Bide One’s Time

i wait without a doubt

merely for what seems like decades,

i did not bother to hesitate,

but for every date,

it slowly decimates

my inner strength of having to wait.

i told myself to keep it up

and look at the eternal bright side,

even the night sky

burst with shimmering dots

is helping me not to rot

while i’m wide awake

to resume the days

and not lose my faith.

then, there was a moment

where i don’t want to wait

because i became another bait

waiting to be devoured

by wandering fishes

of the peaceful lake,

the hook jabbed through me

was like my heart put at stake

and the crimson pouring out,

it was spread across the lake.

this time, i didn’t have to wait.

i did it for my own’s sake.

but it felt like i’ve made

a huge mistake,

even during the late hours,

i entered my mind’s gate

and began to contemplate

on why i stopped the days

of having to wait.


Inner Twin

i had a brother,

short and scary, whatever he’s wearing

always seemed to terrify others.

without him, that bothers me.

he’s my family, but i don’t like him.

he ain’t my brother, actually.

all i know is that he lives

at the back of my head,

waiting to come out

on splendid days.


Dead Sea

i carried the pitiful living beings

with life forces heavier than my structure.

souls that contained such burdens

preventing them from soaring back freely

into the wild blue yonder,

but i chose to sail further into the sea

with a rocky body, ready to tip over,

i’ll try to endure the energy,

from my thoughtless surrounding

that might make me collide into a boulder.

it’ll be sadder than the ebony void

with no shimmering stars

to help me guide

through the vicious nights.

yet, i’ll sail so far,

they won’t even realised

the progress i have been making

when oxygen is being taken

by the fallen ones

in exchange for melancholic air

that will one day turn me into rust

or badly enough,

particles of dust.

i’ll continue to sail, though.


a complete round throughout earth

would be the last adventure i’ll ever see.

the last time I will stay afloat,

carrying my passengers.

i thought i would be like them

but i’m certain they prepared their life vests

to not descend into the deep

and to not bother about me sinking

into the bottom part of “where else could it be?”

after a long, seemingly endless trip

to the seven seas.

for now, i’ll remain to be

another lost sunken ship.



NOTE: The long, doozy title of this short story is called “The Parable of the Painter Who Never Paints” And it’s actually a parable, there’s definitely a hidden message in this.

Plus, I was inspired by my own poem called “The Untold Tale of the Painter Who Never Paints From the Optimist’s Perspective.

Nevertheless, I wrote this story for our English class’ project and we were tackling a topic about parables, fascinating.

Didn’t get a perfect score, but I’m totally alright with it.

  There was a painter who never paints. He always proclaimed his artistic values, even though, he is reluctant to paint a single being. Every time he sees a blank canvas, it burdens him as it reflects on him and his inability to paint. As a composed person, he accepts his own incompetence as he held his paintbrush closely to his heart- his opportunity shall be worth the wait. 

  The painter attended a masquerade wherein he recluse himself from the crowd. While he enjoys the solitary output of his life, someone unexpectedly interferes with his solitude; startling him. 

  “You must be a painter! Please do paint a portrait of me,” said the sophisticated vagabond.

  The painter’s eyes were wide with disbelief, he almost forgot about the fact that he is a painter. (Well, sort of.) Then, he sighed and explain his inabilities, sincerely.

  The sophisticated vagabond pats his back and philosophically enunciate the certain aspects of life. He also states his adventures and his great achievements with many stories fit for a king, despite being a homeless person, he considered himself a wanderer of freedom.

  After hearing the life story of the vagabond, the painter was crestfallen and became insecure. The vagabond felt a pinch of remorse as he noticed him. He, then, encourages the painter that he would one day be the greatest painter who ever lived.

  All that inspirational talk was overheard by the lady with the top hat, she suddenly became infatuated by the vagabond. Her oblivious-self started to arise- coming to the days of being naive with romantic pleasures. 

  When the vagabond and the painter went to their separate paths after a great colloquy, the lady appeared in front of him, take his hands and dragged him in the middle of the masquerade dance. He was in a state of confusion at first, but he decided to play along. The vagabond and the lady- a trusting pair of strong bodies, lacking in worries, performing “Pas de Deux.” 

  When their eyes met each other, her heart was racing and she was prepared to kiss him. However, a thought from the back of her mind was preventing her from doing it as she realized how oblivious she was with her purity. The lady quickly apologized to the vagabond who chuckled and compliment her dancing skills.

  Out of the eyes, there was a misanthrope who has been observing the two and mumbles to herself about how she despised them due to their childish acts that represent humanity and the insufferable ignoramus.

  After the lady and the vagabond waved farewell to one another, the lady noticed the misanthrope and approached her as she was seemingly lonely in the crowd. Suddenly, the lady grabbed the misanthrope’s hands and danced around the room.

  The misanthrope thought that it was an unpleasant thing to do, but as they kept on dancing, she found herself enjoying the music and following the rhythm which the hate could ever eradicate, but she chose not to expose such hatred.


  When the misanthrope went out to get some fresh air, she felt someone rumbling through her purse, when she turned her head, it was a gentleman.

  The gentleman tipped his top hat, “My apologies, m’lady.”

  She has an intuition that he is obviously trying to steal her money. Instead of aggressively exposing her loathe like she would often do to mortals, she generously gives the money that he was trying to snatch. The gentleman gave her an odd look as she walks away.

  “What a magnanimous human being,” the gentleman mumbles to himself as he counts the money.

  To his surprise, she gave him more than what he expected to have. With his extra money, he felt the urge to be benevolent to others in order to get rid of the guilt that has been stuck in him for almost eternity.

  As he walks along the footpath, his attention was caught by the girl who doesn’t have enough expenses to buy her meal. Looking at his money, he walk towards her and gave her the money. The famished vigorous girl was surprised and thanked him repeatedly.

  “It was my pleasure,” said the gentleman as he leaves.

  The famished girl bought her meal with a refreshment and she sat on a bench while she ravenously eats her food. Although she is seemingly healthy, her stomach was hungry while her mind wanders off thinking about the endless possibilities of having unlimited food.

  Then, a man with one and a half leg(s) came and sat beside her as the two watched the runners sticking to one another, running as if they are completing a marathon. The girl looked at the crippled man, he was wearing a running attire. 

  With curiosity, she asked, “Why aren’t you running with them?”

   The crippled man showed his leg(s), “Well, isn’t it obvious? Plus, I would rather sit here than run with those fools, I need to relax.”

  “You certainly are missing an opportunity, here take this,” the girl handed him a refreshment as she left him alone- thinking that he would reflect on his ne’er-do-well self.

  The crippled man drank his refreshment and stand on his two feet, he realised that an achievement would come at the other side if he would take a step. He began running funnily. Then, passersby saw him and began cheering and chanting. The crippled man felt the wind of courage as he break into a sprint. There were people clapping and putting their fists into the air in delight. Except for one, the painter who never paints. Seeing the crippled runner reminds him of a blank canvas and his insecurities came back to break him. He wishes he was as industrious as the crippled runner who sets as an image of someone who would never give up.

  Feeling hopeless, he wanders off and began reflecting. He realizes that if he were to paint the world, the universe, and the people- a blank canvas would be the only thing existing, his reluctancy does not make him self-absorbed and he knew, personally, he can’t paint. He’ll still call himself a painter, though, even if the people mocked or bashed him. Surely, he is not an arrogant one, he is not selfish and neither is he a hypocrite. 

  Because he too was never painted picture perfect.



When the door shuts behind you,

your curiosity grew louder

and what surrounds you,

don’t matter to you anymore.

but that lovely girl,

standing near the door

is the only single being

you ever cared the most.

and the door that kept shutting,

shall never be your fiend,

it knows your limitations

and what you must not know

in order for you to keep intact,

you leave the girl to be-

as lovely as she can be

is what you can only see.




i’m soft-spoken and i have a voice not fit for a king
with tons of responsibilities, that required speaking.
definitely, no one would hear me if i made a speech
and the public would suddenly deceive me
and i would be responsible for my own deficiency.
i’m soft-spoken and someone told me
i have a voice of a tiny cockroach;
when you step on me, it’s like i don’t bother.
honestly, not the best insect to describe me.
i could be a bee, people would surely believe
because i often buzz around their ears,
they won’t swat, they’ll just leave me to be.
i’m soft-spoken and the teachers that met me
often asked me to speak louder
whenever i am presenting to the others
all around me,
like the air that is surrounding me
because i am losing most of my breath,
the ears of the people,
and my courage too.
i’m soft-spoken and i have to repeat myself
more than twice, probably thrice
in order for them to hear me right,
i cannot even function well in loud areas
where i have to speak louder
like the little boy who cried, “wolf!”
and then, no one will come running for him.
i’m soft-spoken and i ought to be a humble mumbler
i don’t expect anyone to imagine me scream
or maybe everyone would ever think it’s uncanny
for someone, so gentle, to yell to their limits.
many would think it’s ironic
or a story from a fairytale.
surely it’s not impossible,
it’s just improbable at the moment.
i’m soft-spoken and when my voice sounded gentle,
that doesn’t mean i’m a fragile teacup
when you break it, i would shatter to tiny pieces,
and when you step on the sharp parts,
you’ll hurt yourself like how you hurt me.
and no, it’s not the work of karma.
you probably felt a pinch of pity,
even though, i’m the most wanted criminal
my face is nothing but an innocent being.
i’m soft-spoken and people think i’m scared
if i became a champion, i wouldn’t be there
to get my trophy, they will think i have stage fright,
and my valedictory would sound like an obituary
for me, when my name would be destined to the grave
of cringing moments when i could have fought back
or pretend that i don’t even bothered getting the prize
because there is no thrill for my pride
or maybe i’m truly am scared
or my voice is beginning to tear.
i’m soft-spoken and i want to let you know
that it took every ounce of courage
to spat out a phrase for you
as loudly as i can be
all the way up until my out-of-oxygen meter
will hit to the very top.
i know, personally, that i am not physically loud
neither do i considered myself dreary,
take a look inside of my mind,
it’s louder than my voice.
i’m aware that if i speak,
my speech would slip and blent in with the other sounds
and i’ll be another white noise in the room
of people who could never stop talking.

i’m soft-spoken and you may think i have nothing to say
when my voice is hiding at the back of my mind
waiting to come out on pleasant days.
i’m soft-spoken and you may think i’m boring
with all the murmuring of a little mouse
waiting to be attacked by the ferocious cat.
i’m soft-spoken and when i don’t speak
it does not necessarily mean that i’m on a bad day
i’m just waiting for you to initiate
when my mind is busy wandering in outer space.
i’m soft-spoken and me being magnanimous
should not be seen for my weakness,
i may not tell you about it
because i do not wish to interfere with that topic.

i’m soft-spoken and yes, it’s shocking to see
what a person could write
more than what she could have said
in a normal verbalised colloquy.

i am soft-spoken and no,
i am not weak.


She too, tried

From the top to the bottom,
to my shoes, to my sole,
I was physically fine; my face has been defined
to be perfectly alright in such a way
you know where I would hide,
but you never seem to find exactly
where the location is because
I want to hide and I don’t want you to seek me.

I carried a book for every walk I go,
and no, I am not ignoring you,
I’m neither using it for a distraction
just to avoid pitiful you.
I just carried it, for me to read,
for me to be distracted from my own thoughts
that will be fought by me, but I swear I won’t stop
until I realised how I ought to be another person
you often felt pity, nevertheless, guilty
for that statement, you said that made me feel
like I am in judgement day.

I tried laughing, I tried talking, I tried breathing,
I even tried sitting next to someone
that will change my mind this instant.
I tried, positively.
I even tried to be the optimist’s daughter
who is conscious that she too is optimistic.
I tried, but I’m just tired.
You can leave me to be or I’ll let you continue
but remember, that won’t be the end of me.
There are so many things in this world,
I think I may have unnecessarily seen
too many of them, too many matters
that cannot be unseen.



He has a face perceived to be a novelty;
a face described in a typical fairytale
with the prince rescuing the princess
only I would devour myself to.

The smell of his fragrance
is strongly nostalgic and
intangible, but made me touched,
only I would be in a vivid dream.

The utterances he had articulated-
the words came out flawlessly
like an enthralling unknown story
only I would immerse myself to.

He has a face perceived to be a novelty;
a face I’d reckon being in a fairytale
with no queens or kings, but us,
only I would have remembered it before.


Ever Since We Met

From innumerable miles away,
My heart solemnly detects your soul.
Causing me to tremble inside-
A sentiment that is forcing me to hide
What I wish to express,
What I wish to utter, deeply inside.
The spirit within you
Is inexplicable.
Yet, I see beauty so much in you.
I see art painted all over you.
Even your enchantment
Is causing me to be under your spell.
I felt myself twirling around the room
With old-fashion music,
And don’t forget, you.
From the back of my mind,
I always contemplate
That fate is behind all of this,
Treating us like puppets,
Dangling from the strings.
Coincidences often made me ring,
Frequent glances at each other,
Frequent bumps from one another.
Is it truly the work of fate?
Or am I in a mental state?
But what they have done,
Surely wasn’t enough
For you and me
In this incomprehensible world
With hidden fairytales
Eager to be exposed
For us to be captivated
By the unknown spell
That made our hearts throb,
That manipulated us to fall into a deep hole,
Called “Love.”