Flower Blossoms From Ink

A metaphor for my writings in a poem


Flower buds spilled from ink
& from my heart blossoms the words

Like beauty stirs the day
So does ink upon my sheet

Curving those lines
Shaping those stories
They blossom they blossom
From the cave of my mind
And the vernacular veins of my heart
Creeping their ways to anywhere

And as they go upon there
My mind stops & wonder & think
Of these weeds these seeds I feed

I write till non stop I write till extasis
Within my roots ink spills
Making shapes of my mind at stake
I am sane I am sane
As these words blossom
Into flowering buds.

This poem is the continuation of a verse I wrote last year, titled spilled ink. For some time now it’s been on my mind to finish this poem, where to me, the metaphoric picture in my mind of a poem really seem like flowers blossoming out from ink or, a pot of ink.


The Edit

I plunge myself one last time into the story –
It’s the final round till refinery
My eyes are meticulously Critical
While my mind is eagerly Maniacal
Inside my heart, an invisible agitation
Groans like a thunder like of fascination
I try to keep my pace and seemingly peace –
But its shattering, and its distorting
That life, expanding it to my being
This phase of edit makes my stomach churn;
For it will soon be over, I confirm

Concentrate. Mediate. Phases of inquiries

To edit I want to evict
Far away Into another story
But to edit Is the key
Now I am an erudite
In need of serenity

Concentrate. Mediate. Phases of inquiries

All things that makes me dysfunctional –
I disregard
All things that plunge me into the subliminal –
I open my arms open wide;
It’s a state of mind to be in without fear
The state of creativity that fends objectivity
I see that light when those that dies see,
And I know that I am on the other side of doubt

Concentrate. Mediate. Phases of inquiries

Qui sera sera Whatever will be Will be
The answer is clear, my dear, qui sera Sera.

Editing is more difficult than the act of writing itself; where concentration and serenity of mind are very important for me right now. I am trying to shut myself up to everything that might distract my focus—for finishing the book is more important than wandering my mind on things that take too much of my energy.

This free verse is simply a plongeon into the subjectivity of the phase I am going through right now. I see myself as the captain of my ship, with the steer in hand, navigating on the pathway… my pathway… but I don’t know into which harbour I’ll be anchoring my ship, hence the allusion to the song Que será, será in the end, because I still don’t know to where I’ll go from here.


Fictional Hive (Poem)

Art for the sake of art

Fiction arises from my dreamy mind

Where a pathway opens for me to find –

New moons, new suns, new planets, new worlds;

New faces, new lives, things of new kind.

I look around and all that I can see

Is something that surfaces beyond me

Where my senses travel into magical worlds,

And where it is the imagination set free.

These fantasies that devours my mind

With imageries of whole new find

That shoots me far off galactic worlds

To find myself into a new era kind.

Stars that shine red is all that I can see

Morphing faces is all that surround me

Where I am omniscience into strange worlds

As I unleash my mind to set the words free.

I plunge into a hive of fictional data,

Alongside dancing colloquial spectral

Where everything become luminescent

For fiction to arise from my dreamy mind.

For some times now I’ve been reading articles about fiction being treated like non-fiction. But for goddamn sake, when did fiction fell into those kinds of hands? Like really! What is happening around these days? Authors of fiction lie, authors of fiction make-up stories, authors of fiction do all kinds of random things here and there as to be inspired, authors of fiction invent all sorts of things as to create a whole world of fantasy, but in none of the case, do authors of fiction write non-fiction, and this, when they have clearly stipulated that what has been penned down or typed are works of fiction.

It’s called fiction for a reason, you see, it’s art for the sake of art, it’s fiction for the sake of fiction. And what other writers — of type essayist, journalistic, or literary critics write, are the only elements from the work that needs to be treated as non-fiction. I do think that there have been some misinterpretation of fictional work alongside the other creative writings. Works of fiction are big big lies and all made up stories meant to tickle the fanciness of readers; a simple material for evasion, and as well as distraction, and that’s all. Like what, everything is getting more and more absurd these days.


I Think And I Write – A Poem


Inspiration ignites as I write

I Think And I Write

I think of galaxies and of their beaming lights, and I write.
I think of the rain pouring on my face, and of the winds slashing upon leaves, and I write.
I think of dew blurring the window glass of my bedroom, and I write.
I think of the sounds of water streams and of the songs of birds on a Sunday morning, and I write.
I think of the green grass of the rainy seasons, and of its withered hues when the sun fiercely lights up the summer, and I write.
I think of a stranger locking me up in a filthy basement, and I write.
I think of all these faces, some formless, some of alien traits, living lives of many, and I write.
I think of milk, water-falling from my breast, and I write.
I think of the seed of life, erupting from a straightened obelisk, and I write.
I think of dimensions and of world to be, and I write.
I write my heart away, with a wandering soul left at bay.
And when these weapons that I’ve never touch, dwells into the depth of my mind, with flowering ivies blossoming their way, I write.
And when lights strangle all darkness in the strange land of my imagination, I write.
I write of the poetry and of the peace I would love gifting to the world, to the universe, to you, and to me.
I think that inspiration is everywhere, suffice that you look deeply, gently bringing your attention to the aesthetic form of things, where even the essence of what our vocab describes as worst and repulsive are beautiful in their own way. So, I do hope that you open your eyes, as to let your mind gaze at the primary essence of things, for you to think, and to write.


Metaphorous Mind Matter

A fine shrine to adorn words

And in a heartbeat my ink it cried 
Bleeding words

And like phosphorus beams 
Something vibrant and colorful 
Came to life

A metaphorous stillbirth of characters 
Indulged, of my mind matter

Farfetched from the stormy 
Gaseous aeons
Where chaos ravage into the silence
Where atoms dance lavishly 
Into darkness

And in a heartbeat My ink transfused 
Into concrete words.


Digital Phantasium

Pitched black ink typed to come alive through my screen

Where the glowish pixels materialise through my alphanumericals

So as to set free the creatures that fill my phantasium

There where they roam wildly Inside of my imaginarium;

Through my introscopic mind, fueled by thee realism

Titulars of the lights and of the darkening hours

Folds away inside each others, like perpendiculars towards a reality

That seems lost and blue into far fetched darkness;

And it was as if my imaginarium and I were one

With the digits of another dimension

Dancing with each other into spaces unseen to the eyes.


A World Of Alienation

All earthlings are mad… 🤣

I live alone –
in a world filled of mysteries 
Of wonders 
And of alienation

In a space where my imagination 

Spurs factitious and fictitious realms
That inhibits the fallacious minds 
That drones into the other spaces 

Like shenanigans 

Like the doers
And the sarbacane – 
That shoots poison 
Into the life 
Of a character of mine
And where my imaginarium – 
solely fly – to abide.  

Spilled ink

Poem about spilled

I’ve always love poetry into its every texture and form, and loved writing my own in my teen days. Poetry, visual art, music, ambient movies, and catchy written books have always satisfied my thirstiness of subtle evasion. I myself having particular taste of things, while I have never found the specific community so as for me to adhere, I have found my joy and happiness into ‘The arts’.

Spilled ink

Flower buds
Spilled from ink,
And from my heart
Grows out flowery words

Like beauty stirs into the day
So does ink upon my sheet