Left to the measure of time,
Solipsistic minds.
Mean time.
Countless selves
cease to exist.
Yet, there remains the “I”
The “I” there is not me.
Amen, so be it.
Aight, I’ve gone a bit overboard on this one.
Left to the measure of time,
Solipsistic minds.
Mean time.
Countless selves
cease to exist.
Yet, there remains the “I”
The “I” there is not me.
Amen, so be it.
Aight, I’ve gone a bit overboard on this one.
I killed my dreams
(and it’s killing me inside).
I killed my dreams. I buried them alive.
I sleep. I’m awake. I fight to survive…
I’ve seen some goals revert
(roll back to dreams).
These dreams never had the chance.
Time flies
Mosquito bites
Something I wrote is bugging me
I’ve never been I patient fisher
Ah, but I miss the days I could
Fish. My big brother would
Do that for hours like days
Time flies
See? A new batch of flies
Fun fact: they live for, like, days
Time flies—urban flies
See how “the world” has changed for good?
For the better? Says who?
Was that the wind of change long foreseen?
Oh, fishy days—
Looking back at fishing days
When even then, I searched for older days
Trying to pintpoint the point of transition
What’s with the world today?
What was it yesterday?
Oh, Earth is doing fine.
Watch that—a planetary parade—,
The gang walking seven abreast.
Sun sees it as a single file,
Like Mercury said,
“Got a problem? Please, get in line.”
Venus, mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune…
Willy nilly Earth have not made it in time.
A gentle gravitational tug—
A shove would start a fight.
Talk about sibling rivalry,
Softened by the distance.
Earth might say in its mind,
“Pluto, you sneaky bastard,
I think you miss the old days.
All nine of us gathered. Hence, Aligned.”
Pluto says, “Not in a million years”.
Syzygy: Conjunction. A collinear configuration of two or more celestial bodies; an alignment in a straight line.
It’d be wasted
Any ink
Cartridge worn out
Spelling your name
Any line
Drawn-out
Delineating your face
Any verse
Left hanging
Exhausted to rhyme
Nowhere to be seen
Trees, walls, benches, pages
Typing slows down
No ink runs out
Nothing is wasted
I didn’t put faith in this,
But I realized I was soaring high—
When I saw that I had sunk so low.
I was no bird of prey.
An early bird, but no pray.
And I couldn’t cut it.
Even so, I could have my cake and eat it.
I had a strong
Sense of my own.
I can’t seem to find the right title today—this one will do.
I’ll use this as a writing prompt. If we rely exclusively on prompts we find here, we’re bound to fall short. Just the other day, I came across a question about dinosaurs that made me stop and think, “What?”
This got me considering: why not create prompts (or themes) for each other here? If we collaborate on them, they could rival even the most popular—but often silly—Wordpress writing prompts. What really matters, after all, is quality and authenticity. Developing the skill of asking thoughtful questions is invaluable, and I’ve been refining it over the years.
If you ever feel inspired to write on this theme, feel free to refer to this post in your own writing. This might even encourage you to come up with your own prompt. Now, here’s my perspective:
I still act on impulse at times. Reflecting on it, I’ve realized that impulsive actions are often driven by the lure of immediate rewards. That’s the dopamine effect at play. To counter this, we can learn to prioritize rewards that require significant time and effort rather than chasing instant gratification. The key is to take some time to reflect on the situation.
Immediate rewards can range from regaining a sense of control (even if it’s just temporary relief for a problem that remains unresolved) to satisfying a fleeting urge (like indulging in something momentarily pleasurable).
Here’s the technique I recommend for managing impulsive behavior:
1. Define the problem or need. Identify what’s truly driving your impulse.
2. Understand the reward involved. Recognize what immediate payoff you’re seeking. Look for an activity you use to enjoy that’s more productive in general and do these instead. Books, songs, movies… You name it.
3. Pause. Between these steps, take a deep breath. Give yourself space to reflect.
4. Here’s you cue to come up with your steps from this point on, adapted to your needs…
The more you practice this process, the easier it becomes to manage impulsive urges.
This is a question I answered on Quora, and I think it’s worth sharing:
You learn to write proper poetry by consistently writing “bad” poetry, reading “proper” poetry, and discussing it with peers. Along the way, you’ll develop a natural sense for what works and what doesn’t.
Reading is essential to refine your writing, but writing itself is even more important—after all, the goal is to write. For every poem you read, aim to write two or three.
Read more. Write even more.
The gap between the quality of your inspirations and your creations will gradually close.
Balancing self-criticism and self-confidence is crucial: too much self-criticism can undermine your self-confidence, while unchecked confidence can blind you to areas for improvement.
In the beginning, it’s important to write freely, without excessive restrain. You start bold and confident as never, as you are assessing the terrain. Embrace the inevitability of failing, and enjoy the process.
At first, you’ll likely end up with a pile of digital drafts (or a wastebasket full of crumpled papers if you’re oldschool), but over time, you’ll hone both your craft and ability to evaluate your work objectively.
Here’s a metaphor for the balance I mentioned earlier: think of it as a tug of war between self-criticism and self-confidence.
←criticism —.— confidence→
Self-confidence needs to win this tug of war, but by a small margin. My hypothesis is that the best outcomes occur when self-confidence slightly outweighs self-criticism—just enough to allow movement and keep you in sight of areas for improvement. Think of it as one side exerting steady, consistent force.
Test the balance for yourself, and over time, you’ll find what works.
Myrciaria cauliflora—
A remarkable and
Unmistakable aura.
Look at them berries
Clung to its trunk.
Just like you, once tied
To your mother’s apron strings.
There you were yet again in your backyard
Hands stained with juice.
Little did you know that
These simple things would mean the most.
Photo by Felipe Setlik | flicker.com

Fingertips dance on the screen—
Not as light, nor as fleet,
As ink on paper’s steady drift.
Beauty lingers in each pacing,
The tap-dancer and the waltzer,
As words follow their lead.