This 10-themed poetry journey is a gentle unfolding—through themes that touch the deepest parts of the human experience.
From the ache of heartbreak to the strength of self-love, from the quiet wisdom of nature to the unseen ties
that bind us, each theme invites you to pause, reflect, and read from the heart.
Whether you’re drawing from memory, imagination, or longing, these poems are here to guide you—toward healing, discovery, and connection.
And if you choose to, you can write down your own feelings and thoughts at the back of each page.
Let these words find their way into your heart.
FREE READ: CHAPTER 1 OF “GIO AND THE TAILOR’S CHALK”
“SOMETHING’S WRONG,” I MUTTER UNDER MY BREATH.
Beside me, my friends are chuckling, their faces still flushed with excitement over the victory we’ve just won against Vzu, the evil alien who wanted to obliterate Earth by using us as her weapons.
But my heart is thudding like a horse’s hooves clattering against concrete.
I look down and see that my feet have indeed transformed into hooves—which they do whenever I sense trouble.
Being part-tikbalang and part-human—and now, thanks to Vzu, part-alien—has given me tremendous powers, which I’m still exploring and getting used to.
Before Vzu, my legs were deformed, my left leg shorter than my right. My father and I have always told people I contracted polio as a child. But in reality, the deformation was a preparation for the time when I would be a full-blown Tikbalang on my fifteenth birthday: a monster with the face, hands, and feet of a horse and the body of a human every full moon.
But Vzu abducted me before my fifteenth birthday—along with four other kids my age—and experimented on us by infusing us with her essence.
It not only gave me new powers; it transformed me physically. Before, I could run fast. Now, I can run as fast as the wind, maybe ten times faster than that. I don’t have a tail. But my legs became perfect in shape and length, and I can change them at will or, instinctively, in times of danger—like now.
“Gio?” Issa asks, noticing my anxiety. The others—Zinag, Nimuel, and Arion—stop talking, sensing the mood.
“Something’s wrong,” I repeat. I sniff, my senses heightening as every step brings us closer to the gate of my humble house.
“I smell. . . blood!” I gasp, then I run forward, fast, leaving my friends behind.
I leap over the closed gate, running, and throw open the door, my heart galloping.
The scene that greets me makes my knees weak, and I fall to the floor as I let out a horrible scream.
There’s blood everywhere. On the walls, on the floor, on all the furniture.
And at the far end of the living room, two tikbalang bodies lay frighteningly still.
One is my Uncle Celso. The other is my father—his eyes and mouth open in wide horror.
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