when i was younger, i still remember
the armor was hard and bright
people wondered the strength and weight it bore
but never thought to look for more

they spoke of legends in iron and bone
of the battles it faced and feared alone
in reverence, they told of its might
yet forgot the man who lived inside

Can I be the poem,
not the poet—
not the hands that shape the lines,
but the breath within them?

I wonder if I could live
inside the pauses—
where the meaning stretches,
but doesn’t need to explain itself.

Let me be the ink,
not the pen but the flow—
without the pressure to know where it shall go,
or why it curves here and stops there.

Can't I just exist in the margins,
in the spaces left open,
just being the poem,
not the poet?

you bathe in your grief til it evaporates

i refuse to feel; i leave it cold and gray

that's how your sorrow slowly fades away

while mine just sinks deeper each day

you wash your wounds with tears at night

i refuse to even expose mine to light

you heal by drowning, i chose to stay

till the waters slowly take my breath away

I've counted the days in whispers,
measuring the silence between us like broken glass.
You linger like the petrichor after the rain,
a reminder of something that should've been washed away.

I've traced your name in dust,
the even consonants and odd vowels.
hoping the wind would carry it,
and let it vanish the way we did.

I look for you in crowded rooms,
like a dream I never wished to wake from.
but I just find you in my thoughts,
you come back too often, too close.

so if you're not mine to keep,
may God keep you away from me.