15 seconds of reels,
A huge burst of dopamine,
Chasing the same fleeting high,
Riding the endless wave of ups and downs.

2:00 a.m. at the bar,
Shouting into the night,
Lost in conversations with strangers,
While feeling disconnected from those close to us.

We drift through shadowed rooms,
Resting in separate corners,
Searching for a place that feels like home,
Wandering from one room to the next,
Where's home?

Home is monotonous,
We don't chase the comfort of home,
We linger, waiting for something more.

We fill our days with distractions,
Filling voids with temporary thrills,
In a constant quest for meaning.

As the night stretches on,
We wonder if the chase is worth the cost,
Screaming for genuine connection,
Beyond the transient highs and lows.

In the end, we seek a home not just in walls,
But in the quiet understanding,
The kind of peace that isn't found in the buzz.

Home is boring
We don't chase home
We stay there

I know you think you’re only beautiful in the dark,
like the moon, meant to be adored from afar, in shadows.
And maybe the stars whisper this to you,
but stars are only brave when no one’s watching
they fade as soon as the world fills with light.
Why take advice from something that hides with the dawn?

Your light comes from the sun, not from borrowed reflections.
You’re meant to stand in full view, to claim your space in the day.
Only the sun is your equal.
So why listen to stars that doubt their own strength?
Why let them convince you
that your worth is only real in the quiet of night

In the compile of words
We have lost our favourite poems
It's hard to remember
Probably we have forgotten
You might find the same poem
After a decade
In the dust of old papers
I know you'll remove all the dust
To read your favourite poem one more time
If you read it carefully you haven't forgotten your poem
It got lost in the compile of new pages.
What if we get the chance to read again

I crave the meaning of your scars,
the stories stitched beneath your skin.
Not just your favorite color,
but the shadows that keep you awake,
the blue that turns your veins grey.
Tell me of the winters you’ve weathered,
the storms that split you apart.
Show me the edges you’ve dulled with time,
the shards you couldn’t bear to throw away.
Let the world have the surface
I’ll go where your soul stands naked,
and asks nothing of mine
but to stay.
Do your dreams betray you?
Does your silence ache?
What keeps your heart beating
on nights you wish it wouldn’t?
Touch me with your words,
bruise me with your fears.
For if it isn’t soul to soul,
if it isn’t the marrow of who we are,
then it isn’t anything at all

I was born in a city where the air suffocates
The building groans, its bones cracking under the burned of a thousand years of unspoken regret
This city smells like something poisoned,
petrol and sweat soaked into the earth,
the ghost of rain that never touches the ground.
It seeps into my skin,
As an alarm,
I never wanted to belong here.
The city speaks to me in a dialect of dust and noise
I speak its language too
but my words feel like a borrowed coat,
ill-fitting, awkward on my shoulders.
Even when I strive to make them mine,
they slip away,
elusive and alien.
The chai here burns my tongue,
sharp like an old wound that never healed
and I swallow it down,
Even as I smoke, the air smells of snow and distant mountains
I have never gazed upon

I looked at the tombstone, cold and bare,
And all it spoke was love’s despair-
To love, to be loved, to hold for a while,

Behind me, the sky was bare,
A canvas stretched by emptiness
Men and women, faceless,
Feeding hunger that never knew a soul.

The sun bowed down, the hours slipped away,
But the clock kept ticking, as if to say-
That the soul, unmeasured, keeps no time,
Lost in the race,

At the hospital’s quiet edge,
Where life wavered between the inhale and the eternal,
I asked the frail what they carried into the void.
Their lips trembled, but only love spilled forth:
“To be loved, to have loved.

To find,
"Friends to lover" or "lover to friends"
I have set the red traffic light for hours
I have ink up every line on my palm
To find the crossover which could connect us
I made the invisible line called almost lover.