Prose Poetry

If You’d Like to Date Me, Throw Me a Disc


If you want to date me, I want to see you play the field first. And, by field I mean, a grassy one. Maybe sandy. Or muddy.

I’d like to see the way you run, the way you change your course as your gut tells you to.

I’d like to know if you can keep your balance when you hit the ground after a great jump catch.

I’d like to know if you can quickly react when your game plan and the actual play opposes and crashes down all your hopes.

I’d like to see you lose yourself all in the name of Ultimate.


I’d like to see you in your most dominant state.

I’d like to see you in a jersey, a chance when you can exhibit all your masculinity, your field-length pools and your sharp cuts and blocks.

I’d like to see your jaws clench and fists curl every time something slips off that would cause you your team’s winning.

I’d like to see you push yourself to the limits.


I’d like to see you in most pressing situations.

I’d like to see how you cool your head despite the scorching heat, the consuming thirst, some minor setbacks and injuries.

I’d like to know how you’d handle a hotheaded opponent.

I’d like to know how you’d take in a misjudged foul called in by the one guarding you.


I’d like to see you in a victorious battle.

I’d want to know how your lips curve into a smile whenever you credit for a stat.

I’d want to see you humble down when they praise you.

I’d want to see how you deal with compelling glee brought about by each score and/or winning.


I’d like to see you at the sidelines.

I’d like to know how you support your teammates.

I’d like to watch you catch your breath and gulp down a bottle of water.

I’d like to see you sweat up close. (haha!)

And, I’d like to check if you’re checking out those chicks in sport bras and short shorts.


I’d like you to come play with me.

I’d like to know how good you can catch my forehand throws.

I’d want to know how much pressure you’d apply when you throw a disc to me.

I’d like to know if you trust me enough to throw a disc to me during a game.

I’d like to know if you’ll cut for me, call my name and catch my throw.

I’d like to know if you can handle me. Or if I can handle you.

If you’d like to date me, throw me a disc.

Prose Poetry

Magpie Mondays {A Couch Too Big For One}

Red couch. From Magpie Mondays.

The dame has been in this scenario for quite some time,

quite forlorn,

unbounded freedom,

mostly unaccompanied.

The space seems too vast for her fragility,

it eats her up,

too vexing,

breeds out a deafening monotony.

Casually, someone would sit for tea,

and she smiles,

elevated happiness,

and temporary highs.

In her mind, she grips his wrist,




But, she snaps back to reality,

he went

and sat

on another red couch.

And she casually brushed her way to the couch’s middle,

sipped her tea,

inhaled deeply,

and bit her tea-stained lip.

Prose Poetry


He was that stranger you wanted to know.

You kissed kismet sweetly when a part of his world was tangent to yours.

Then you hugged kismet hard enough when his world overlapped yours.

He’s that person who can make you forget your standards,

the one who can make you dive into a made-up pool of dream,

where you two can be free as the fishes on the ocean, and surface the waters after years to gasp for some air.

Then, he takes your hand and dive again.

He’s that somebody you would beautifully hold your breath for too long,

even though you know that you’d start to forget to breathe again.

My beautiful friend had this printed on a t-shirt. Gave me this as my birthday present.