The Poet


Yeah! yeah! so you get it, I’m not very happy
Sitting here throwing my thoughts at the lappy
Trying to make it sound valid, not trappy
As I explain once again why I’m feeling so crappy

Looking for ways to uphold my pretence
To stop feelings and thoughts from causing offence
To not only just rhyme, but also make sense
Whilst also still trying to sound quite intense

Exploration of heart and what’s brewing inside
Rolling with the waves and emotional tide
Wrestling with logic and linguistic pride
To present in a form that appears to just glide

So sit down and try it, just give it a go
Open your heart up and let the verse flow
Allow it some room and allow it to grow
And release all those things that you’d much rather show

The sense of release is reward on it’s own
The depth and emotion…

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Rat Queens Vol 1: Sass and Sorcery, by Kurtis J. Wiebe and Roc Upchurch

Blogging for a Good Book

rat queensIf you liked Lord of the Rings, but wished there were more sassy, kick-butt female fighters, snag this book and dive in. This first book collects #1-5 in a series that has refreshingly strong, unrepentant, female characters that are taken straight from fantasy convention but with some definite twists.

Palisade is protected by several mercenary groups in addition to their local guard units. One of these groups, called The Rat Queens, is comprised of four females: Hannah, an Elven Mage, Violet, a Dwarven fighter, Betty, a Smidgen Thief, and Dee, a Human who can cast healing spells. They are a mix of races, sizes, and personalities that are distinct and not two dimensional. They love fighting, drinking, rabble rousing, and money, all in equal measure. They have a strong sense of who they are and they make no apologies.

This is no origin story, so we join the group right…

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An Open Letter to Mother Maya

Black Millennials

Dear Dr. Angelou,

Today you rest in paradise, and my feelings, dare I say it, are extremely selfish. I know you are at ease, enlightening the afterlife with your instrumental peace and glory … but I want you here… with me.

I do not recall the day I fell in love with you. Maybe it was in middle school, when I gazed at your lyrics in seventh grade English, unable to decipher the insight, but willing to feel the emotion with curious intensity. Or maybe it was in high school, when I began to explore literature and dissect the roots of Black culture and feminism. Perhaps I fell in love with you in college, when I was mature enough to grasp not only your lyrics, but the contexts which encapsulated them.

Yes, it was definitely in college! Your potent words gave me solace as I experienced subtle racism by the hands of classmates…

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I Am Not

I am not the girl you will cry for.

Nor am I the girl who will keep you awake.

I am not the girl who can break your heart,

Though I am the girl you can break.


I am not the girl you buy flowers for

Nor the the girl who can make you happy.

I can make you laugh, yes, I  do that a lot.

But happy? No, that I cannot.


I am not the girl you will write about,

Or put a photo of in your wallet.

I am a girl you can spend drinks on,

but not the girl you’ll spend nights with.


Though I do not wish to be the girl

Who can tear your heart in pieces.

But truth be told, that girl who can,

I envy her, whoever that is.


For she is the girl you will cry for, the one who steals your sleep,

The girl you buy flowers for and whose picture you keep.

The girl you write about or whose lip you tenderly bite,

The girl you yearn to kiss or spend the lonely nights.


I am not that girl, That much is true.

I can wish my heart out, But I’ll never have you.

I am not the girl, though I long to be, who can make you love anew.

I’m just the girl who loves a boy,

That boy, my friend, is you.





18336300#WeNeedDiverseBooks and a few other related hashtags have been trending on Twitter lately among the circle of people I follow; mostly writers.  The impression that I’ve gotten is that the hashtag is primarily directed at literature for very young readers and pre-readers, but there’s no reason it has to be; all segments of literature benefit from diversity– diversity of authors, diversity of publishers, and diversity of subject material.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you T. L. Morganfield’s The Bone Flower Throne, the only book I have ever read set in tenth-century Mexico.  And not for lack of trying– this book was a blind order based on a Big Idea piece at Scalzi’s blog, so it was ordered based on the setting, the cover, and a maybe 500-word introductory piece by the author.

Check this one out, folks.  The Bone Flower Throne is on my shortlist for best books of the…

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4th of March, 10:00 pm, (GMT+03:00) Jeddah.

I had this urge to call you. All the news, all the gossip, are getting on my nerves. How you’ve moved on in a blink of an eye… how much “loved” she’s making you feel.

I was ready to dial. Your number wasn’t registered in my phone, but in my head, it was a recurring sequence of digits that I try my best to forget.

The last time we spoke, I had to inform you that I was coming home to the Philippines and that I had to get my sister’s old laptop from you. You called me by my pet name and corrected yourself instantly. I’d be lying if I say it didn’t feel nice… you calling me that.

The moment passed and you reverted to being “cool and aloof”… like I was just some old college friend who happened to call. I’ve been watching too many chick flicks and teleseryes that I was hoping you’d try to convince me to reconsider. We said our goodbyes and the line went dead… so did another part of me too.

You could’ve waited. You could’ve given me a chance to let me pull myself back together. But you didn’t. And the worst part is I cannot hate you. You robbed me of four years of my life… and  cannot hate you.

Your number was on my screen… waiting to be called.

I pushed the thought away and began calling Darlyn instead. No answer. Donna. Out of reach. Then I remembered it was 4:00 am in the Philippines.

I wanted to hear their voices… their witty remarks… their soothing sarcasm… anything to distract from you.

I need to forget.


I need to escape.

I need to be whole again.


Three months since you shattered me. You’d think I’d be almost over you. But I’m not.


I’m not.

Letters to Donna & Josh: The Aftermath

 It sucks to be the loser in a break up, the one who has to deal with the most pain and pity. I hate that word… pity.

Fortunately, we have work. Something to distract us from our brokenness, something to numb the pain other than cheap liquor.

We’re doing pretty okay, right?At least I think we are.

Sure we’re still picking up the pieces, losing some at times, but still trying to be whole once again.

We’ll get there. Maybe not soon, but we’ll get there.