I sought for love and I found a mirror.
She speaks her mind plainly,
holding up my reflection—
the moments I failed to truly care,
tales of the shallow depths where my compassion lies,
the absence when my mind wanders even while she lies in my arms.
I sought for love and I got a mirror.
She calls my eyes to account
for every promise they made and left in the wind.
for the small details I miss so effortlessly.
Her words trace my hidden flaws like fingers over old scars,
laying bare wounds I pretended weren’t there.
I sought for love and I got a mirror.
She sees me—every imperfect inch—
and still longs to see my face.
I guess, in her, I finally found the love I sought.
Mar 25
Mar 25, 2026 at 7:39 PM UTC
I sought for love and I got a mirror.
She shows me facets I knew silent,
her reflection echoing in my eyes—
an image I once thought worthy, now imperfect.
I stand in conflict with the self she reveals,
because even when I make-believe,
my reflection betrays the real me—
the version I sometimes hide
to escape the feeling of being lesser.
I sought for love and I got a mirror.
One that sees the hidden, flawed parts of me.
She hurts as she quietly names what I ignore,
her subtle coldness mirroring the frost in my own heart.
I long to speak my truths to her,
to tell her the things that finally make sense,
but under her gaze my words dissolve.
I sit, speechless, staring into her eyes.
I sought for love and I got a mirror.
She sees me—truly—and still longs to see my face.
I guess, in her, I finally found the love I sought.
Mar 25
Mar 25, 2026 at 7:32 PM UTC
I won't stop watering the rose you planted in my heart,
not because I think we might have our worlds intertwined again.
but so when the cold claims me,
I'll have the memory that I'm human... that once I felt something.
I want to set what we were on fire,
sit back and watch the flames lick my eyes, dancing in my vision
putting on a show that i would eagerly entertain to destruct my heart from the sinking hole calling it's name.
but I've always been impulsive, so no I won't burn it down.
Instead I sit with the memories heavy on my lap,
and like wine they age gracefully but for a taste too close to home I still find them distasteful.
Mar 25
Mar 25, 2026 at 7:22 PM UTC
My mind is a storm, but
If you ask me how I'm doing...
I would probably say...
"I'm okay"
I dine with parts of me I can't recognize yet they know so much of the person I am now.
I miss childhood innocence,
the peace my mind used to cuddle and take for granted...
I miss how little control I had over my story...
I guess I was comfortable with someone else holding the pen, as though I was more confident in them to write what's best for me than my own hand.
My mind is a storm, I guess because I now write my own story?
I never used to bother my mind with...
When should a new chapter in my life start?
Where should I put a full stop... Should pause now?
Does the sentence have too much emotions?
...am I writing my story right?
...which characters should I give more screen time?...is this a sad story?
What do other writers think? Do I have an easer?
Do I know when I should start writing again?
But of late, my thoughts conjure answers from mirrors around my life
as I ponder on which version of the reflection I should keep.
I tell my myself... maybe if I was a writer, maybe then I'd know what I'm doing wrong,
maybe I'd know what a good story looks like.
My mind is a storm,
for I have spilled the ink of my thoughts over the canvas of my life, and I see not my next step.
I thought I'd distract myself with an abstract masterpiece from the noise of the colours of life, but my hand still shakes with anxiety as it fumbles to strike a fitting brush stroke.
To me, I'm a mess... perhaps other eyes see art.
To me I'm a mess...but I can't say I'm done with my story.
Jun 24, 2024
Jun 24, 2024 at 7:12 AM UTC
Attic lily she is,
Crafted from Michelangelo's hands,
a gem eyes fumble to adore.
Shapes, lines, curves perfectly placed on her body to sing harmonies that echo perfect anatomy
Attic lily she is,
a dazzling dream,
but her soul hugs a dead sun.
She's a sculpture of fair marble
built with a jungle of thin strings to fill her entirety, like a cat's cradle adorned with twines of roses to mimic completion.
Attic lilly she is,
Naive,
she thought losing a few petals for the happiness of others was kind
A rose for him, a rose for her...
Selfless,
she is all but a mirror,
for her smile has always been a reflection of others.
Performer,
she wears a face with printed traces of happinesses to shadow the gloom breeding under her own.
Attic lily she is,
strong built independent woman
but secretly prizes to be caressed in hands with a feeble touch,
...to be pursued with a genuine smile
..to be treated worth more than an art piece in a gallery that eyes dart on and forget about the second they walk past.
to be checked in on when her soil dries out.
Attic lily, she is,
for no one notices her unless they need something from the attic.
Jun 19, 2023
Jun 19, 2023 at 1:04 PM UTC
"I am broken" slides off the tongue easy,
but leaving the dream is not as thrilling
I have made friends with my cracks that I
I don't remember how not to be broken
We sit and chat around the bonfire of my, insecurities....
Laughing on, about our best memories
....Memories of heartache, depression betrayal,,
of obscurities
that Kindled my life as long as I can remember.
I think,
I'm now addicted...
To holding hands with my pieces
To the warmth of my insecurities
To the peace when I trace my, backtracks
I think I'm now addicted,
.... to the lies painted by my smile
to the tingling feeling when my heart is pricked by arrows of, disappointment
To the reality of feeling uncomfortable in my skin
Because to me that is, contentment.
I am broken,
Parts of me can no longer fit, together.
My thoughts are triangles, In a circle of my reality, around my square life.
Held together by tired strips of, leather.
I am broken, but somehow I make it work.
Apr 6, 2023
Apr 6, 2023 at 9:31 AM UTC
They say, Never say never,
I guess l now know why
Because, I'd never have thought that
reading could be so addictive.
I found a book today,
and...I've only read the first chapter of her,
I already know I'll want to finish her story,
probably read it again and again,
Until my fingers can effortlessly trace every detail of her pages,
...until I can flawlessly feel every emotion she keeps secret with my eyes closed.
I found a book yesterday, and since I opened it,
like a puzzle, she fits perfectly
with each turn of the page, I want her more.
I'm addicted to her story,
to the way she knows where to look inside of me.
to the feeling of completion when she's close.
I found a book that I can't put down,
and if it's okay with her, I'd like to keep what I've found, as I become a part of her story.
Feb 19, 2023
Feb 19, 2023 at 6:41 AM UTC
...and if it's not forever
Let me be the best season you've lived.
Jan 22, 2023
Jan 22, 2023 at 11:03 AM UTC
I'm a tree of the decisions I've made,
of the emotions I've given a chance to sprout
...the dreams whose leaves I've left to weather
of my feeble personality guided by the winds of this world.
I am a tree , changing with the seasons
My leaves are different poker faces stacked up in a deck of cards
If you want a king, a joker, a gentleman, a nobody...I can be all lords.
I'm in a comma with my eyes unfastened,
to see each version of me build walls of make believe
And,
I want to stop them, but the world does a decent job at stroking their ego.
With each new sleeve, the real me sinks deeper each time I wake up.
I don't accord to fiction but, these shells of me lie about my story
...about the tales of my roots
...the purity of my smile
about the strength of my heart.
I want to get back to the surface,
to feel, again, the sun's kiss
I scream in my head...
But the dome I built can't let my roar out
So, the tree I am, I remain still
as my life burns out.
Dec 21, 2022
Dec 21, 2022 at 6:31 AM UTC
Attic lily,
Crafted from Michelangelo's hands,
a gem eyes fumble to adore
Shapes, lines, curves perfectly placed on
her body to sing hormonies that echo
perfect anatomy
Attic lily,
A dazzling dream, but her soul hugs a dead sun
fair marble sculpture,
built with a jungle of thin strings to fill
her entirety, a cat's cradle adorned
with twines of roses to mimic completion.
Naive,
she thought losing a few petals for the
happiness of others was brave
A rose for him, a rose for her...
Selfless,
she is a mirror, for her smile has
always been a reflection of others. Hypocrite,
she wears a face with printed traces of
happinesses to shadow the gloom
breeding under her own.
Attic lily,
strong built independent woman
But secretly prizes to be caressed in
hands with a feeble touch
...to be pursued with a genuine smile
..to be treated worth more than an art
piece in a gallery that eyes dart on
and forget about, the second they walk past.
to be checked on when her soil dries out.
Attic lily, she is,
for no one notices her unless they
need something from the attic.
Dec 17, 2022
Dec 17, 2022 at 6:36 AM UTC