I Am Here

I live under your bed but you never took time to look.
I know your secrets, every dream, every fear.
My body is swollen, guts all gone.
Nails starting to fall, I cannot take it anymore.
Step out of your bed! I want everything back.

I know it hurts to leave,

But that is how it goes.

Fear not my dear,

Because fear lives within us all. 

Chasing the Writing Bug

There are numerous opportunities for me to start bringing life to the unimaginable stories out of my head. But most of the time I slack off instead. Then getting annoyed at the end because of wasted hours.


Writing has always been one of my toughest frustrations (next to singing). I’m aware of how random I could be throughout the day, so I’ve got to make use of my productive hours well. However, the actual writing tends to come rarely these days. đŸ˜„ This is due to my lack of a fixed writing habit. I try to be consistent with my schedule, but distractions greet me which I embrace so openly.

Bothersome distractions

Online sites are the worst!

Continue reading

Keeping a Record

IMG_20150519_120652There is a certain form of satisfaction whenever I write down words on my journal, planner, or any piece of paper. I still enjoy (and much prefer) writing with pen/pencil and paper. If I stare on a black MS word page, my mind would wander all over the place. It could be from the things on my table or many random sites on the internet. Unlike when I just use a pen, I shall get a peaceful time alone with my notebook and just write anything down.

Many things would still be on my table, and the noise coming from the tricycles, cars, and people walking in front of our house would be there. But in this case, I feel more secured and I know that I will be finishing something. 😉

The colorful covers of these notes are also helpful in giving some inspiration. They are like pulling me to write and use them as I go on with this journey of creation. Even though I have dozens of journals and notebooks with random thoughts scribbled on the pages, I can’t seem to have to courage to share them yet. I hope someday I’ll find the strength to read through them again and finally let them out of the pages.


A hundred and a half of pages a day
Eats a lot of time a man could take
But through this, his life continues to break
Waiting for the book that would repay
A man’s stolen heart from the deep lake

Poetry is the collection of the best words the man could keep
Reaching as far or as deep as any hand would seek
Through the one thousand four hundred and forty minutes at the peak
Dreaming and scratching, unimportant passengers come to leap

Words come and go, through the mind and mouth of younger souls
Searching for the exit sign, trying their best to crawl
Broken nails and calloused flesh, don’t bother a bit on each fall
The end is better resting on the hope of all weeping call

Once he thought that he could really be
Then reality knocks and breaks all of him
Cursing, lying, telling the truth for all to see
No one’s going to survive the fate to flee

This is the poetry of illusion-filled dream
Hopping as joyously as anyone would ever be