Writer I

writings inspired by summer

Don’t forget to tend your garden. It has been yearning for you. Your dreams, hopes and simple joys Don’t abandon them. It is time to revisit your garden . Your younger self in a different body She has been waiting for you. People will say, “you are no longer a kid” but you can still frolic under the sun or dance in the rain. Be a sanctuary but protect what is yours. 01/16/25 It is a miraculous thing for poets to unearth the words that clearly describe a phenomenon or moment. It is their pleasure when someone or something among creation kindles them. It is nearly impossible not to be mesmerized with their orchards where metaphors and symbolisms blossom; however, beyond the façade is a collection of fragments. Catching them for the first time is like noticing the cracks of the roof’s surface but accepting them is watching the sunrays peek through the gaps. It is impulsive to conclude your infatuation when you have merely known them through their piece’s first line. the brightest colors T...

Back home I was so quick to wear my heart on my sleeve to the point that I overlooked discernment. Haven’t I learned that it took me a decade to build genuine ones? I was so distracted by the glittery dress that I forgot how basic necessities are keeping me sane. It is always good to share a table with another but let me come back home and dine with my kin. Longest nights Here is something from one writer to another. a good cry a remnant from the longest night Spectators would not know for they did not read your initial draft or see your “messy” handwriting which is alright to me. Onlookers would not stare for too long for they have already seen you in your gleam but I would because a piece requires familiarity with an aching part of the heart. Here is a note from the writer to a few people–her reader and passersby. The process and the fight are without pretty faces for it may involve weeping and pleading. There is always a heartbroken state before a masterpiece. One would not understa...

Prologue is a collection of prose about making sense of the past. "We'll cross the bridge when we get there." Perspective Everything looks dissimilar now that I see it in the third-person point of view. I know people would display a different version of themselves depending on who they are with. It is easier to voice out when I don't own those feelings of longingness. Perspective is finally understanding that most of the time your friend just needs to see you sitting across the table in a small café with them. In the picture Something boring only becomes appealing once it is made into a movie scene. However, we don't have to reach that level to understand that our days are worth living. The in-between moments are what I constantly compose about... and I can barely remember them without you in the picture. Your art It is scary to bring your art out into the open  because simply talking about it can already be uninteresting to some but you never know, what you are ...

compilation of my freestyle poems written throughout June interim unlearning my past self but never unloving my younger version I’ve noticed that my previous proses would depict the emotions I had during that season. To look back is still not easy. While being steadfast, I won’t lose my succor. I wanted to keep both vulnerability and strength. During the interim, I’ll delight in solace. rainy season Now, we pine for the sun, the clouds and the clear blue sky. the thrumming sounds resemble a lullaby Now, we miss the people and the kind of people we are when they were around. It will never be the same. That is the sad news. It will never be the same. That is the good news. from wanting to disregard everything to doing what it takes to remember The season is a prompt and it kindles nostalgia and my reminiscences. companion when you and a friend from your childhood grew apart from each other when a friend decides to fly to another country when you and a colleague turned f...

compilation of freestyle poetry accumulated throughout May Early rains damped shoes foggy windows the splash from puddles brought by the inevitable yet early rains the sound from your radio The mud and plash no longer bum you up as long as you keep your umbrella steady; as long as you hold your chin up. You’re prized even during the days you’re still learning how to love. contagious laughter lending our ears for stories I couldn’t think of any better way to celebrate life. Can’t change their minds The place which used to be foreign to you has become a home. There are places and even people who used to be acquainted to you but are now strangers to you. I’m trying my best to be comfortable with variation I’m trying my best to be comfortable with gloom and delight co-occurring. New circumstances come so often arriving every other year and sometimes even more frequent No year is ever alike. Some situations won’t go back to the way they used to be. I need to be accustomed with disconnection...

recollections written during the dusk Thunder Thunder snaps no longer frighten me yet lighting still does. the gust of the wind the constant sundown freeing the heaviness of the clouds inducing consolation soothing a wounded heart washing the roads I’ve been back and forth clearing the lanes to be revisited The heavy rain greeting the night with its pitter-patter after weeks of drought It felt like a song I’ve been yearning to listen to. Summer rain damped shoes foggy windows the splash from puddles brought by the inevitable yet early rains the sound from your radio The mud and plash no longer bum you up as long as you keep your umbrella steady; as long as you hold your chin up. You’re prized even during the days you’re still learning how to love. contagious laughter lending our ears for stories I couldn’t think of any better way to celebrate life. Change The place which used to be foreign to you has become a home. There are places and even people who used to be acquainted to you but a...

poems Loose to step up and to step away Be humane by letting them be. Be a friend to your mind by letting go of that hand. “I think I didn’t do well today.” The familiar voice which you heard was the persona of your prose. Since then, I have been running to the One who can handle a bruised heart. to step out for a respite to disremember but not tolerate Never hand over something delicate to those who keep dropping their fragile vases. Clouds Never disremember the lessons. Some of them used to be your people. still missing those late-night drives Slow days are saccharine after the tiring days. Some downpours are heavy. Some are light while others are early. the condition of the heart the infrequent rains You know it is going to pour out when you watch the clouds but the sunshine doesn’t guarantee  the absence of weight.  Sunsets Why do Sundays have the most picturesque sunsets? It is hard to catch the most vivid skies. That just proves that not every fetching memory can be capt...

new compilation of prose and freestyle poetry I normally try to compile or post the compilation of what I wrote monthly. In case you don't know, I already published one on my blog but because of certain situations, I felt the need to write while I process disappointments and reflect on them. The title of the compilation is like that because it was written during the time I started to learn to value vulnerability once again. It is also written during the reoccurring circumstances where I felt fragile. The pain won't got away every time we write or read something but it can be a reminder that moments when we feel disheartened can be occasions where we can create something worth sharing. Being inspired doesn't have to be exclusively for those who are "in love". It is for every human in every phase of life. The guest Words can be weaponizing. They either redo or undo the hurt. learning about mankind in the hardest way possible I’ve written clauses before weeks went by...