brand new eyes


People aren’t books, I’ve learned. You can’t bookmark your favorite pieces to return to whenever you’re feeling lonely; when the nights get too cold and youneed something familiar to keep you warm,you can’t reopen their spines and wear out their pages and call that obsession love. – Pavana पवन

Guilt. That’s the first thing I feel whenever I read that passage, saved in my phone for me to pore over again and again. 

I treat people like books. I’m there to crack them open and learn every word, and to revel in my favorite passages right after. I bookmark pages, and use pens and highlighters on the sentences that appeal to me the most.

I pretty much just ignore the parts that I don’t like. They don’t matter, not that much. I reread my favorite books sometimes, and skip over the conflict and the heartbreak to the happily-ever-afters and happiness. 

It was only when I reversed the situation in my head that I became aware of how backwards that was; how harmful – to love people only for their good sides; only for their parts that are in your favor or of use to you.

You can easily become disillusioned as to who they really are. 

You tolerate their bad sides, and you either become a push-over, or put them under the impression that what they’re experiencing is love, instead of the cherry-picking that it actually is.

You love a person wholly, with acceptance and compromise. 

This is why you can’t take two types of people seriously: the ones who profess their love for you after a short time, and the ones who do after a long one. Odds are that the former’s only seen the best you could offer, with no idea of what’s actually under your cover. The latter, meanwhile, could just be returning to their favorite passages about you to reread on a cold night. 

I’m guilty of being both. And, God, there is so much more to learn; so much that the people I’ve loved should have deserved.




The sky is calling; telling me to find a way
to come and sail to the heavens; to come and belong with the stars.
“Stay,” the earth says. “Stay.”

Midnight had fallen; it is in the dark I lay
quiet, still, eyes wide open, mind wide awake –
the sky is calling; telling me to find a way.

“It is within me you belong; it is me you cannot keep at bay,”
the darkness whispers – am I standing on a rail?
“Stay,” the earth says. “Stay.”

“Look at you,” it murmurs, and I sway
on my feet, “the galaxies run through your veins.”
The sky is calling, telling me to find a way.

I am suspended in midair, my arms in splay,
like a marionette, caught in the act.
I am of magnificence, of stars, of cosmos, of constellations unfathomed.
The sky is calling me; telling me to find a way.
“Stay,” the earth says. “Stay.”

The Thing About Healing Is – 


I. It’s a process – a slow, dragging one; making you think it isn’t happening in the first place. For a fresh wound to bleed and sting, clot, turn into a scab you literally itch to scratch, and then a scar, to blend onto your skin perfectly, takes hours. Days. Weeks. Months. Years. Sometimes it’s even the most superficial of cuts that take the longest.
Healing isn’t magical. It doesn’t make injuries and lesions instantly disappear. It can only transform what already exists. 

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there are things that poetry
can simply
not capture;
that no figure
of speech
can teach
a reader to visualize.
for example, neither rhythm nor rhyme can suffice
for how erratic a heartbeat is when love looks at you right in the eyes;
how no amount of personification
can ever word how nature grows and flourishes like it has a mind of its own;
and no, no metaphor can fully embrace
how the battered and the defeated can spit right back into Fate’s face;
drawing up arms, gathering armor,
ready to face battles with a roar.

there are some things that poetry cannot do justice,
but then again poetry doesn’t exist to please –
it merely tries to voice what our hearts cannot speak
and point out what our eyes secretly wish to seek.
its beauty lies in the fact that it tries –
in a few verses, in spare lines –
to weave meaning into confusing impressions
to give us whatever consolation
in the face of ineffability of beauty and disaster;
of wreckage and of wonder.

– j.e.e / figurative

Happy World Poetry Day! It’s a bit late – for me at least, but that depends on where you are in the world.

I have always preffered the stability and length of prose, and went as far as to call poetry pretentious. It does have the tendency but things have changed… I’ve learned to appreciate poetry’s magic. I pick up more compilations than I probably should, and write poetry too frequently with such audacity when I can’t even be called a proper poet. I still love that it is there for me to express myself, and to find myself as well. Especially in the works of Plath, Neruda, e.e. cummings, Teo Antonio, and Conchitina Cruz. Also goes for those who do spoken word – from Juan Miguel Severo to a dear friend who loves doing so.

Happy World Poetry Day. Share some of your favorites and maybe your very own.