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LowKeY
23/M/Bandung Tinkering Teacher, Wannabe Writer, Gung-ho Gamer, Lifelong Learner, and Pocket Philosopher.
I feel deeply an emotion I hide as I smile sheepishly a fear that I try to hold somewhat tenderly and I fall even deeper a shame I bury as I feign being debonair a feeling I shut away and ignore and these I do for I wear a mask or two or maybe more who's to say the truth but my favorite is the one I wore with you who I really am, not even Blue could sleuth and that's fine feelings caught between two at a table a table crowded with beer and ramen a ramen you told me I'd like, and yeah, I did and with you I felt like I was a book, with dog-eared pages just met, but talked like a ten year friendship and pasts entwined and with you I knew I was a person, albeit broken hearted not from soulmates lost but lives grieved because you knew what that hole was and with you I'd melt under the stars in your eyes as you spoke of constellations of your sky and we sang about a Greek with guile and with you I'm a nobody but I felt I had an Odyssey a trip where you'd have open arms when others would speak of my heresy and it's a pity ain't it I'm going home now and writing with a mind a mind half asleep running on gas station coffee but caffeine is caffeine, and love is love.
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Jan 19
Jan 19, 2026 at 2:23 AM UTC
Gas Station Coffee
I'd breathe, with fear of losing all this air I've held in for so long I'd walk, with fear of flying away from the ground I cherish to float 'till I'm missing I'd gaze, with fear of longing and nothing looking back at this insignificant me I'd build, with fear of breaking even myself under the cracking weight of my tinkering I'd write, with fear of silence when the scribbles become wordless only echoing worthlessness I'd love, with fear of rejection from expressions told too loudly and brazenly I'd live, with fear of death that comes not from an end of an age but from the motion stopping I'd step back, with fear of being forgotten and lose the universe I used as a canvas to build systems, write worlds, inspire lives, shoot frames... and finally— sleep
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Jul 14, 2025
Jul 14, 2025 at 4:13 AM UTC
Ode to Fear
she walks past the threshold a meaningless spat echoes forever she went past the horizon into darkness but her visage stayed— a moment held infinity and red I saw, raged endlessly until her image faded past the horizon into the darkness
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Jul 9, 2025
Jul 9, 2025 at 5:13 AM UTC
past the horizon
I see the stars in the sky— note their pulls, their pulses, their pace. I scribble them down in verses, poems made of wonder and space. I adventure with elves through dungeons, craft blueprints in life and in game, yearning for something like magic— connection that kindles a name. So if one day I meet her gaze, the one that stills quantum waves— collapses the maybe into now— I'll finally know what it means To talk of the stars, together. To scribble the sky as one. To quest through the dark and the clever. To find, at last— my sun.
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Jul 1, 2025
Jul 1, 2025 at 2:47 AM UTC
my sun
you told me of who created the cosmos heaven, earth, both with no breath lost his right man born 'tween stone worshippers his teachings bores wisdom within touch my head on this earth for You at least 5 times a day, help my brothers and sisters of god to be a good man, what if I only did the latter and also to those who don't believe in You does it really matter? the address the prayers point to? but it did to you, mom ordained since birth in His ways to be good, first and foremost and I did, just wasn't in His ways so it's not a detriment, to you but a commitment, to me to be good in spite of it and a compliment, to us so know you did well so much so that, I catch myself thinking, if even He, thinks I'm good too.
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Jun 30, 2025
Jun 30, 2025 at 3:39 AM UTC
Voltaic Confession
piling up interests in my head profit or debt to be paid? too many passions held; in my heart, more than is said at least, it made me malleable somewhat adaptable cooked in a crucible for you I'd rotate my being shaped like clay to your liking hundred words for you and only you conversations askew to you because I could, genius, prodigy, golden followed ideas to the end give any answers you'd want reached escape velocity but I was a frozen revolution caught in orbit, still in this city
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Jun 29, 2025
Jun 29, 2025 at 4:37 AM UTC
H, we have a problem
I can't afford to look at my future so I stare off at my surroundings— she married through prayers and planning he flirts and dreams while still studying she married in the name of God he jokes about vows over coffee was it my fault my partner was different? same Allah, but you couldn’t see it we resented each other, Mom can’t you see? you forbade it, so I hid I pushed you—and Him—away I found my own meaning so if we ever have the conversation fantastic, no longer phantasmic you’d know why I wouldn’t marry
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Jun 26, 2025
Jun 26, 2025 at 4:37 AM UTC
Phantasmic Conversation
lost kid in a city so unfamiliar no map, felt a life unfilial walks lonesome streets, stretched thin roams around, wondering dreams within astonished by the things he ponders amazed by flying rails and walkways he saw money exchanged for companionship and wonders— is everyone just as alone as he is? he thinks of tall buildings and money swirling layers of bureaucracy and numbing workings but the colorful streets are splashed with hopes and dreams of silenced peoples he wishes to educate, to raise kids but aims for money to support his own and pressure here builds like a box sealed— can he withstand it, or choke up, just to go home again to a city familiar to him.
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Jun 24, 2025
Jun 24, 2025 at 6:44 AM UTC
Jakarta
who’s to say where potential lays— your betters? equals? is there no way to tell? is it yourself in nights reflecting, with only the ceiling listening, to reach the dream you're reaching towards? towards your future? or the future you're told of— by the people you were told off for not listening to? when maybe you just need to sleep it off.
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Jun 23, 2025
Jun 23, 2025 at 1:12 PM UTC
who's to say?
I ask the mirror: is it art if I need them to look? Or have I painted hunger and called it creation? If a poem blooms and no eyes rest upon it, was it still a garden, or just weeds I whispered into rows? Do I need applause or just to not feel invisible? Is the frame the prison, or the proof I existed **
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Jun 13, 2025
Jun 13, 2025 at 10:08 AM UTC
Mirror