it happens ever so often,
I stop writing for a day
and it feels like it has been a month
that I haven't written at all,

so when I try to write again,

nothing creative seems to come out of me.

I become an introvert,
an introvert who introspects
about life and death,
who likes to think about thoughts
and the rarity of those thoughts
who would love to know about isaac netwon
and the way,
he communicated with God

ah... religion.

I never truly knew about religion
every man seem the same

I was naive,
I'm naive

I ve been told you are genuine
but
hey

i write about what I comes to mind
to heart
to soul

and that's that

okay.

I felt the breeze greet me, tenderly,
like arms that hug, sturdily,
tightly puling closer towards a chest,
with heart, beating,
pump,
pump,
like a wind that leaves one refresh.

Sing me to sleep, my darling dear.
Wrap me in your arms
Let me hear the beating of your heart
Kiss my forehead
And in you, let me rest.

To write a story in free verse
is to let the prose in you go berserk
or to let the feelings that wish to come out of you, go
As if these feelings are the one you love

Just like people say

If you love someone let them go,
If they comeback they were yours
If not they never were

I wish I were a bird to fly
To soar above the sky
And let my worries be,
Just be, one with the wind.

But I am not a bird
I do not have wings
Nor can I be,
Just be, one with the wind.

My heart beats less and less for you.
It feels as if it'll soon stop
pumping love to you.

You said, "your love is the blood
that circulates through my veins
It is your love that warms me up
And returns life to me."

"You are my heart."

And turns out,
that this heart of yours,
has a heart of its own,
And that this heart of mine,
beats less
And less
each
day

the day feels heavy on my boots,
one step, lifted leg, mud, grass tall,
a puddle,