in which the words that I desperately want to utter has choked and has left me gasping for air; I breathe but only to be drowned over and over again. Amdist forced letters and spaces, I still find the solace albeit ephemeral, stolen and candid like a bandit in the wee hours of the night. In the supposition of paying it forward, here’s something to some man who was once–hopes still is–an inspiration. Thank you and happy birthday.


tl;dr: a poem written on the notion of “being in love”, unrequitted love that is. Title read as eleven-eleven P.M. Would love to hear what you guys think and so do chirp in the comments section 🙂



Words will always be just that:

w o r d s

that will never be enough

those three words…

One day, someday

I’ll be over you;

but tonight til


let me love you.

Let me cry in your arms

for I find

peace, just like how





Soon enough


I’m grateful through

the day my eyes close,

through the day

the words still cut

but do not bleed.

Not anymore.



White Flower

Strangled by time and obnoxiousness.

Today, hear the voices of summer on the first

day of you; however the rain, you’re still special.

Indeed. If otherwise, please let me so—

the contrary of your pity,

           is nothing but your beauty.

On par with; or most likely a seraph yourself:

Long, silken, beautiful skin;

That glows beyond tolerable.

Raven brows and lashes;

Those arch and fan impeccably reasonable.

Deep, dark eyes;

Those say more than fathomable.

Cerise and plump lips;

Those curve and open obscurely accessible.

Inwardly, all these but nothing;

I can only mouth these to you.

Your mirth, it’ll live.

However, while you’re gone away.

In all honesty, this is all but you,

And I beg for you to rethink of things—

My own enigmatic shades of white.


-belated happy birthday dear :*