Standing as objects in the mirror – do you still objectify the lessons
of your past, reflected in the rear-view? Words are unnecessary now;
your scars have been reopened – haunting illusions.

Resurrected from the place where you once buried your dreams –
down to earth, yes, yet stripped bare by the relentless erosion of
existence. We rise to the thunderous stillness, questioning our very existence, yet finding no answers in man—responding to the chaos
around us, colliding like two wayward planets in this small world.
One day, we shall encounter familiar strangers, yet it will feel
peculiar to label any of them as friends.

In certain moments, I feel as though I am crossing myself out beneath
the weight of the cross, feeling an emptiness within— "survivor's
guilt"?

No… that guilt placed upon me has been paid already, not by my own
cost – yet for the cost of something more profound. And I willingly
surrender myself to a purpose that transcended death, then to endure
a life filled with trivialities, only to feel nothing until the very end.

                         That profound purpose is… my faith.

And so, around pretty women, one must put their mind on their
hip — and also keep their heart on their mind, for when they think
about those feelings. You can get crushed by a crush, yet it is you
alone who bears the burden of its sting— intuition, should be carried
like a sickness, and should you cough, let it out on the world as a bit
of wisdom.

Cos love ensnares us all, yet we remain oblivious to the means of an
escape from it – until the moment arrives when the sweetness of affection turns sour; a love tainted... when you both become so sick of
each other, that every kiss tastes a bit like *****.


                                            A bitter aftertaste that lingers of regret.

Words… are lost by touch; perhaps I am talking too much… that
much is clear – a tongue testing its own fortune. The moment I beheld
your visage, a weight settled upon my skin, while the fragrance of
your skin dug tremors through my heart – a quiver igniting up to the
nerves at my fingertips. Our hands met with a less than firm embrace – yet deep down, I yearned for a hug, to ascend the staircase of your
neck and find sanctuary in the chamber of your lips.

Like a swarm of bees drawn to a blossom, seeking the sweet nectar of
connection – our fleeting moments together ignited thoughts of
seizing the flower of time, “she’ll love me, she loves me now,” believing it’s merely a matter of time.

I hear you summon my name; it resonates like a hymn of adoration –
your celestial presence beckoning me into the realm of your words.
And so, we embark once more, at the crossroads of language where I
find myself either bereft of expression or talking too much … you
know what, let’s abandon the chatter and kiss instead, for our hearts
speak a language far more profound. I’ve been overthinking too much.

Because theses dreams open the door; I have a firmly closed mind,
shut against the idea of leaving them behind. I’ve seen some desperately trying to walk their own path of destiny – to find that every path circles back to where you began.

Empathy strips the heart bare, for mercy to allow us to feel the pain of
others. In truth, we could all share the same pain, even those we
consider foes; especially them – for they too reflect a fragment of our
own struggles, but only in the currency of hatred; much like paying
a fraction of rent. Evil is built by the very castles we showcase in the
realm of the Devil’s kingdom.

While knowing what it feels like to be healed, it’s first by admitting
your own afflictions— darkness only breeds darkness, just as light
nurtures light; dignity is through the journey of self-discovery. "
Know your worth," the tale unfolds, and thus, the lives we lead shape
the pivotal choice: do we persist in our quest to uplift others, or do we
seek solace in our own suffering, turning a blind eye to the anguish
that binds us all?

A larger friendship circle: the terror of making yourself new friends,
looms larger when it feels you’re just making yourself new problems.
It’s haunting to hear others revel in tales of passion, people
boasting about making love, but never mentions on making up.

Ah, the daily charade of donning a flawless smile – the reluctant
application of makeup. And here’s the most piercing question in the
air heavy: “When was the last time you felt a gentle touch?”

The deafening silence that responds back, “Does the touch of
sadness still count?”

Fear not, dear child – you have blossomed into adulthood, you’re all
grown up, and have grown enough to know how to count. Count on
knowing things WILL one day work out. Stop yourself from counting
yourself out…

                                  A personal mantra I whisper to myself.