Old Love

Ancient, this soul
Her poetry and all
Words about sunrise
Clasp with her wine

Ages ago, love
like this will not grow
Ancient, this soul
She loved him―
A long, long time ago

friendships at 3 am

Meeting someone like you
in a short period of time is
like meeting an old soul;
with a deep connection
between us, tying to an old
friend I’ve never met before

memories in the lane

if there is one thing
i would want to stay
for a lifetime―it’s
all the moments shared
with you,
the loneliness fainted
for a while,
bearing every second
worthwhile.

i wish i could say these
words here now,
before the prediction
of how everything would
end,
that someday somehwere
we will just be memories
in the lane,
and oh, how will i carry
all this alone with
loneliness.

the whole picture

people are like photographs.
captured like films
with a painted smile

though, there is a piece hidden;
we only know their surface
but not their whole picture.

Always Be

warm feelings and
flowers are blushing
once again she’d
held a pen for something
she hasn’t known then

a song that was out of tune
became orchestrated,
singing along with you

compared to others,
for her you were that
unique part in the crowd,
blocking everything out

and you were that someone
that might never stay, but for
her, you will ever be the unforgettable

if only we’re brave enough

maybe, there will
be a time when we
no longer need to
pretend―when both
of us are brave enough
to unmask our feelings
and tell each of our
secrets, sharing our
true motives. but those
maybes will just remain
hidden―hanging like
mysteries within ourselves.

― joanna, if only we’re brave enough

a poet and his subject

Image gallery image

perhaps, you were
gone and we haven’t
seen each other in a
long time―but our
world still collide in every
poetry that we write.

joanna, a poet and his subject

sun-drenched

look at how the sun is
entangled with the sea,
meeting it every waking day,
gliding its rays along the bay.

and when it slips off,
they whisper their goodbyes,
melting their colours
into liquid twilight.

Ashes

There are things
I think of and there
are that I wishes of
There are that I desire
And hoping, maybe
It would burn in fire

But fire loses its
passion, too.