And it’s in this miserable, and
disastrous handy advice,
All that is left; for those who aren’t
as adroit; as fishermen in the game
of love, to find their catch
— a master baiter.

Ends up being what they’ll
believe is the right choice to make
then after, to instead be
— a masturbator.

And so, it seems like an additional day
you’re back counting on misfortunes,
As when they named you spoiled,
that always made you feel so less important,
A foreigner everywhere in gatherings;
as your spoken words, feel imported,
You’ve felt like fallen wine, as all your
maturity blemished the floors—
A child grounded, by your countless flaws.

Dreadfully ascending out of your many
troubles, but you slip up on life’s stairs,
As all of those hypothetical elevating eyes;
sometimes bring you down, with people’s
awkward stares.

You’ve done your best, while
pretending like you never tire,
But sometimes you lose the grip to
that drive, like a worn-down tyre,
Still, you have to wear a heroic smile
as a part of your attire;
—and between having a part of will to
do any well, the world spins the notion
of it not being so, like a tyre.

You’re covering up a wave of hidden
emotions, in a couple ***** durags,
Articulating them, always feels too late,
—a poor clothing of words; in these due rags.

In truth, you feel like words
that sound the same, but with
two different meanings,
Your life is just this relentless,
finding out one remarkable meaning,
As your purpose is what you’ll look out
yourself...no I mean, In.

Who am I,
But the meaningless purpose, set out
To echoes of their tears— dancing their fires
upon each tongue. Am I wrong wanting not,
to be as equal to parentages?

What does it mean to be free; to be not
Set to be, or set free in a world, only not to be
Anything it recognizes— for the freer person in
this world, are only but the dead. So must I,
sacrifice my life, to then feel alive?

My time each day, is all amalgamation of
Escapeless breath. Oh, isn’t it such a waste to
Be young; for the subtle interest of being ill trained
By the perception of the Owed?

For our youth is truly a debt to those
who train us to be better—
But it’s a lesson not meant to be free,
for when you meet their age, you like them,
feel something is owed.

“Oh, where is the time, I had invested in you,
The wisdom and guidance my
hand laid upon your head?
For from the full of my flesh, I raised you up,
From being a fool. I had decided your
purpose from what I had seen fit,”

Enough then said; to ask of you again,
who am I, who am I then?

If I cry out to a gaze of boisterous
watchers, as every star falling out of the
sky, —I’d too, feel so out of place. I would
appear, a feast to Time, by just a second’s graze.

Truly startled at how short a life is;
even by the Greener pastures we so
meaninglessly hunt after; do know
full well, all the grass that grows so
promising; will all eventually be grazed.

And perhaps the purple envy I had
for the freedom’s worth knitted into
the sky, would all at last turn so grey,

And so, I would cry a river’s mountain,
upon knowing how much time I spent,
chasing after meaningless things in all my days.

For the cares of the world offers
only a moment’s praise,

Till I’m of course consumed, with finding
the reasoning to clarify such a craze—
I’d have no answer to my Creator’s name;
and I’d be so ashamed.

His voice,
voyages through the darkness of every
cornered shadow, chasing after the reins
of ultimately being consumed,— annihilated.

As if being pressed to the heart
of an angel; as the tears of stars are
dancing in the drape of faultless dark,
Sweltering bright, — as a flame impaled
his gaze, with the loudest of needles.

Every breath grew harder, and harder,
as if the same needles were jabbing around
in his stomach— they must have been nerves;
the butterflies he had felt, declaring his
hidden affections to a crush.

The same crushing feeling you
have for a crush, that you hope
won’t crush you with their refusal,
But rather crush you with
the crushing idea:
         of falling in love.

Oh, those sixteen seconds; —
schoolings we learnt, stories on the
sixteen streets, where a few flowers
  Would be daring enough to grow.

YOU!
Bystander to the narrative of six teens,
learning about life, through every twist
and curve. Take part in such an account,
for you too, to be flourished in what
  Truths we learned.

I was sixteen; though that made
you feel like eighty-four in a concrete
jungle, where you heard stories of
its corruption, as it scarily roars.

The novel days, but with a broken
system of old. From feeling broke;
covering holes with holes,

— You could only tap into success by
the connections of who you know, and
they know; prior sixteen years. Henceforth
  Why we all sensed being so old.

Or was it, "owed"
—dang, what youth could know?
But to be honest though, the feeling of it,
was so cold: a degree less than sixteen, for
  Any flower to be frightened to grow.

As if the promise of an improved
tomorrow would never really show,
To say—"you head in your own way
and I'll be a head, ahead of you; thinking
up sixteen likely ways of where to go,
  And how to go.

I was told a story by so and so,
who knew so and so, —that said,
So and so, about so and so, that a man
claimed this was the right time to sow.

He threw out his seeds; some that hit the
emotionless ground as cold sixteen stones.
Others were pierced by the cold’s thorns.

He spoke a lot of brave words and
eccentric quotes, that held with them
great wisdom and growth.

Some hard to swallow, some fell on
deaf ears, the rest gnawed by birds.
These teachings didn’t speak of being
owed, as we were told; but were
secrets he seemed to own,
  That shone out of his soul.

I was sixteen, a nervous teen,
who gave this story sixteen seconds.
We were careless and obviously reckless
—a wonder of which gods ever forgave us.

Feeling cold as snow, in a place where,
it gets colder as the rain pours.
The man gave us sixteen of the most
profound words:


“Sixteen seconds of the Word,
your spirit grows, — sixteen
seconds of rain, and life will show.”

I was termed a flower in that story,
given sixteen words of advice
from a stranger I didn't really know.
And it was by age sixteen, the bud
  Had started to grow.

I guess flowers are
the boldest of us all.
—on where, and through which
situation they choose to grow.

She's XY beautiful,
but she'll be my ex,why?
Cos not all love is so beautiful."

"Her kisses were like ivy,
and our love sickness put me on an IV"

So said the lonely man who spoke,
"love used to lay besides me, now it
only wants everyone else, besides me"