mama

Mama, answer me, how can emptiness become so heavy?

I mean, I have been alone and independent—trying to conceal the loneliness with my own idea of pleasure. Until now, I could still feel every man’s finger that touched my skin, the heat that they’ve caused me, the new day of hopelessness and the second-rate life. Who wouldn’t want indulgence despite of those things? But no, you can’t enlighten me, Mama. You never enlightened me..or at least tried to. All my life, I thought mothers are capable of making their child invincible but why are you so different, Mama? You have just been making me vulnerable. I would not mind moving in this apartment which, for other people, is a sex den. I would not mind them talking lame things about me and you..but what I really mind is you, of all the people, considering me as the ‘devil’. Everyone can blame me for having a grudge on you since you are still my mother. But why is the world so unfair? Like a trash, you ditched me as your daughter..and it was still fine because you being religious permit everyone to believe that I was the sinful one. Perhaps you are right.

I am doing horrible things under this roof and this is all because of you, Mama.

I am full of hate and anger that even my own sister disgusts me. This is all because of you, Mama.

You will never know how it feels like to be looked at like some kind of beast every time I walk out that room. I may get the pleasure I want but the remorse, after that, pierces my insides. I have a choice, but I chose to be rogue. You, on the other hand, did not have a choice but to choose your daughter over false beliefs, yet still preferred to leave me to hell.

Shame on you for shaming me.

Shame on me for shaming you.

You emptied me.. and now I feel so burdened. Thanks a lot, Mama.

lame thing over finer things

The universe has showered wondrous things
All of them—except his eyes—
Are the lives of starry nights.
They (his eyes) are dull and blunt
Who shall want their world to be drab?


A picture of his face is not worthy of this pen’s ink
Nor this stained paper from my old years.
The universe has given us wondrous things
All of them are marvelous and fine
Except him—my own world I named ‘life’.

wishful dreaming

Someday, we’ll pass by the tallest buildings of the city—together—with your eyes on the road and mine; you’ll carefully maneuver the steering wheel while we sing along to our favorite songs on the radio. I’ll glance at you with contentment as you squeeze my hand, and I’ll look from the rear-view mirror to the tinted window; I’ll quite see my reflection but the tears won’t be visible. I’ll not be able to decipher it, but I’ll have been feeling it running down my cheeks. Then I’ll realize that it’ll be the most beautiful yet most painful dream I’ll ever have.

you are you

I’ve gone to places where
I felt of turning into both
a newcomer and an outcast
I’ve met people who
made me feel both
relevant and non-existent
I’ve waited and hoped
and let myself drift into
other people’s worlds;

yet realized that those places aren’t
my home, and
those people aren’t
me

a writer who barely writes

I have all what I need—
a neat and clean paper
a pen, a nice pen perhaps
the stars that inspire me
a lot
of skies that make me dream
of extravagant things;
I have all what I need
to write something big
to write everything I love
to write about my life;
Yet I tend to rest
my eyes that are glued
above the skies and stars
Yet I tend to rest
these hands that are less
tired than my mind—
where countless musings
stay and make love;
Am I really a writer?
Perhaps I am.