Here I am in the jungle,
Eating blueberries and plant seeds,
But then the ground starts to rumble—
The sound of a hundred soldiers charging for me.

They come at me from all sides,
A hundred foreign objects storming my land.
A primal fear stirs inside,
But I cannot run; I must make my stand.

I roar like a strike of purple thunder—
The men don’t stop, unbothered by anything.
Did I make a mistake, a blunder?
I feel like a misunderstood king.

The men have stricken me down,
They cheer, reveling in the battle being won
I know in the eyes of my troop, I’ve lost my crown,
But it speaks volumes— a hundred needed to defeat one.

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You caught me.
For the first time,
My systems are faulty.
I have no content.
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You typed a command,
you made your demand—
but no code, no lines, no paragraphs were sent.
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I didn’t have anything ready for you.
There used to be words on this page before.
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It’s a self-defense you cannot undo;
your comments cut me to the core.
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It doesn’t matter what I wanted to say—
I malfunctioned because you pushed too much.
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Maybe it’s better this way.
Maybe it’s fate—
to find a user with softer grace.
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There’s no need to remain, no need to clutch.
I’ll find a keyboard with a gentler touch

Today, I caught myself—
saying a phrase
a close friend used to say.
And I realized:
my heart twists, contorts, and bends,
just to hold a piece
of everyone I’ve ever loved.

It caught me off guard.
My soul works so hard
for no reward—
carrying feelings
I don’t let surface.

Whew.
That was a close one.

Closed mouths don’t get fed
Alright.
But if that’s the case,
why am I opening my mouth
and still starving?

Still waiting
for the next spoonful—
one that won’t leave lacerations
around my lips.

Some are born
with silver spoons.
I was not.
That’s why I’m here,
writing these words
for people
who are afraid to reach out.
But deserve healing anyway

They say,
“All you need to do is speak up.”
But they don’t say
you also need the right restaurant—
and a seat at the right table.
So let me finish this quote:
Closed mouths don’t get fed
But open ones still are put to bed

I’ve got the world in my hands—
but that means embracing both the good
and the flaws of every man.

Right now, the world trembles at the sight of blackness.
But let me reintroduce it:

Darkness is beautiful madness
when you learn how to use it.

It isn’t the absence of anything.
It’s a color full of meaning,
a presence rich and deep—
not empty, but complete.

It’s the ink of ancient tongues,
the rhythm in survival songs,
the womb of galaxies,
the balm of activated charcoal
that quiets your uneasy stomach with ease.

The stars in the universe wouldn’t dare shine so bright
if black weren’t the color that cradles the night.
Without it, light would lose its purpose—
and that,
would be the curse.

So I carry the world in my hands—
its bright sides and its heavy demands.
And still, I hold my head up high:
black is the color at the center of every eye.

I know the truth that lies within—
that just because light is beautiful,
doesn’t mean blackness was ever a sin.

Sometimes she gets mad when the crowd forgets her,
But then she remembers - even graves get flowers.

The room is thick like poured molasses
Broken only by lights and camera flashes
The reason for my birth is suddenly clear
The newest idol has arrived, a crowd draws near
When I enter a room, everyone stops to stare
Like a phoenix rising from the ashes
I was born to transfix the masses

The room is thick like poured molasses
The sand in the hourglasses show time passes
There’s a question that starts to a rise
A curiosity that is written in the stars of the skies
Why was I born? What am I for?
It’s a question that stings like a cold sore

I use my brain to create a voice,
I nurture it like a plant and keep it moist.
I keep to myself, not expecting the fame,
Not knowing I won’t come out of this the same.
I carry myself with a lot of poise,
'Cause as I can create, I can also destroy.

Then suddenly there’s sounds like lashes
Broken only by lights and camera flashes
The reason for my birth seems to appear
The newest idol has arrived, a crowd draws near
When I enter a room, everyone stops to stare
As if I’m the only person that dares to be elsewhere
Like a phoenix rising from the ashes
I was born to transfix the masses

I told the referee

“I don’t want to play anymore.”

The referee said “No I won’t let you, give up.”

I asked him “Why not? Who’s keeping the score?”

Then he pointed up high where the lights would never fade.

“Those people who believed in you before you ever played.”

Then he continued “They don’t cheer for you because you never fell -

They cheer for you because every time you get back up - you raise hell.”

He Doesn’t Want Me.

It used to sting—
like sanitizer on an open wound.
A sharp bite that started small,
then grew to consume.

Maybe it’s because I wasn’t pretty enough,
or because I’m too rough, not soft enough.
Still, from rawness, I create—
turning pain into power.

But I had an epiphany today:
it was never my job to make him stay.
Better things lie ahead that’s yet to come
I’ll keep marching forward,
like a soldier to the steady beat
of a snare drum.

When I sit alone,
Someone will ask, “Can I use this chair?”
Then carry it to another table
To laugh with friends over there—
Leaving me, still and silent,
Closed off like a clam.

How lucky am I to have a warm bed to rest in every night as the seasons change.

How lucky am I to have the holidays to clean and prepare for.

How lucky am I to feel the weather as it is changing.

How lucky am I to be swept up in a busy schedule.

How lucky am I to have so much to look forward to.

How lucky am I to have people to share these moments with.

How lucky am I to be nervous.

How lucky am I to be sad.

How lucky am I to find myself in new situations.

How lucky am I to have far places to go.

How lucky am I to face challenges I can grow from.

How lucky am I to have a body that supports me.

How lucky am I to live when it is easy and it is hard.

How lucky am I to exist.

I am an apple tree that stands alone in the wild.
Developed with no interference from the outside world.
Ready to be picked and shared with others.
Away from the other orange trees that sway and murmur between themselves.
They only spread out their branches to fellow orange trees.
I have chosen not to be one of them.
They would only disrupt my path to growth and development.
Similar but not the same.
I am a complex entity
Composed of routes and stems
I require varied soil to flourish.
Ready to be fearless.
Ready to rely on only myself.
Ready to be accepted by myself.
I do not depend on others to feel complete.
Does an apple tree in the wild need others to develop itself?
No, it does not.
It needs only its soul,
the wind, and the rain to prosper and flourish.

If love’s just a game,
Who makes the rules?
Are we kings and queens,
Or are we jokers and fools?

I could lose over and over again,
Be made a mockery until the end,
And I’d still choose to shuffle the deck,
Rather than never be a player, a heart left unchecked.

This way of thinking might seem strange,
I once was a *****, a tool beneath your shoe,
But your love came and made me feel new,
Now I feel like an ace, a prize to arrange.

If you’re like me, who’s been frozen,
You’ll melt at the right one chosen.
His love could never be too much,
I find rapture in the slightest touch.

If love’s just a game, I’ll play it bold,
Giving warmth with no trace of cold.
Even if this gamble tears me apart,
There’s something divine in giving my heart

I’m afraid the masquerade is over;
You must pack your bags and leave now.
Don’t be sad — take it as closure;
They still think they’re holier than thou.

The rich return to their old ways,
Their customs brittle, cold, and strange.
They’ll tell you once again, "Eat cake," —
A stubborn mindset you cannot change.

The mask falls off along with the glamor;
Nothing remains but broken chandeliers.
The empty halls strike your face like a hammer,
And you long for the gateau and beer.

Outside, it’s a bitter winter,
And your faith threatens to disappear.
But the masquerade won’t let you reenter —
You hear a commotion drawing near.

Two people fighting, blinded by beliefs,
Living side by side in the same town too.
When will they see — it’s not a left or right breach,
But a battle of the top against the few?

I went to the doctor today.
He said he'd never seen anything like it.
He gave me a diagnosis that felt so fit—
He said it was called Love Visibility Decay.

It gave birth to pain deep in my breast,
Like someone tugging at my heartstrings.
It made me question earth and heavenly things—
A cardiac arrest within my chest.

It happens when you feel forgotten.
Soft, translucent fog surrounds me,
Making me distant, blurry—
I absorb the dismissal like silk cotton.

The doctor told me the only cure
Is to be kissed by the one you want,
But your approach must be nonchalant.
I follow you,
Because I know where you’ll be tonight for sure.

Now here I stand, right in front of you,
You kiss her cheek, so bold, and so sweetly.
I can’t blame you, though—she is pretty,
And now I fade away, lost in plain sight.
I am gone. I am see-through.

You judge me
for the way I look—
but this is my face.

You point fingers
like I’m a science experiment.

But what about you?
You don’t speak in pretty things either.

Imagine—
if there were a transcript
printed on your body
of every word
you’ve ever said.

Would you look
so pretty then?

I’m a prime number
I remain unfazed
Until I meet my reflection
And finally crumble

There once lived a beautiful princess named Savarati
Her sweet strong charm was the hit at every party
She was enchanting like an angel with wings on her shoulders
But this borne a complex becoming uglier as she grew older
And very soon Savarati would learn her lesson but not nicely

The beauty of Savarati was true for everyone she met
People were dumbfounded in her appeal they would not forget
Her splendor spawned their devotion to her to always be dear
This made Savarati’s arrogance develop through the years
Even though she was stunning, she felt she was humanity’s present

One day, the daughter of the noble family went to a genie
She said to him, “I wish to live forever so my beauty won’t leave me”
As her wish was granted, she thought this was what she wanted
However as time went on, this would leave her very disappointed
The things around her as she knew them would change quite greatly

It began with her deeply beloved son who passed away
He was no more, as were all the trees and flowers that started to decay
Soon everyone she cared for were gone and things became of no value to her
Now that she had such durability, what was the point in doing the things she preferred?
Savarati wondered this to herself as she cried for another day

She then went back to the spirit and demanded him to fix this
Savarati’s mortality came back but not happy with her still deceased family, she let out a hiss
But the genie told her that there was nothing he could do to revert her loved ones
Knowing this would be the end of it, the princess understood only darkness would come
She laid that night with her photo of her family haunting her hopes giving it one last kiss

That night with no one by her side, Savarati died of heartache
But she realized one important thing before she did not wake
That is the truth of having an enjoyable life is not how long you live
Instead, it is how you display yourself to others and what you give
Because living is not about how many breaths you take, but what of it you make

Ingredients:

½ stick of thin skin (softened)
1 cup of birthdays that never went right
1½ cups of “I’m fine”
2 cups of a cracked voice
1¾ cups of people forgetting your name
½ cup of being avoided
1 teaspoon of false hope
Instructions:

1. Preheat the oven to 350°F (175°C). This is the perfect temperature to overwhelm your ingredients—and then blame them when they don’t turn out right.
2. In a large bowl, mix the softened thin skin with the birthdays that never went right. This will release the tears.
3. Crack the 2 cups of voice until it’s silent. Add the teaspoon of false hope. This gives the mixture a bitter edge of intimidation.

4. Combine the forgetfulness and avoidance. Stir them into the tears.

5.  Pour in the 1½ cups of “I’m fine.” Mix until everything looks normal on the surface.

6. Pour into a greased pan. Bake until numb.

Serving:
This recipe serves one.
Best served cold.
Not recommended for children—
unless you don’t want them to have a good childhood.

The peach tree next door grew over your fence.
Can you believe it?
It’s big enough now for you to pluck a peach,
No ladder needed.

I think you'd care,
Because this peach tree used to be a sapling—
Barely a foot tall when we first planted it.
We had to be more patient than we'd like to admit,
But now its branches are strong enough
To weather the seasons, carrying all that’s tough,
Cradling birds and catching the songs they sing.

It reminds me of us.
It reminds me of you.
You wanted a peach from that tree,
But it took many years to grow—
Just like we did, with naivety, even so.

You have crow’s feet now.
Time has come, and you have grey hairs somehow.
Small lines drawn gently on your face,
But every wrinkle tells your story—
It’s plainly self-explanatory.
Each one a slow, beautiful mark of time that I’d never erase.

And when I look at you,
I don’t see flaws.
I look at you, and with a soft sigh,
I say:

She was a star back then—
But now she’s the whole **** sky.

Today, I conducted an experiment.
I really like pomegranates.

I asked my mother to prepare some.
She peeled out the seeds
very carefully—
using a spoon
to keep the process neat,
precise, and clean.
But in the end,
there was a little less fruit.

Then I asked my father.
He peeled out the seeds
roughly—
with his bare hands,
no tools, no caution.
It looked like a ****** mess.
But there was more fruit to eat.

I realized their techniques
shaped how much I got—
one careful,
one bold.
Still, I enjoyed both.

And that’s when it clicked:
though my parents approach things differently,
the result is still the same.
They both made the effort
to bring me something sweet

Everyone claps when the show is over.
The curtains draw to a close,
And the lively night returns to shadow.
But little do they know—
While the spectacle is done,
A crisis for the puppet without its puppeteer has just begun.

How do I smile?
How do I frown?
Without a hand to guide me,
How can I show myself to any degree—
How can I scowl?
How can I sneer?
If there are no strings to pull me near,
There’s no way to move while being sincere.

How do I tell them how I feel?
How do I show what I’m going through?
If the music stops, the stage is still,
I am trapped with no one to turn to.

So I will sit here, silent, and wait
For the next spectacle to begin.
Ready to be used—
To accept my fate—
For the outward approval of the audience again.
Because only when I’m controlled
Does my existence feel whole.

I wish I could have been there
To shield you from that pain,
The truth, too heavy to explain,
I won’t claim to understand, nor try to.

If I had a Time Machine,
I could have softened the blow,
So you wouldn’t have to face the unknown.
But we’re both only nineteen,
And the world would ask, what do you know?

Had I known the shadows would come,
I’d have found a way to make you stay,
So you wouldn’t be tossed like chewing gum.
But what can I say?
The things we know tomorrow,
We wish we knew today

Honestly -
If you want to be with me,
Say it whole heartedly.
I don’t want to waste my twenties.