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DoodleScribbles

Scribblings and scrawls of a hopeless romantic soul

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random thoughts

Driftwood wishes and indigo dreams

Someplace else, I find myself mid-air. Suspended like a bewildered ghost; a half-read poem filled with hope. Here, there is no time or space. There are no relics of your presence leaving me disconcerted – breathless.

I am a a riot of color; a burst of light. I stomp my feet on pretentious laurels. I cut ties with sharpened tongue. Here, in the midst of the night, I am not a misplaced fragment. I am sought, not seeking.

But daybreak is such a jealous lover. It comes with ticking knives – stripping each layer of my disillusionment. I am back to my boring flaws. I plead for another second of peace; press my cheeks on the pillow. By no means. Reality struck me with all its hate.

And the stars weep.

I find myself on tiptoes. A danseuse on high relevé; the second half of a poem filled with woes. Here, there are no more tulips beneath my feet, and feelings don’t wilt as quickly as flowers do.

How do I marry dreams and reality? Can the laws of nature bend for a sappy miss who got courage as her only feat?


Today, I found myself scrolling through someone’s IG account. She’s been one of my closest girlfriends and it’s a wonder how our different personalities kept us binded for many years. As I look at her pictures and read its captions, I am reminded of how bad of a friend I have become. I hid behind lame excuses (time zones and distance) but truth is I got too caught up in the troubles of the world that I fail to see the troubles of those most important to me. I feel sad that the strong person that I know she is, is fighting the emotional and mental battle on her own. And I feel worse that I don’t have the best words to make things better. This one is inspired my some of her captions.

A reminder after each fall

time may be a heinous thief
this blood-washed land is filled with greed
if mornings are without the song of birds
and men and pigs march in herd

begin again—

like the sun behind a thin cloud
reappearing, warming them
or the blue sea breathing in and out
along the pebbled verge

begin again—

like the green-cloaked trees after Odette
drenched in fresh, comforting warmth
or the butterflies and their dusted wings
dancing to the yellow sun

so long as there are seven of the same moon
and love roars and purrs with the same passion
until happiness leaks out of your very soul
begin again after each fall


Today, I woke up to a notification from WordPress celebrating my seventh anniversary of blogging. I would not call the last three years “good blogging” as I have been in and out of WP most of the time. But I will forever be grateful for this very day when a naïve girl decided to pour her heart out through words for the first time.

May she find her way back to poetry one day…

slowly yet surely.

Vignette: Make-believes

I want to ask you to leave. To desert this open field that I am in before the flowers grow and wilt. But I can’t. I choose not to. Because deep within the chambers of this heart, a part of me begs for you to stay.
I want to believe that ours is like the coffee – bittersweet. That we can laugh and scream at each other but we will always end up cuddling under the night sky. You, tracing the stars. I, smiling at the moon.
I want to believe that we can sing our differences away and find common ground in love. That we can dance, barefoot, amid the prickly grass. My head on your shoulder, your arms round my waist.

I want to believe. I want to. I want.

There is no easy way to get to you, is it?

And yet again I let you slip between the gaps of my fingers. I always pride myself for having words as my sword and my shield but you — you always manage to disarm me. My lips are forged into a pair of frustration and denial; my tongue tied like a knot.

“I’m okay, I don’t care”, chants the unsung hero in my sleep. Another night of deep sighs. Another night of uttering the words I will never get to say. There is no easy way to get to you, is it? I was always a step behind your smile. Too close but not close enough. Now I’m a step behind the aisle. And you… you will always be the wind I fail to catch with these hands.

six one eight

i have watched too many sunsets in silence
silhouettes intensify against a blue-and-ocher sky
to this day, i still look for you in its changing color
my palms still grasp for the galaxy of dust suspended in the air

i call for the gods whose names taste strange in my mouth
my throat still refuses to abandon all yearning
would the heavens know of ways to letting you go?
tell me, how long do heartbreaks last?

out there, a child laughs,
a dog barks, and every lamp post in the streets is lit
august slips away in slow motion, and here i am
trying to write a good story before the dusk collects past’s due

what would the universe take this time?
for i only have this poem to offer or my life.

Book Talk: How do you beat reading slump?

I have not read for a while now. One of my bookmarks is stuck on page 60 of Atwood’s Alias Grace; the other is on page 12 of Ikigai.

I could not keep up.

My mind is in disarray. There’s a live wire inside of me that carries alternating concern and indifference. If I switch between the two, I’d short circuit either way.

A funny metaphor, I know. And probably erroneous too, but who would pay much attention to such mistake when the world has had enough of it?

How are you?
Are you living well?
I hope so…

This is me on my third try at getting back to life. It Cornwell’s From Potter’s Field this time.

Lament of the Dead

I have always known I’d die this way—
Hands reaching for what’s left of the sunset
Wilted and dried
Like a sunburnt flower left in a barren land

Sadness almost feels like a second skin now
Purple bruises scatter from unbidden words
They pierce, they hurt
Reminding me of the borrowed prose I never get to return to the world

They say our entire life flashes before our eyes on our deathbed
But I saw a person instead—
Dimples and heavy brows,
A portrait of the carefree man I met at Bo’s

Something pokes from inside my darkened rib
Was it regret? Guilt? Or something else?
More, more
I need more time, Charon

Let me immortalize this man with words
Soak my pen in desperation, desire and dread
I have always known I’d die this way—
But why must it have to be today?

My hands reach for the last of the sunset
I cry for borrowed prose I never get to return to the world

Writer’s Quote Wednesday – Let love shine

Featured quote for Writer's Quote Wednesday

“Love, whether newly born or aroused from a deathlike slumber, must always create sunshine, filling the heart so full of radiance, that it overflows upon the outward world.”

― Nathaniel Hawthorne, The Scarlet Letter

Nathaniel Hawthorne died, on this day, in 1864. May this quote awaken the spirit of love within us all in these trying times when anger, hate and fear are at its height.

Psalm 143:6

I dream in fast forward
Of that which never was
My pale, moon-drenched skin
Shiver ‘neath the grieving stars

I wait in quiet desperation
Feeling nothing of the real world
Seeing only that which
I have not yet held

Between midnight breaths — a poem
Reviving my half dead hope
I spread out my hands to you;
I thirst for you like a parched land
.

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