Don’t you dare touch her, boy.
For she is fire.
Sometimes she’ll flicker, and sometimes she’ll dance.
But you’ll be burning just the same.




Darling, he’s the kind of person to muzzle the world just so he can hear you laugh. So when you find him, don’t keep him. Enchant him.
He’s the kind of person who dims the stars just so you could shine brighter. So when you find him, don’t keep him. Bewitch him.
He’s the kind of person who’ll choose broken bones over broken hearts even if his bones are the one to shatter. So when you find him, don’t just keep him. Love him.




What breaks once, remains broken.
People break. They seem to heal but the fault lines remain and you realise that a bit too late. Time doesn’t heal, it just covers up. You seem to forgive but you don’t and they realise that a bit too late.

People break. Easier than glass. You try to pick them up but they shatter into a million more pieces. And each time, you lose a piece. You break. After a long time of holding on. They try to help you but you can see them hiding one piece at a time in their back pockets where it lays forgotten.

Someone made me realise that I’m very vague. Comes with being a writer, I guess. You’re so used to disguising your emotions as words that after a time, it becomes natural. Vagueness genuinely creeps into your words and your intentions, which can be quite annoying especially when others notice it but you don’t. I, myself, admitted that I’m weak. I’ve wanted to talk about it for quite a while. There were a million people ready to listen but somehow, it was easier to talk to him. I’m grateful for that. Thanks, man.

It’s a scary prospect. History is repeating itself. I’m terrified. This time, I’m old enough to understand. This time, I’m a part of it. This time, I’m one of the reasons. What have I done . . . I need help, I don’t want it. I want help, I don’t deserve it.


Writer’s Splash (7)


Our love is going to waste.
I try to keep it safe but the more I trust it to hold my hand, the greasier our grasp gets.
The deeper I push it down my pocket, the larger the hole it creates.
The more I try to fix it, into tinier, infinitesimal pieces does it break.

To put it simply, spearing the ornamental words that I usually take care to wrap my emotions in, you hate me. But I can’t hate you back.

Just A Few Questions.

Following are the questions that have been held in my brain for quite a while now. I don’t expect an answer nor do I need one. Just wonder what you would answer and see if you are satisfied.

Have you ever cried?

Have you cried in front of someone?

Did you feel okay crying in front of them?

Is crying a sign of weakness?

Since when is being weak bad? Why?