i have to admit,
it gets lonely.
your multi-faceted joy
all reflecting towards me.



light flickering,
lips quivering,
a silence,
a halt.

blinded ears,
deafened eyes,
all these years,
hidden cries.

What it Means to Build II

If this is what the power of writing can do; to purify our minds and our hearts with words we never knew we could speak, then I don’t ever plan on stopping.

What it Means to Build I

I may be broken, but I am slowly taking down the crumbling walls of regret I have built around myself, replacing them with words for bricks I have arranged with such eloquence and scrutiny, as it heals and shapes me into the person I truly want to become. Maybe to build does not necessarily mean to use bricks or cement. Maybe to build can be accomplished by using a sheet of paper and a pen. If that’s the case, then maybe to build is something I’m built for.


pyrus seeds are not complete without its pear.
hope is not hope without despair.


Tell me,
am I hard to love?
For they only prance around
in the spirit of emptiness;
earning nothing but self-amusement
and the loss of opportunities
as years go by.

Tell me,
am I hard to love?
For we, the amalgamation
of one ghost,
two efforts,
and three nothings are
among our kin.
Bound by blood,
but not by thoughts,
or even the slightest bit of interest.

Tell me,
am I hard to love?
For I, who walks
along the corridors
of dreams
wearing masks
of slightly varied
is penniless,
and hurting.

Tell me,
am I hard to love?
For I am turning my back on all
the answers that would save me
from all the suffering, loss,
and despair
I wish
to erase.

Phase Card 52

I am lost.
I am faceless.
I am nothing
but an amalgamation of phases.

I am not nothing,
but I am also not complete-
ly something.

I am.
I become.
Over time,
I become something else.

Something else,
I become.
Something else,
I am.
I was.

I am lost.
I am faceless.
I am nothing
but an amalgamation of phases.


I want [to help] you.

On Self-Portraiture

I am a heavy sleeper,
and yet here I am, waking
up early in the morning
just to get the lighting right.

Early mornings fascinate me;
the pastel sky, the
roosters, and the birds
meshing together poorly and
singing together in awful damn
I like it.
I still sleep through it.

I bring out my old Minolta,
pop open a fresh roll of film,
and give the canister a quick sniff.
They say it’s not good for you,
but I say it’s what makes a photo,
and I think it smells sweet.

Preparation usually takes much longer;
picking from a wide array of lenses,
setting up the flash unit,
mounting the right tripod,
et cetera,
et cetera.

I only have one lens for my camera,
my beloved nifty fifty portrait lens.
The sunlight is my flash unit, and
everything is my tripod.
Bare-bones set-up, you could say,
but it gets the job done,
I like it, I think.
I like it.

The sunlight hits my bookshelf perfectly.
I place a stool just in front of it,
where I would sit.
In front of me is a bed,
and there’s no place I can place my camera
in order to get that perfect shot.
I don’t like this.
Moving on.

Going up the third floor,
I see my mother’s worktable
drenched in the delicate morning light.
I stood where I would leave
my camera to take my photo.
Looking through the viewfinder,
I saw nothing but perfection.
I fix the composition,
apply the rule of thirds,
and align the lines within the frame.
All of which I’ve done with myself as the tripod.
I placed the camera on the windowsill,
where it would take my photo,
but now everything is all wrong.
Where the camera sits,
the composition
the framing, and the lines,
everything, wrong.
I don’t like this.
Moving on.

Who would’ve thought.
An opportunity for a good shot
vanishes quicker than thirty six frames.

I head to the bathroom.
Screw the lighting.
Standing before me is
a reversed version of myself.
I have yet to see myself
the way others see me,
but this is as close as I’ll get.
Not that I care or anything.

Being the perfect tripod that I am,
I fix the composition,
apply the rule of thirds,
and align the lines in the frame.
Ready to take the shot,
I wind the film, unsatisfied.
Wind, release, click.

Why did I even wake up
so early just to fail to get things right?
I don’t like this.
Good morning,
no— it’s good afternoon,
but for me, it’s good night.

i lose my voice when i look at you
can’t make a noise though i’m trying to
tell you all the right words
waiting on the right words
just another lovesick afternoon
black butterflies and déjà vu
hoping for the right words
waiting for the right words

black butterflies & déjà vu – The Maine