Monthly Archives: October 2015

“Lightbulb to a Shadow”

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I always believed my whole existence would be

tied to the ceiling. Just me hanging on for no higher purpose

than to make it easier for everyone to see.

How I wished this electrical cord would

snap and put me out of my misery!

But came that faithful night when someone turned me on.

It was not you. That I am sure of.

No. It was not you but someone who just passed by

and didn’t want to trip over something.

Then you came in – like a black veil so vivid in the cover of my light

I could not help but notice your presence.

I knew you didn’t need my light to be visible

but you said it was the only way for me to notice you.

And so you stepped in… and I… I curiously let you in.

I let you enter my circle of light which I thought would be mine alone.

In return you told me your stories from the world outside this room.

You were outgoing. I was comfortable inside these four walls.

I gave you pieces of myself, or rather pieces of my light which

were consumed by your darkness. And In return you told me you think of yourself as a monster —

as this dark, faceless creature that snuffs out everything in its way.

You clung to the idea that you did not deserve me.

That I was not to be taken lightly (pun intended)

The same old conversation every night you return.

You said you became visible because of me when the truth is that

my existence gained meaning since you stepped in.

Without you I could not have called myself a light bulb.

You came in and showed me my dark sides…

I revealed that you were not as dark as you thought.

We did not complain. We enjoyed each night like it was the last.

Two opposites enjoying each other’s company.

It was the greatest paradox!

It was also the most painful irony.

Because of that one faithful night when I suddenly flickered in and out…

in and out… in and out… I knew you were still there. You did too.

If only we could see each other again.

How I wished this paradox could go on.


“When Poets Lose their Muse”


There could be nothing more confusing than poetry.

How every word moves in sync with the others.

How every line gives us a lick of the sublime.

How every stanza defies the laws of the tongue.

Unfold as we may, this perplexity

will continue to hide its true purpose.

We blame the creator;

who is only as adept as his muse.

Yet don’t we crave the same confusion everyday?

That which relieves us the pain of yesterday —

which might sugarcoat our tomorrow?

Still we blame the creator, as adept as his muse.

How every muse brings about the Creation

of each thing living and not.

How each inspires what the creator molds.

But disappears… what then?

Destruction? Catastrophe? Ragnarok?

When poetry tastes no less than rotten fish,

its muse never whispering back…

will we blame the creator… or  the adept muse?

‘Twill seem as though the cycle stops.

As withering as parched lilies.

Crumbling as ancient tombs.

Ghostly as abandoned cities.

When Poets lose their Muse

is when all thi…