Hollow

a burning day of blunt
walking along with a chant
wishing she'll be summon
until 12 midnight you still hang on

struggle you must but pain in gust
promises you treasure, gone in a blast
every images of her get in sight
touched and clung her yet she's not, you wish you were right

longing her every night
hugging pillows with your might
tears dripping to your pale cheeks
unnoticed you were in bleeds

reminiscing the pass in a flashbacks
heart beats fast, hoping it could turn back
countless days,searching for tracks
yearning both of you still intact

a single day craving you'll be in death
for you being with her is your breath
now your heart aches in depth
enduring those pain until you'll be dead

when it comes the day of sorrow
you see your self heartless one
happiness are thrown together with your love one
until you see name on a coffin of hollow heart

Speechless

I was in a big mistake,
That I believe in love which is fake.
I don’t know what His plan is,
But now I’m inspired with a new man.
He taught me to analyze,
That my past was only a disguise.
Neither a dream nor a fantasy,
A way from an enchanted journey.
From the time I’d wait for my past to come back,
He captures my destiny and get into a lock.
Even though I don’t know him,
But he is like a song in my silent dream.
Now I am pretty sure,
That he can color my unclear future.
But I will not let myself love him in a catch,
‘Coz I don’t know if he can love me very much.

Kiss Me Through The Phone

a hectic scheduled day
toxic game for play
craving it'll be vanish in one sway
exhausted just to earn the payday

eyes keep glancing
at the wall freezing
and hears the ticking
must be 5pm and we're going

i must be programed to text
motions to hold fast reflexes
fingertips tik-tak encoding
white collar shifts done, just you and me for lovin'

reminiscing the past hour
work are like power pour
yet with my love all it regains
missing the parts you still remains

casting the magic word
i love you, but it seems blurred
wanting to hug you, i cant with phone thingy
hold your hands till i shut my teary eyes

what can i do we are miles apart
loving like this, excruciating pain for our part
i know will never be fall apart
just one text away you and me touches our heart

wishing i can kissed you
say the words i love you
in one text or call---
but how, i dont have a phone to call you

Poet's Joy

Coffee break, is not really my choice,
But since the day I conquer existence.
I rejected all that pains and laments,
Sufferings and ideals which are pointless.

As I give readers some amusement,
draw them close to my own nature’s pull.
Feed them with full of enchantment,
and indulgence from a purple passionate.

Knowing that all the arts,
Are to entertain but not to chisel.
The fanatic’s fragile hearts,
Can tolerate them some kicks to revel.

Be a poet-doctor, who can alleviate,
An ailing spirit with sweet sonnet,
Limerick and term are all attractive,
but not with a tear, down to the window of dark.

I slightly prefer bitter reality,
than for a permanent therapy,
to aesthetic morphine to be calm,
intended for them to see the real me.

He is I… Art is I

He is a Painter who portrays one’s timeless majesty
His works passed to generations, preserving memory
From my quill drops words to parchments, witness of history
A medium of conserving culture of humanity

He’s a Butler who keeps the dwelling ambiance
He’ll put the coffee unto cup down to your sense
Unto the phrases I convey my emotion
It’s like potion; it would lead you to compassion

To catch the copious gist of the scene is his profession
He’s a Film Maker, enclosed in the frame is his passion
Open your window I’ll take you beyond imagination
My story shall be a port key to any dimension

He is a Gardener who plows the landscape
Keep plants fertilized to sustain bestow for banquet
Let my words be heard so that you may be feed
From verses of my epistle pursue the good deeds

By any means, he molds certain raw material
From a touch of the Sculpture all juveniles enhanced
Unto my reader I inculcate upright morals
My words may turn to knife if it’s hard to chastise

I am a Poet, born in the name of Art
In event I have to meet the Maker of Art
So be it, I have lived fulfilled in the world of Art
If given a chance to reincarnate, I’d still be a Soldier of Art

the so called poet

it is what it is

the poet that can't write

what he see or hear

he could only feel

under the purple sky

just don't ask him why

he's doing it?

cause he only knows one thing

that will blow their mind

and turn them blind

he said

while drinking coffee

If you could only see What I feel

then tell me this aint real

this pain hiding inside of me


If I could throw this out of my window

then I wouldn't be the wierdo anymore....

Poet of the New Age

Supreme Human Being, Yes I Am!
My shield and my sword, is a pad and a pen
The window of my soul is deeper than the abyss
Flim-flammin' every word, and I'm lyric'ly obese

Sippin' gallons of coffee, until the break of dawn
Never let myself being used, but i'm a deadly pawn
I can draw morphological events from my head
Like a purple fog and smoke, causing coma in a bed

I can joggle all the rhymes, like a circus freak
Connecting puzzle dots, like that kid on the street
Sculptured thoughts unleashed when I wave my hand
Like a sorcerer's inditing his inked magical wand

I'll move your emotions like a puppet master
Your sanity lies beyond my piece of paper
Where my stories, poems & prose were written
Lay down a beat, groove and shimmy to it's rhythm

Poet of the New Age, Yes I Am!
Livin' in the world of good and bad realms
Hustlin' all my life ne'er ask for any alms
Holdin' on my faith, readin' bible & singin' psalms

*the dream of a talented fool *

talented, resourceful and romantic
sometime tell stories happy and tragic
style and passion is always combined
doing some wordplay that you could ever find


they put soul, heart and definition
to the following words with execution
spiting on the spot with or without hustle
aiming the goal and the role of a purple


a piece of paper, pencil with eraser
a cup of coffee to wake the author
feeling depress that serves as motivation
to make a piece that gives inspiration


in the midst of the night where ideas attack
sad memories always comeback
empty paper where letters follow
never let it flew out of the window


poem from you and everyone
reflecting on them and for a ton
it's you, it's them but it's also me
being part of this personality


it has been a dream by a fool like me
to describe the feeling of being free,
free on writing what i feel
and tell how a poet became so real

Poet

a poet writes whatever comes to his mind,
whatever he feels, whatever fancies him.
to become a poet,
one doesn't have to write often;
he just have to have a vivid way of thinking
and a strong grasp on things around him.

a poet sees complexities in every idea,
and smells every concept the way he smells coffee.
he takes his inspiration from everything,
and like art,
words naturally come to him in an instant.
he makes rhymes and numerous expressions out of them.

a poet surely writes about his own life
in one way or another, directly or indirectly.
though he doesn't admit this to himself,
no matter how he hides behind a purple cloak,
bit by bit,
all his poems show everything about his whole being.

a poet resides in every person's heart
making one's eye his very own wide window.
staring out at the vastness of space,
how he lived his life makes him the way he is.
he is, after all, a poet in every inch.

a poet is, well, just a plain old fool.
there is really nothing much to say about him
only that he writes and says what he thinks.
but if the poet inside every person doesn't even ponder,
a vivid imagination will just remain a lifeless idea.

The Poet…

As I stare on the rare Purple skies…
I try to remember when I did my first tries…
To say something without any voice…
To reveal something without using toys

The faint talent that I never thought I had…
Is now within me, growing like a small lad…
Though I know it’s hard to grasp what I say…
But I’m sure in every man there was a day

When he asked himself “how?”
For numbers couldn’t help him on that now…
Instead, he used a paper and a pen…
And just wrote away, waiting what will happen…

Only to see, that what he did was not scribbles…
But an art that was greater than any bibles…
It was like making a very expensive tea…
Yet, as time pass; it became his daily coffee…

A necessity in his daily life…
That not only brushes his strife…
But also allows him to see through a small window…
That up to now led him to his present tomorrow…

What a poet can create?

What a poet can create?
From the window of his soul
From his endless capabilities
He can make anything from a piece of papers

While listening to purple haze
He can solve any maze
A revelation of limitless imagination
Bringing ecstatic feeling

To anyone that will be reading
His masterpiece from his being
Like a music in an ear
That you’ll love to hear

A poet can create a world of fantasy,
Or a world full of symphony
Or even a land full of milk and honey
Or can bring a magical emollient to everybody

A poet could made a happy heart felt in depth sadness
Transfer such happines
He can make everything, just by using his pen
While drinking a cup of his coffee

I am not a poet.

Every night I gaze at those tiny bright stars
that barely shed light on the dark sky
as I try to capture their unruffled passion.
What meaning do those sparkles bring?
Mesmerized by the purple tones of
The jacaranda flower.
Sip my coffee laced with cream.
I peacefully contemplate.
Then I struggle for words to portray them
as I scribble on another page
of my worn-out notebook
once in a while glancing
at my half-filled waste bin.
I write
and write
and write
but only to end up with unpolished verses
worthy only of raised eyebrows
and wrinkled foreheads.

I am not a poet.

Tonight, I closed my window
no longer
yearning to see those tinny bright stars.
Cuddled by the serenity of the night,
I looked deep within myself
and consoled my wrecked soul.
I scribbled

and this time
emotions poured
words flowed out

And a poet was born.

Desert Pool

Out of the window starred with dust
a flock of purple dotted thrushes,
flapping their wings against thick clouds
gray in color with lavender blush

Oh I must write this down, i said
As I took the coffee stained paper
lying on the desk beside my bed
grabbed the pen, stared for awhile

And a moment later.. Alas! I'm inspired!!

Captured beauty gently flutters.
The rhymes and measures suddenly sing
Filling my empty cup up to the brim
I'm left with no space in my paper

Time flies swift, done I am!!

Words are the dancers in our thoughts,
Graceful and silently bending to the shape,
And we are watchers hidden in the shade
who write with wonder pace by pace.