when I say it. I look into your eyes, but they aren’t deep anymore. Feels like you’re trying to block the rays emerging from my eyes from entering yours. Like you’re trying your best to resist everything. But I know it’s all my fault, for real.

What do I call it? Remorseless or repenting? That after all I put you through, I’m still touching your skin in hope that I’ll turn you warm again.

Is it barefaced of me or is it brave of me? That after everything I’ve done,  I still look into your eyes without a hesitation, that I still believe that it is only me who possesses the right to do so. 

Is it Shameless of me that after all of my erromeous deeds, I still stand the courage to complain to you about this hateful situation. I really am complaining. I be pretending that I ain’t, but deep down,


Quicksand (Haiku)

Never was she lost,
‘Till peace was found in getting 
Lost amidst the dark

For she, found beauty
Beneath shadows, and never
Came to blinding lights.

She was not found when
Someone called her, but, when some-
one tried to escape

For she had escaped 
The quicksand named world,
And never returned.

I don’t even know what I apologized for

I don’t even know what I apologized. But, I apologized because I felt like doin’ it. I apologized because I was sure of you not understanding my point. You have always been so illogical that my logic refuses to confront you. I apologized because I apologized when it wasn’t my fault. I apologized for nothing because something meant everything. I apologized for not hiding anything from you, for telling the truth.I apologized because you’re a mistake. I apologize for hoping that you’ll change someday. I apologize for probably going on apologizing the rest of my life for nothing. 

But, don’t you think you should be apologizing too for making yourself someone whom I prefer apologizing rather than trying to express my point?

The Perfect Listener

Sometimes, you have this strange feeling, where the voice in your head exhorts you to speak out and flood your eyes in front of someone. Someone who would listen to you and cosset you. You go to that “someone” and pour your heart out, but somehow, you’re not feeling any better, and quite on the contrary you’re disappointed. Well…. because you were imbued with the hope of receiving sympathy in return, and it didn’t turn out the way you were expecting it to.

Allow me to advise you to be selective in choosing that “someone”. Wouldn’t it be queer if you mourned about flood in your city infront of a resident of Venice? Or, if you complained about falling temperatures to a citizen of Greenland? Wierd, eh? What I wish to tell you is that, when you tell your feelings to people, not everyone feels the way you want to be felt. Confiding into someone who has suffered more than you is not a good pick, I would say.

Getting pricked by a thorn is rough to you, not to someone who has spent nights on beds of needles. The scorching sun is disturbing to you, not to someone who has walked on embers. For those who have suffered more than you, your sufferings will only seem like a jest and all they will have to offer to say to you is “I’ve seen worse”.

I don’t think that’s quite what you want to hear.

The perfect person to confide to is he who has seen only rose petals, for whom imagining its thorns is painful. It is he who has seen the sun only through the dark screens of sunglasses. Your sufferings will haunt him. He won’t be able to feel your pain, but will feel its intensity. He is the perfect listener you have been craving.