In my grasp, a pair of glasses rests like a delicate cigarette tucked in
my fingers, their lenses capturing an iridescent clarity that dances in
the tempest of the mundane. Here lies the essence of a frightening
revelation—nothing we possess is truly ours; we are mere custodians
of borrowed treasures, granted at birth by a force that can reclaim it
all in an instant.

Time, is a powerful currency, but to us, is a loan—whether
squandered in idle moments or cherished in fleeting seconds that we
strive to make meaningful. We share breaths with those we hold dear,
our heartbeats intertwining in passionate kisses, exchanging words that weave love and conflict, and sighs that echo in tender submission.
Love, a paradox of durableness and theft, weighs heavily upon us,
testing our resilience with every blow we endure.

Beware the commotion of this world, for it will consume your very
essence, manifesting the wickedness of your heart. I have destroyed
my being countless times, only to rise anew, each rebirth a testament
to the lessons learned in solitude. From this solitary journey emerges
the wisdom to coexist with others in this intricate dance of life.

A few places of my thoughts remain hidden, their
shadows I dare not reveal, for there are moments
I wish to evade.

A prisoner of my own overthinking mind,
I dissect every word you utter by day; to become
a relentless ritual of overthinking that silently haunts
my nights.

Life isn’t about ending it all, it isn't a suicide, still
we do so much to **** our minds — lost in the endless
scroll of our screens, just to **** time - a daily genocide.

Still in the depths of your own being, do you
sometimes feel the weight of your own existence?
I hope you’re not gazing into the mirror, only to find
disappointment staring back—an executioner of your
self-wort; a homicide - that slow and silent ****** of
your confidence.

Your thoughts crash like thunder, a cacophony of pain, swept away
by the tempest waves of your hair; how ironic it is that men gaze
upon women’s ******* as if they were an oasis in a parched desert.
They possess a strength akin to mountains, while the valley of your
tears floods my vision. Within your form lies the purest fulfilment,
resonating through your very bones; how swiftly it transforms into
verses etched with sharp precision.

Our flesh and spirit coexist, yet they remain eternally apart – we
chase satisfaction in the simplest of joys, our spirits yearning for the
heavens, while the flesh craves a taste of heaven through one hell of
a life. With a gentle gaze, your lips ignite a wildfire, taming nothing
but the primal instincts you believe you have tamed.

The thirst for love flutters like a hummingbird, sipping from a nectar
we cannot measure, unaware of how it nourishes us or for how long.
I oscillate between life’s most profound moments – for human
pleasure demands no concentration, only the act of losing oneself
in the moment. Self-control is the very essence of that focus – yet
how swiftly our thoughts become dulled in the enigma of life.

                                            Everything is just an enigma in the end.

My emotions are trapped, reverberating
like a haunting echo bouncing back and forth.
In my youth, I read that wealth is in the mind;
does this imply that only contemplating
about riches can manifest all the fortune I want?

And am I in haze of indulgence – thinking
only about ****, whenever my responses
come out blunt?

The box: a cradle for the delivery
of new life born into this world

or

the space where a man may wander aimlessly,
lost by his lack of self-control.

Somebody’s child is crying – who threw their crush; their infatuations
cast aside like pebbles scattered upon the shore, each one a fragment
of that unrequited love. Yet, was it not a chore; to tidy up your deeds,
and striving for perfection akin to the grains beneath the ocean’s
floor? All the tears I’ve poured into the sea were swallowed by the
ocean’s depths; I wept so fiercely that the world around me, I could
barely see.

Somebody’s child is crying – just as the pivotal words were about to
unfurl; they lay there, crushed by the weight of the receding tide. A
face marred by sorrow, with nowhere to seek refuge – why is it that
the broken are masters of masquerade, donning a façade of joy while
harbouring a heart in despair?

Somebody’s child is crying – a forgotten avian adage whispers in
the wind; you could have soared through the skies of your dreams,
had you not grown cold feet as you had caught a mind flu. You are
a beauty never to surrender to yourself, yet vanity is but a fleeting
pleasure that will inevitably fade with time. Even the famous must
eventually fade into memory; every piece you love of someone, is a
part of your own personality. Perhaps the disdain you feel for another
is merely a mirror, revealing the parts of yourself you wish to deny.

Somebody’s child is crying – and that child is you, but you can’t hear
yourself.

Them: How do you know that you've finally gotten over your ex?

Me: When the drunk version of me laughed at the idea of texting them
late at night!