i stood witness
to a scene---
a king and queen,
their love serene.
a painter's dream;
a poet's delight;
their love aglow
in gentle night.
he leaned in close,
with lips so light,
upon her cheeks,
a tender flight---
the king's sweet smile,
a sunlit embrace;
the queen's fair blush,
a delicate trace.
how i wished
to hold still the air,
capture their love
in a canvas so rare
but love's vibrant palette
moves and evolves,
in the tapestry of time,
it resolves.
to paint their love
in hues so fine
is to capture the essence
of love's design.
in my strokes of paint,
in my shades of rhyme,
their story lives
beyond the confines of time.

Ω

they see the facade, the academic veneer,
but the truth lies hidden, only i hold it dear

the world believes success is all i chase
but i question if i’m running in the right race
i question what truly this journey is worth
am i just building castles on this shifting earth?

amidst textbooks and deadlines, i quietly yearn
for answers not found in a grade i might earn
will this path i’ve chosen be my true fate?
or will i wake up one day, realizing it’s too late?

so when they call me hardworking and bright,
i smile on the surface, hide my inner fight
for behind the facade, the mask i wear,
lies a soul pleading,
“Lord, hear my prayer.”

Ω

Dear future self,
     I hope you've found
     the strength to stand
     on solid ground,
     for you are me and i am you
     with colors old and shades anew.
     I hope that you will be, at last,
     from lost to found, from spark to blast.
     Walk with grace and head held high.
     In this letter, my words hold tight.

Sincerely yours with all my might,
     Your lost self reaching through the night.

Ω

sometimes, it feels so strange. these waves of emotions,
they rearrange. droplets from my eyes fall and drown
everyone, big or small. so i close my eyes and take flight
into my room, away from sight, and let myself be swept
away in the corners where shadows play.

but sometimes, i leave a crack, a tiny gap for a little slack;
hoping someone hears the taps, and follows the sound of
my gentle raps. they'd bring a boat to where i stay; no need
to lift me from the fray. just let me hold on, and stay afloat.
above the waves, i'll gloat.

so if you hear the tippy taps, can you come with a boat,
perhaps?

i used to cry when nights were long.
when insomnia creeps in, everything feels wrong;
but honey, now that you're mine to keep,
my dopamine's too high - i can't even sleep.

but no, i don't shed tears anymore.
instead, i savor your smile and the rizz that you pour.
in still nights, i count our blissful memories;
the peace you bring means a lot to me.

i used to cry when i couldn't sleep.
now, i have become too happy to weep.

Ω

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

there was a melody once,
caught in the back of my throat,
a tune I never let escape.

it lingered, soft as a whisper,
waiting for the moment to rise,
but I swallowed it whole.

because the orchestra's packed up,
the stage is left bare,
and the songs have been exhausted.

so now, it hums in silence,
slowly fading thin—
the song I forgot to sing.

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.

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?

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