We are beings living on borrowed time,

We populate but a miniscule part of space,

Yet we see ourselves as all-powerful deities.


We think highly of our meager accomplishments,

Of everything that our sentience has brought us to,

For eons, we had exerted dominion on this tiny planet.


But there are worlds far beyond the extent of our reach, foreign to us in every way,

That is the Outside; that far incomprehensible space we deemed devoid of anything,

That which is not anything mere worms like us could even dream to imagine.


For centuries men had tried vigorously to fathom the cosmos,

Thousands of years of inquiry and yet we have not the slightest clue,

Little do we know that our curiosity would lead us to our own undoing.


Our dreams of being the conquistadors of outer stars,

Our dreams of having complete knowledge of everything,

Will one day cease to be—as we too, will reach extinction.


old news papers
with old news
of long famines
and massacres
there’s nothing new

old news papers
fathers dying
mothers crying
children killing
there’s nothing new

old books
old poetry
old people
with their old thoughts
and their wrinkly skin
covering their weakly bones
talking about
old news papers
and old news

there’s nothing new

I. Dread

Some of us are divided inside, and

the two sides are at war, with

each other.
They are in an age long deadlock,

and both sides refuse to

The battle ground is the soul, and

while the warring sides feel no pain,

the soul always suffers.
The battles could last for days, months, or more;

It could also be so short, like how night falls in the

And we know wars lead to nothing but blood and tears, devastation and destruction; it is everything we fear, but denial is pretention.
And we all know the pain of losing friends, and maybe losing lovers; but the dread of this war is far worse than anything we could imagine.
This war rages on even through rain or drought,

through heat and cold, and through anything in between; its continuous, this I have no doubt.
Some see pleasure in destroying, some weep, and mourn, and grief; some fight with all their might, some flee and never to be found; but in the end all would break apart and crumble, like old leaves on the ground.
Some of us are divided inside, and

the war between them rages on; but

whatever happens in this war, whatever

the outcome maybe;
I beg of you to carry on, for

[soon] we would all be free.

i think that

it’s funny actually
when i write sad poems
people think i’m sad
people think that writing
is reality put into words

its also funny how i’m in love
with a girl who paints
she paints chaos
her paintings are chaotic
harmonious chaos
chaos so lovely you’d think
it’s universe governed by
a set of laws

its funny how im in love with chaos
chaos is something people avoid
and where did that avoidance get you?
heartbreaks and lonely nights
i feel sorry for those who despise chaos

i will laugh at those that avoid chaos
i laugh at those who are loving
i laught at myself for being so

I wrote a poem about you yesterday

I wrote a poem about you yesterday. I wrote down things about me and you, and I swear to anything out there, it’s not something easy to do. I don’t know how much poems I’ve written and for god knows how many girls, and this one may not be different. But this one’s ugly, because it’s the truth.

The poem was about every scenario I imagined about us. It was all the plans that we made for the future, the plans we made in my head. The you and the me in my head are lovers with nothing to separate them, a companionship of two anxious souls, en route to the abysmal fear of what’s going to happen next. It was all the things that we could do, but at the same time we don’t even know if we’d ever be. And it’s not only ugly, it’s scary, because the truth is I want us to be able to realize my fantasies.

But though it’s only in my head, when I wrote it down it felt real. It was as though I was writing down what I’ve experienced with you on a piece of paper. And that’s just what we are, a blank sheet of paper, destined to be one of the greatest love stories ever written; or thrown into the trash bin as garbage, without any accounts of us, because nothing ever happened.

And maybe it’s only my thoughts that’s been going on and on about this, while you don’t even think of me enough to start any stories of our future days. I don’t know how you feel about me, and I haven’t told you the whole truth too. And maybe that’s good enough for now, because I can’t afford to lose you.


​You’re uncertain about the things you say, I’m okay with that I guess. I don’t know what to write about so I’ll just write about that then. You know the fact that you’re uncertain makes a few bells ring in the distance. I’ve been in such and such conditions, so yours is relatable.
I’m accustomed to talking in sentences long and winding. It’s not a problem once I put it into writing, but people are annoyed if I talked this way in real life. And my life is full of lonely night walks all alone on the pavements of this small town I call my home, for now, at least until I get the hell out.
I walk through clocks ticking away around me. Sounds of kids playing cops and robbers and their parents scolding them for screaming too loud. Its a lousy sight to see, but I could make do. What’s there left to see tonight? There’s probably nothing exciting, and I’m sure theres nothing new. So I walk through clocks ticking away in the distance, and the concrete around me is unmoved.
The roads are my friends now, I guess, I’ve walked on them a lot now. I know exactly where each pebble and stone are suppose to be, and I like to kick the rocks that touch my feet. My sandals smell from all the mud I walk on, but I have no intention to wash them. And tonight would not be different, it’s going to be another lonely walk without anyone around me. Just the sound of clocks ticking, and images of you and your uncertainty.
You may not like me for being so frank, and you may just be intimidated by the sight of me. Well those who live are destined to hate, and love would only come if permitted by fate. And I walk alone tonight with images of you, and those images, and maybe you, are the things that I hate.