“Forgetting” is not something we can do. The more we try to forget, by doing something, we end up remembering what we try to forget. But if we let what we try to forget fade slowly as it keeps on reminding us, like it always does, in time it wont hurt that much. Some will disappear (probably). Some will still remain but not hurt that much.

Past in present future

The only vivid is the depiction of the past
The present is still an unfolding
And the future distant
And uncertain.

A conviction that is carried today
Was birthed in an event called history
Yet it impregnates us
Into the future
Living in the now.

Written in bloodstained ink
Is memory
Written in pencil led is the present
Written in conception
the future.

I remember this time last year
You next to me here
But I know when today disappears
The future tells me
Your presence will never be there.

so deep

whenever your memory occurs,
and flash before my eyes,
and pressed deep,
the blades,
they stab,

whenever your memory occurs,
and flash before my eyes,
there are,
no tears
for me to cry.

why then for them to come,
to steal away my joy,
why then for them constricting,
i only want to breath.

whenever your memory occurs,
and flash before my eyes,
and pressed,
the blades,
they stab,
so deep.


This poem is my attempt in interpreting the of story Bryon Widner. This one really took awhile to write. The story echoes a narrative of what I’d call “second chance.” As much as I’m interpreting what I read, there are parts where this poem is auto-biographical as well. It is my hope that you resonate with the tone and emotions depicted in the poem. 


…are hard to come by.


The PAST is at times like bloodstains on white colored fabric.


one that would never go away
it stays
Remaining on the surface.

A disfigurement of a former glory
even after washing
still remains.




Like seasons where a caterpillar weaves up into a cocoon,
an anticipation occurs,
ugly takes a makeover,
in the form of a whole transformation.




Call it evolution
Call it rejuvenation
Call it a reincarnation
call it metamorphism
call it redemption
call it
to be HUMAN.

Widening the chasms of the past,

…who i was,
a fire breathing dragon.

to who I am,
inhaling back the flames…

…is not always easy…

…Even if it is as far as the East is to the West.

Erasure? is it even possible?
of one’s disclosure,
of an already written story,
the past forever.
To one being written,
the future
an unraveling.



Is it just, skin-DEEP?

Though murky echoes,

of past lingers by,


The horizon speaks,

of another story,



amid the stains below my feet,


amid the fumes of my confession,

in the anguish of breathing penance,

in the narrative of second-chances,

my restoration,

made complete by,


Regret and “the Route not Taken.”

What if everything had gone rightly if I had taken another route or for that matter, decisions? Would all the complexities now be disintegrated in thin air and disappear? Would everything sail smoothly? Are the storms happening now the result of not taking the route proposed as the “if” factor?

These are just reflections whenever I think about the present and a space in time where I could have chosen a different route rather than the one I am in now. Sometimes we all come to a point where we reminiscent about this “space in time where one could have chosen a different route.” While we infuse that route not taken with possibilities, it is logical that we defuse any form of optimism in the present road we are living in.

But why do we do that?

Why is it tolerable to believe in being optimistic about “what if”? And not the present?

It’s probably because we decide to create a landscape that is free from probabilities or mishaps, as if that “route not taken,” would have been the perfect place where negativity ceases to exist and only good things come and follow.

But that is to create an imaginary world where fiction becomes a perverted dimension of an over-realized realm where reality becomes an idea that the mind takes control of. In other words, we become gods of that realm I called “the route not taken” whenever we think of “if only we took a different route, this will not happen and everything would have been OK.”

And because of this, we wallow in regret about the present reality we live in. We become slaves to the imaginary heaven we though existed in the “route not taken.”

That imaginary dimension, if we laden it with the colors of reality, we would open it up to a realistic outlook. Sure, the present might be flawed and whatever that is bad, had happened, by one taking the present route. But that does not mean the imaginary dimension which we base our regrets on has no form of probabilities of the negative. If we play by realistic expectations, it is possible that even if one had taken the other route, both the possibility of the positive and negative still exists, anything can happen. For we cannot control the landscape of reality. Although we have the power of making decisions, whatever it is, we have to be open to both the possibility of bad and good. Shit happens, shit also does not happen.

So, whether we mope and regret of why we chose this road and not that, the important thing to note is that, we can only imagine a dim light of how reality looks the the space of “the road not taken.” Because  that is all we can conjure from it. The important thing for us to focus on is the present, thinking about the possibilities of how we are to live and survive in the present, the now.

We should gather most of our imaginations and refocus it on the now, because we cannot salvage anything from the past, the things that time has erased to be lived in physical existence, but we still can salvage some form of the present and the future.


Still smelled like flowers

It’s funny how I feel like,
My shoes are still soiled,
From traces of footsteps,
In the journey we took,
I guess I never bothered to wash them clean.
Or how my clothes are still stained,
With your fragrance,
Embeded deep,
Even after bleaching them In the washing machine.
It’s been months living in with your disappearance,
Still the debris,
I hold to them dearly,
Should there be a reason for me to affectionate meaning behind how,
my pace has staggered,
In a fluctuating state,
Because of the shadows that permiate,
Inside the dreams I have,
When I doze to sleep,
Or even when in the vicinity of sunlight?
Where my mind projects holographic images,
Of a time when those moments,
Still smelled like flowers.

midnight train

I was on one of the last trains last night after hanging out with my cousin and his fiancé. Lovely couple, the two of them.

The train wasn’t full but occupied. It was almost empty just before the station I was to unload myself. And then, we were stuck. Who knows why but this is something normal here when one uses the train.

Playing in my ears was Gavin Degraw’s new album “Sweeter.” I’m not sure how many cycles the album was playing in my mind but my guess would be endless. I say that not in a tone that exhibit boringness but just to say the train was stuck for quite a while. More like forever.

I dozed off, I woke, then dozed again and woke up.

Eventually the train finally moved. I arrived to my destination just a few minutes to midnight.

As I was walking back to where I call ‘home,’ with the chill from the midnight breeze, music was playing in my ears, and my mind looking intently at my feet walking, and I just felt this:

my heart is left panting,

as they chase after my feet walking,

sometimes it feels like,

i live in two worlds,

and a chase occurs,

memories lingering

as the present occurs.

Held only dreams

travel this road
where one should not go
peer in the night
wish it wasn’t so

what i thought to discover
i held only dreams…

if change were the probings
on why we were wrong
or the past that kept creeping
did that tear through our song

what i thought was forever
i kiss only shadows
promises fading
i held only dreams…

what i
placed in your hands
to be kept in your heart
to hold us
when distance
held us at apart

what i thought you would see
something in me
embrace only memories
I held only dreams

Awakened by your image
my sleep running empty
and sunshines are lite like
a void in the night
I chase a reality
that would never be spoken
as the dreams now drowns
these silent screams.

Traces of light

I hear your smile
In the chambers of my heart
As if you haven’t yet depart
Again I hold to shadows
No want in seeing tomorrow

It’s hard to say
When I should sail
I promised then to let your shadow go
From the grip of my hand
But still I hold
Though I know what’s been told
The dust has finally nestled
To what was made of stone
(…But still I hold)

A sudden emptiness resides
Embracing tightly to the songs
We sang
When love was grand…
Who blew the burning candle?
Who opened the door,
To invited the wind
To steal
Traces of our light?


She steals a kiss,
From images
She stored inside,
The ocean blue,
She rides the waves.

She walks the sands,
She sees seashells,
Washed up on the shore,
She picks one up,
And peers inside.

Beauty draped,
In hollow vessels,
For empty shells,
Reflect herself,
The aftertaste of bittersweet.

In wells she filled
with tears of her’s
Words she thought
Were permanent,
the sea now gathers
What belonged to Her.

Who stole her kisses,
From images
She stored inside,
She gathers seashells,
Reminding of her stolen youth.