Cross my tears, lose my eyes—
these feelings fall as sadness starts to rise.
I lose my space to lose my mind; I cross
my hopes and pray they survive the night.
My joy feels too old;  these skins
want to die young—tired, stretched thin
from wearing sorrow too long. I feel like
a blade that’s forgotten how to shine.

Rust gathers under my lips;
I’ve spoken too much to the voices
in my head— and all of them,
all of them just want me dead.

Static feelings stuck in my sweater—
crying, even when it’s warm; cos I
don’t own a sweater, just a hoodie—
Something to cover my soul when I
feel like a ghost in daylight.
In my reflection, an invisible hand
gives me an invisible *******.
Even my mirror won’t look me in the eye.

These lips— they started off soft;
now they’re triggers, eager to flip
me off, shoot me down.

I am the despised poet— too hideous
even in my sweet dreams— this is
the  real version of me: unwritten,
unwanted, unmoved.
My soul’s literature is tired—
not of bleeding, but of no one
noticing it still bleeds.

And truth be told... I know the
purest colour of feeling blue.

Your skin is made of glass— cut by a tear
that  rolls down your cheek, splitting the
good and the wicked parts...
You kissed two versions of me... as we all
live switching roles— mirror for mirror,
mouth for mouth.

And when a lover kisses, you kiss back
like a reflex, when they get close enough,
part of your character becomes theirs—
and it loudly reflects....
I breathe when you breathe; I’m so
close, I forget whose lungs I’m in.

Like a spoon of cinnamon, just a taste
of you burns — always so hard to
swallow, but I do...
And our days spent—have me so
spent; spending myself into you,
sending everything I’ve got.

All of my kisses—are sent
All your heat— passionate scent
And somehow that scent gives
me nosebleeds...
That’s the kind of passion you
leave in the air.

The first time in the morning,
I kiss you like it’s the last time—
because it could be...
Sugar lips— enough to last a time;
pull a little closer, let me drown in
your stare —  I want to see what’s
lurking in the shadows of your eyes—
could be your wild side. Might be mine.

I take you late nights, for some extras
you come like a few sides—and I
measure you with my eyes...
You're such a grand size; I can’t take
it anymore— the closer we get, the
thinner it feels; the glass— it cracks
the further we grow apart.

My clear-skinned Cleopatra—
 you orchestrate pyramid schemes
  just to steal my heart,
and I fall
  willingly
   into your empire of allure.

–––

The notes of your lips
compose a song
   I note in silence—
the melody of your mouth
     lingering like red wine:
  mature,
    slow,
      intoxicating.

–––

Each word you speak
cups my hunger
   like a ritual.
I sip from your wisdom
   like a man who’s parched,
    yet drinks
     only in restraint.

–––

Your many faces of pleasure
    rise and fall
      like waves—
I pause, mid-smile,
   just to witness
      the swell of yours.

–––

Your touch brushes
the most sensitive parts of me,
  as your silk-cloaked body
    glides—liquid, slow—
guided
  by the current
     of your soul.

–––

And here I am—
  washed for words,
    mouth half-open,
trying not to drown
   in everything
     you make me feel.

Ballerina creases – a ballad of broken pieces,
Break me down in parts, where pain still leases.
My past lives on in inches, bruised by time,
Dancing round the reasons, moving out of line.

Features of me—like a painting left incomplete,
Still breathing, still dreaming, still finding my feet.
Out in the field, trying not to fall behind,
One step ahead of a runaway mind.

Stable thoughts, but the engine’s wild—
Horsepower pulling my inner child.
A wagon of dreams, heavy with code,
I’m stalling, I’m shifting—about to load.

Don’t sell your soul or cheapen your goal,
Even the prettiest dreams can be sold.
We don’t own it all, yet still owe it all—
Through rain and snow, we rise, we fall.

Chasing myself through a frozen road,
Where passion burns, and a runny nose shows.
They can’t see breath—or the vision you hold,
But seeing it yourself is what helps you go bold.

You’ll regret crying in my hands—
  but only because
  you’ll miss the way they held you.
Your tears slip between my fingers
like quiet reminders
  of how far you’ve run
  from the person you used to be.
And still—
I know you remember your feet
each time they find their way
  back to my door.
    Instinct.
      Muscle memory.
        Need.

You come back bare,
and I wear you like a crown—
delicate, dangerous,
  balanced at the top of my thoughts.
You are the ache I prioritize.
  The storm I drink from.
    The wound I keep pressing,
      just to feel something again.

While my friends fold hands
in prayer to Jehovah,
I’m just praying
my depression doesn’t **** me over.
Sometimes I’d rather believe in your skin
  than in heaven—
and sometimes,
  I think your mouth is the closest
  thing I’ll ever get to salvation.
So we drink.
  We touch.
Not because it heals anything—
  but because it delays
       the end.

Darling,
we drink so this love doesn’t burn out.
We drink
  instead of breaking up.
And when your mascara smudges
  under my kiss,
when your sighs leave trails
  from your stained makeup,
I taste the salt of your sadness—
hidden beneath powdered cheeks
  and perfectly drawn lips.
We kiss
  beneath mood lighting
    and half-lies.
We are mature enough to drink,
  and broken enough to
    make up
      in every way
      the word
        dares to mean.

Hopeless romantic—I want to cry. Feelings pressed so deep, they die
quiet deaths between sighs. I don’t know what you see in this eye—a
dim-lit portrait, painted in the bruises of love dye. Questions coil
around my spine, but the heaviest one hisses: “Who the **** am
I?”

When we kiss, let’s make it sacrament—a whispered heresy, tongues
speaking in wet prophecy. But you don’t kneel for any father. You’ve
made altars from broken men with daddy-issue blueprints. And I—
just another one trying to fix what wasn’t mine to mend.

My fingertip—a brushstroke on your bitten lip, painting the hunger
before it slips. You wear love like fingerprints around your throat,
scarred tender from where I once held your breath like a prayer.

You're unsure of yourself, but I make you a shoreline—soft enough to
land on, wild enough to drown in. You become my bay, my mouth’s
favorite practice ground. My wreckage. My beach.

Each kiss tastes like searching for sin between your teeth—warm, wet
confessions we never speak. A shared gasp for air in the ache between
moans, as if pleasure could ease the pressure clawing beneath our
bones.

Would we love longer, or be like everyone else, hoping to just ****
better? Could your heart even measure what my hands now own?
Your body echoes beneath sweat-glazed skin, like a haunted song I
still hum. The feelings crawl, then collapse—pulling me under. Like
a dream that bites back. One that begs to be real. But this love has
only a few moments to taste that real.

Crowded foresight —  
      thoughts stacked sky-high,  
     cluttered windows of a dreaming mind.  

              Out of mind,  
           out of sight…  
     yet somehow, I keep seeing  
     the better days of my life  
       skimming the edge  
        of a hopeful smile.  

                 That smile —  
          soft, unspoken —  
           given with time,  
        drawn from deep thoughts  
            folded in silence.  

                    . . .  

         Any life worth seeing —  
       any better version of me —  
    is shaped by what I’m willing  
          to put light on.  

               So I  
            paint my  
       foresight with  
   fireflies  and  sunbeams,  
     hoping the dark  
          makes room  
             for the  
            light I  
               keep.