Callouses on my heart

Unlike the tip of my fingers

That feels like they burned

When one or two songs

Finally sounds like it should

When I learned

Neither was the surface of my hand

That gets thicker in places

Some for all those years

I spent riding a bike

Some for holding on to my pen

a little too strong

Ones on my heart

They feel more like a

Blister

And where it came from

I don't know

Hard to explain it poetically

When tragedies and wars

Ignorance and greed

Grief and humility

Hunger and broken dreams

Doesn't sound like a guitar

And doesn't taste like good experience

But they do

Make a loud mark

-Suci BYT-

June 11th, 2025

It’s Alright, San

San,
It's alright.
I am alright.
I have a perfect life.
The love of my life,
Well, they have everything
I never knew I needed.

So San,
It's alright.
I don't mind not having a new you.
I got them by my side,
And you're there sending signs
That you watch,
That you worry,
That you care,
And still cheering
For my good times.

San, it is alright.
We talked on Facebook, your Mom and I,

We got it.
It's alright,
San.

Like The Crows

"If a slightly higher role

makes you shittier,

God knows what real power

would do to a person like you.

If looking down on people

is what makes you feel better,

I can only imagine what kind of wound

is still buried deep in your dark soul.

Oh, but I hold grudges like the crows,

so don't—

never once intentionally

treat me poorly.

And don't—

never unconsciously try

to give me bad tones.

You know, crows

attack.

You understand

how grudges work.

They grow.

So no,

your slightly higher role

does not grant you any respect

if you don't even deserve one."

Unveiled Reflections

She is a flower blooming in the dark,

Yet her essence still radiates.

She is a treasure in a box,

Locked away and guarded by a dragon.

She is a submarine,

Gliding through the water,

Silently surfacing for air only at night.

She is a spy in enemy territory,

Always on ward,

Never letting down her guard.

She is a character in a noir novel,

Building a secret garden,

Hidden away from the prying eyes of the world.

She is on a tiny island in the middle of a vast ocean,

All she can see are waves crashing on the shore,

But never the horizon.

She is a pearl inside an oyster's shell,

So alluring but ultimately unattainable.

She is a candle in the secluded greenhouse,

Her secret flickering in the shadows.

She is a glowing ember under a pile of ashes,

Her soul smolders just below the surface,

Waiting to burst into flame.

But she accept her fate like a hot coal

And it burned through her soul

As the realization dawned on her

Her shoulder relaxed

Like hot iron in the water

It’s her kiss to the forehead

Her warm blanket in the cold winter night

It’s her marking

A gift to oneself

As the tension that had been building

In her chest since forever melts away.

Baking Poetry

You love cooking

As much as I love writing

Baking is your poetry

Your Whisk dance like a pen

Your tasting palate

Is where you keep the metaphor

It’s your journal

I would say

I only know the oven

As your one true friend

She never betrayed your expectation

The kitchen is your library

The ocean of imaginations

It warps time for you

As magical as writing table

Does to mine

I published my work

You sell yours

I did it all for happiness

But I don’t know about you

Is standing all day for one cake

Are the things that heal you?

Or is it because you have to?

Either way

You and all that

Is a poetic dedication after all

And that’s just one

Out of gazillion reasons

For how huge the measure

Of how much

I adore you, Ma!

(November, 10th 2022)

Periodic Mourner

My exorbitant tears

Periodically gravitate

For the dead

I fitfully grieving

For the dead

My throat sore

For missing

The dead

For one I

Occasionally burst out of loss

of lady river

Who died on the lake

Just whenever her delicate voice

Sing the chorus oh so trilling

For another I

Mourn all my dead grandmas

Whom I hadn’t said goodbye to

And cry for a best friend

Who fell with the iron bird

With no enough goodbye too

Grief is boundless

It gives me

A dense agony

As if it’s scheduled

It is a symptoms

I suppose

Of a periodic mourner

For never been equipped

For being compelled to let go

Oh so suddenly

But who would have?

(September, 30, 2022)