Monthly Archives: April 2014

The Hidden Key

The path is cobbled with emerald stones, leading to a city with flying horses and talking scarecrows. Cowardly lions with lightning scars on their foreheads, and dogs with Cheshire grins litter the streets. Flowers bask in the golden glint of the afternoon sun, with the white rose singing an aria. An aria that speaks of a long forgotten love, buried in a chest, buried underneath a mountain, guarded by a fire-breathing dragon who is fascinated with the smell of a little man with hairy feet, unassuming that the voice it hears, echoing throughout the cave filled with mountains of rubies and sapphires, is the cause of its forthcoming demise.

The buried chest, buried underneath that mountain guarded by the fire-breathing dragon is wrapped in iron chains, held together by a silver lock. Rusted by the kisses that once covered every inch of it. No one knows how to open it, for the key has been long gone. Perhaps buried away like the rest of the chest, beneath another mountain, guarded by another beast. Perhaps. But no one knows. The secret of the forgotten key, has remained forgotten. It has become a subject of lore. Just like the fire-breathing dragon and the emerald path, and the city with flying horses and the men with hairy feet. No one talks about them now. They cross the mind, once in a while, but really, who would want to talk about cowardly lions and talking flowers, and fire-breathing dragons? Yes, the fire-breathing dragons. They’re all part of a child’s wild imagination. Just a part of a child’s imagination.

But I have something to tell you. Just come closer for a bit, closer come here, but not that close. Leave an inch of air between our faces, you wouldn’t want to feel my breath. We’re not lovers at the height of our passions, hearts bursting with the consious desire of touching our skins. Of covering each other’s lips with our mouths. No, we’re not lovers. Just strangers, walking on the same path. Searching for the same key. The key that has been long ago forgotten.
Oh yes, I had something to say. But it’s a secret, one I’m not expecting you to keep anyway.
It’s about the path with the emerald stones that leads to the city with the flying horses and the talking scarecrows. With the cowardly lions and the dogs with the Cheshire grins. You want to know how to get there. And to get there, you have to find the chest. And when you find the chest, you need the key. The key of legend and lore.
Yes, it does exist, I assure you that it’s true. The key is found right inside of you.



— We were asked to write slam poetry pieces for our Creative Writing class, and this was among my many first drafts. The first person I showed it to thought that it was too cheesy. But, somehow, whenever I read it, I can’t help but get this unexplained magical feeling. Maybe it’s because of the many references to fantasy stories we have read as children.


Blurred City Lights

Blurred City Lights

Think back on that day when you first learned to drive through the city. Lights flashed before your eyes and for a moment, you felt infinite. Your hands clutching the wheel, knuckles white and hands cold. But no, it wasn’t because you were afraid. For once, you were free and in control. The road is paved, and the evening sky is brighter than that first morning you finally opened your eyes. You realize at last that you can survive without the sun. As long as your moon shines.


– photo taken by misspee, unless stated otherwise

Reading in the Dark

You told me once that if we cried in the dark, no one would listen.
Voices heard inside still rooms would often be mistaken for ghosts,
and they will be neglected. But it won’t matter.
I am so used. Rejection is not foreign to me.
Like vultures that prey on carrion. Pain is a friend
I welcome with clenched teeth and misty eyes. Still,
you never cared to give me the key to open the door.

Perhaps, if I wrote it down, would you understand it better?
No you won’t. Reading isn’t done with eyes closed.


I see a canvass about to be filled
with geographies of the stars, of the sea,
of the body, with ink of my choosing.
All I have to do is to pick
the colors and start the strokes. To draw
what I should. But what should it be?

A map of stars, perhaps? It would be easy
to trace the outline of the great bear, a guide
to lead me to heaven. Or of the sea?
Laden with a trail of secret channels
and straits to get me around
the world. Or maybe, a map of the body?
So I may point with just a finger,
those places that hurt.

But of what importance is a map?
When all I need is an arrow
to point me to my destination?



Coffee Shop

Step into the glass doors,
into a room filled with faces buried
in books. Lips covering steaming cups
of roasted Arabica with kisses.
Enter into a space that you can easily call
“My own”. If not for the joint whispers
of jazz and new hellos. Of old friends
asking, “How do you do?”
and the scent of cinnamon lingering – stay,
but only for a while. Until you see nothing
but the dregs, that not even your tongue could reach.
Leave when the heat fades,
before your hands grow numb with the cold –
before water replaces what once was
sweet, leaving you with bitterness.
An aftertaste. But do not haste.
Do not rush to head off to meetings
you would attend to with your eyes
closed and your thoughts back to that
moment: where the chance of stares enough
to light a spark that could last – maybe
for a lifetime – would meet.
But you missed in just a flicker.