Power of Music

It sings for my ears. But it talks to my heart. It shakes me by my fears. And shoots me like board of a dart.

It brings back all the memories. And wakes me up of things I can’t find. It’s not my happiness. Why I feel like I’m blind?

But I don’t want to stop this melancholy. Even though I am so trap. I’d rather burst totally. Instead of fooling myself by bluff.

Lyrics is heartache. Tune is heartbreak. My emotion is not fake. My mind is in earthquake.

It’s painful. It’s kinda tragic. It’s playful. The power of music.


Scatter it, Eyes

There are times when I come home and the sky is dark, gloomy as me, the place is quite. I would change my clothes and then leave my school works undone, I would lay in my bed and think of nothing, empty. Though I make everything alright, I still feel so heavy inside like I’m carrying an unknown burden.

Then my mind will start to play past memories that would make me smile, laugh a little, and whisper something slow to my pillow. And he’s appearance would flash fast, and I’ll be quite again, my heart would beat so fast, and my breath will experience shortage. As he entered, my mind would ask a lot of whys , “ Why do I have to met you? ” “Why Am I like this. And why are you like that? ” “Why I can’t tell you about my bleeding self? ” And I would get no replies, no certain answers.

He’s just my dream and I’m only a dreamer, maybe he exist but for him I don’t, maybe he’s just a fiction, or maybe he’s just part my imaginations. I don’t want to be realistic, I don’t want to tell myself and God that one day I’ll forget about him, that one day I’ll let him and my feelings go ’cause I honestly don’t want to do that. But it’s a sad reality that today I’m broken, and tomorrow I’ll fall in love again with a stranger, and that person is not him anymore.

At the moment, I feel so torn inside but I’m frost. Nothing comes out in my eyes, no tears. I want to express my pain but how if I can’t cry. I really can’t. The weight inside me is trapped, it don’t want to show, it don’t want to leave me.

This ain’t a fairytale. No, this isn’t. I’m just hopeless. I’m just a fragile and broken glass.

So Scatter it, eyes.

Devil in Me

It’s always there, it’s always around.

I feel like he’s sticked with my feet.


He never want to get away from me. No, he will never do.

He’s faceless, you won’t see any beauty nor ugliness.

He’s emotionless, you won’t see any happiness nor sadness.

It’s shady. All darkness.

But my madness and hatred for them empowers him.

I can’t trace any smirk. And it laughed, indignantly.

Drastically. It laughed for me.

His black heart and messed up soul are full of putrid memories.


I now know. It’s not my shadow either.

’cause he’s my hidden self.

‘Cause it’s the devil in me.


I had my amnesia from the past, ’til you came and I saw your smile again. Damn, you look familiar. Then I remember every single thing. You’re the person I loved for years, reason why I cried for years, and had a long nights having you there in my heart.

I can still remember that rainy Saturday when I realized that I have feelings for you but it seems to be blurry now. Two years ago, I could still see myself sadly disappointed, blaming it, and broken. Those times that I would message you repeatedly and I’d know that you’re already annoyed and I’ll feel like I’m much of being an attention-seeker. Those scenes of me inside the class glancing at you at the back and would take it away once you caught me then figure out again your face. It’s still in my mind, the first picture of you I saved and the picture I always stare at whenever I open my phone which also causes me that blended feelings inside.

You reminded me of the time you started about that mystery girl of yours and I was wonderin’ the whole time you’re keeping it a secret, I got myself into obsession with her but then you revealed. The moment you said you’re up on the roof, sad because of someone else. And I ,worrying so much. Those words from you when you called her your princess and my heart was pounded and devastated into tiny fragments, disintegrated.

I could recall the moment when she answered “Yes” and you would stand there in front of me with that glowing face. Those moments that I would see how you wait and send her home every afternoon after class, how the both of you look like with smiling faces and me, torn.

Why you treated me like that?

Why did you have to break my bones?

Why you have to be a part of my downfall?

I can’t think of reasons why I repeatedly broke my own heart and gave it slit. But at least, I learned how to be smarter, I stitched it. Now, I can see you standing tall there under the shed and I’ll watch you like that. Now, I’ll look at you without any shame and with feelings of emptiness. You’re like a photo taken in black and white, you should be totally forgotten. But you’ve been a part of me antecedently and it can’t be change by ease.

And I only want to tell, if I’ll tears again, well that’s definitely not because of you. I will never be that old self again, so if you’re trying to be back, you’re not welcome anymore.


I’m thinking what to write here in my bed and I feel like my mind is blocked and something block the ideas to come-up in my head. I together with my lazy hand picked up my pen for nothing and then torn the pages of my little pad. Things I’ve done from the past suddenly flashed in my mind, I realized that I already received a lot in my life for 15 years, I received things that’s now hurting my feeling again.

Those that I’ve done and those that are done by others to me are those that will never play again, I will never repeat again, forbidden. It is maybe still in me but I am always keeping it and trying to hide it all. I never want to talk about it anymore, they must be buried by the hands of the clock, buried by the time. I can see it in my eyes and I can see it to myself how everything changed in fleet. Yes, a lot has change and so my memories shall be replaced.

My past smiles, laughs, and tears fades as the decomposing leaves are eaten slowly by the soil, by the ground. My past had been absorbed by flowers, by trees, by nature, and I can see it all. My past pictures, my mistakes are still in my vision but I now melt them in fire and little by little show up as smoke, ashes. Alive images became ghosts.

I turned and so my life but there’s still something that shivers my hand to move and my ink…

Still, all I know from that past memories, bitter thoughts, I dont wanna be back.


Here I am again in my lonely world, finding some console while playing and lending my ears to lullaby ditties which weakens my body and makes me drowsy.

The tone flashes back all the things that hurted me and the lyrics talks and asks me to be stronger and to be better everyday.

I can feel the weight inside and the feeling in my heart, I guess my eyes will never be dry.

As I’m thinking deeply, someone showed up. What I can see is a messy persona, that the eyes are irritated and reddish, that the hair wasn’t brushed and the face is gloomy.

I watched the tears fall and had a long look on the unbrilliant visage and countenance. I look down on the lips, I can see that it tries to bend a little and form a shape of happiness ,it tries to smile on me. The persona that I can see encourages me to never give up and carry it all but I think, I can’t anymore take it, I can’t anymore pretend to be alright, I can’t anymore prove that I’m strong ’cause I’m tired.

I give one more look and there I saw myself. I realized that it was me whom I can see and had a look on.

I remember, I stood up and face myself in the mirror, tried to lift it all up.

I changed my mind and decided to keep on going a little more.

His Art of writing

He’s not a journalist, he’s not a poet. He’s not a writer but he expresses, he’s just an expresser and somehow he uses words, writing.

As he’s sitting at the silent corner of the room, he’ll open his piece of paper. Paper that’s unique and not all of us has, in his head this paper is he himself, he write for his own and not for other people, he don’t care about what they might say cause all he thinks is to satisfy and to let himself be free through it.

His pen and ink are his consorts but it’s useless if he don’t have ideas in his mind. For him, these pen and ink that he own aren’t so important, he uses his brain first before these two things he has in his hand.

His ideas created words and that words will give life to the paper. Words are like nature, in his mind this what gives life to him but that ideas arent just literally ideas. These are his memories reminding him a lot and make him more inspired and effective. These connect him more for what he’s doing.

Soon enough, his work was done and that writing isn’t just a masterpiece…

It’s a crafted work of emotions consisted of what’s in his heart. It’s his pain, it’s his self.

His hand didn’t wrote it but his feelings did.

All he know is that, writing is converting feelings to words…

And that’s my obscure art behind.