I write because I read. I read because I write.
BEFORE voice can be from the rolling of your fearless tongue or from the scribbling of your shaky fingers. neither is greater, as long as they are yours. yours. yours. from the ripples of your chest, their waves can stir one heart to move from the dark west to a brighter south. because your words… Continue reading green thumb
Silence has always tasted sweet since I was a young boy. I find bliss in building a world of my own, alone. Now, with only the whirring of her ventilator, my tongue is filled with bitter gourd juice, swimming through the boulder inside my throat. Her hands, I've held since she was 24, feel cold… Continue reading tasting silence: a 100-word story
brown, a burnt one, is the colour of this table with edges as perfect as the borders of some nations with OCD in geometry, atop there are tea, two types, the calming chamomile i take during those days of the month because it helps relieve the cruel clenching of my ovary, and there is green… Continue reading on borders and tea
mix mud and heavy raindrops, a murky puddle void of the skill to mirror even the slightest silhouette, pour some more, pour some more, until it overpours into a snake-shaped waterway flowing gently in May, in a rugged rush on monsoon days, either way, on it, lays the floating wood and men with paddle arms… Continue reading praying nets
murderer. i am a murderer of eight. eight innocent lives my hands without green thumbs have ended the purple garden of eight eggplants. i was 15. since then i've not tried to get my fingers dirty, afraid to be a murderer for the ninth time. — 08.11.2020 ©2020 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved. Photo… Continue reading missing thumb: a quadrille
Three photos have immortalised the birthday my mind cannot remember but will always be dear to me. The first photo was of me and my Tatay (father) who looks like a young TV actor with his Colgate-commercial-smile and polished moustache. My chubby, teenie tiny fingers were clinging tightly to his shirt, perhaps its instinct to… Continue reading camera shy: a haibun
prisoned in cream-kissed- walls. outside, wheels re- tain its daily, restless toil. pair of wheat feet frozen in tiled snow, still, free hands' ink, flows. — 05.27.2020 ©2020 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved. Photo via Unsplash This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License. — For dVerse Poetics: Make some room Felt… Continue reading escapees: a tanka*
Marriage. Marriage is a pair of destined hands clap not, cannot, without the other one--- no song needed to taste one's tears; no spice to smell one's burning sun. Marriage. Marriage is all the sonnets William Shakespeare (welcomed and farewelled in Church of the Holy Trinity, just for your information for marriage will not make… Continue reading table of elements and wedding vows
rarely do i dream, or perhaps remember my private drama series playing under the consciousness i can not deliberately reach, though when i was able to grasp some bits of pieces of an already fading mid- night memory it will always involve a plane crash- ing (with full hollywood exaggerated effects of giant smoke and… Continue reading if only my blanket can speak
thousand poems have i written 'fore fate allowed me to meet him, oh, how in hush heart- beats, low key hums, dearness draws near me towards him, oh, how my shy muse sings hymns, so sweetly since i knew him, oh, how rhymes roll off in rivulets, thousands and more poems now for him. —… Continue reading counting poems before and after him
A Reading Writer 