my fingers, desperately tracing – tear through the fabric of my sheets;
in my dreams people recite such beautiful poems... oh, how I wish I
could have written them all down. i fought myself in a dream battling
my own spirit to awaken, but all I was able to write down was...

                                                         ­  silence!

now, I yearn to return to that ephemeral instant, riding the rails of my
mind – a train of thought; aboard a back train seeking the lost echoes
of my backed-up thoughts.

                                        that last train to find a another poem!

Who is that boy, with those piercing headline eyes – I tell you, he only
looks like bad news. His kiss is like a deep bass, a note shaking your
heart with the lies that plays from his lips. Yet, doesn’t he make you
feel older than you wish to be, as you love to think on nostalgia—
                         all those good moments you long to harness,
would you dare to be honest?

           Still, you defiantly love him more than me, or so it seems….

these tears welling up in my eyes, seem to rise up like yeast –
fluctuating changes accordingly to life circumstances; the circumference
of love appears diminished, hiding deep within the confines of a
bottle. that sanctuary of liquid comfort –
                                           a quiet solace, in a fleeting
sense of bravado that comes with embracing an intoxicating high.

bred amidst the layers of plump cushions of anxiety and worry –
here again, those tears once again threaten to surface like yeast, but
a persistent sense of restraint lingers. a barrier obstructs the natural
flow of my tears –

                                                  a yeast infection!

I… was a dreamer trapped in a haunting nightmare,
a paradox of hope and despair; drying out these tears
with pieces of nothing – don’t fare so well crying in public.


These eyes are the window, to all unspoken fears,
cloaked in silence.


I… am a war between two formidable forces of always
wanting to embrace the world with love, and also the
fear of rejection that longs to keep me so vaguely isolated.

Stuck in this place, to stay and acknowledge,
all the time buried beneath the grains of time...

Yet another dug up watch with these bare hands –
I could have buried so many hatchets, only if I never
hesitated burying the prior ones time and time again.

The burden of life weighed heavily upon me while I was young;
a constant whisper in my ear that I lacked real sweetness, using
tablespoons of sugar to fill my cup. I once held the naive belief that
I would depart this world with a smile, if I ever died too young.
I found myself swearing that my life would plan out better; feeling
as though I would have things figured out – but I tend to swear
mostly under pressure, to a life feeling more like I ****** up.

In a place where the slightest act of indulgence is met with scorn—
where reaching for a bit more water from the *** is seen
as a sacrilege, as if I might taint the very essence of life itself—
yet everyone so is quick to drink out of same big cup. The human
eyes is so oblivious to their own hypocrisy.

My youthful hands, were once so eager to grasp the reins of
responsibility, but trembled with the fear that I could never bear the
weight of what was expected of me, especially to those who nurtured
me with such care, longing to return their kindness with open palms.

Life, it seems, is merely a calculation— a game of figures; whether
you figure it best to navigate it as a devout follower of faith, or as be
a seeker in the chaotic realm where success is only measured by the
right figures.

Ah, what a life it is… go figure!

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.