I’ve got finger stitches — love handed me needles;
the attentions of spiraling vines; some bear grapes,
but not all are ripe with maturity, some just needless.
Burning every bridge while the sky stays divinely nested,
and I’ve tied these knots around my tired heart,
left admiring birds of a feather — but never flying
south together — all bested.

They press your buttons just for their luck to press —
dim suggestions also light up the road to regret
Lessons in subtle form and silent —whatever mistakes
you walk into and out of, never forget their steps.

Hiking with joy into the last light of sunset; yes, we can
fall in love like the sun falls behind a mountain crest —
rising bright by morning, but crying in the dark —
perhaps this isn’t love yet.

And that’s okay.

Life is a wonder —no wonder I still wonder
how I made it to today. Life is what you make of it —
not like a butler who serves, but a self-made shape
you forge from struggle and grace.

We judge with our eyes, but on Judgment Day,
it won’t be our eyes that matter. And when that day
arrives —whether we walk or run to heaven’s gate —
know that love won't wear the form you tried to fit
into every heart.

To love in part means sometimes we must depart —
leave behind space wide enough for stars to breathe.
The emptiness you find may feel vague, but it’s where
meaning stirs quietly, and the hopes you laid on a lover
might be the very hope that led you astray.

We leave this place as ashes — but never to rest
in an ashtray. Because even dust has destiny,
and fire never forgets what it once warmed.
Life is a wonder — in both a good and bad way.
And maybe that’s enough.

Life isn’t always so amazing —
it’s a network of paths, tangled and shifting,
Where choices loop back,
and clarity takes the long way home.
But it’s not a maze thing.
There’s no clever exit, no final door.
Just detours, delays,
and questions that don’t come with maps.

It’s a hostile universe —not always loud,
but indifferent in the quietest ways.
A basic existence where even the basics
don’t always feel like they’re enough.
You breathe, you eat, you sleep —
but some days you feel so empty.
Like the days are leaning too hard
against your chest.

Some days, survival feels like success.
Other days, it feels like something
just shy of being a complete failure.
But even in that, there’s a small defiance —
to keep walking anyway,
to speak kindly into the static,
to carve out a corner of warmth
where no warmth was promised.

Not because it fixes the universe —
but because it changes you.
And maybe that’s enough
for now.

Two-step verification — it takes two to fall in love,
but that’s yet to be confirmed. Grinding gears just
to talk, shifting through awkward conversations,
but we can’t reverse all the bad things we’ve said
at those rushing high speeds.

Lovers with underwear conversations, trying to fix
what they barely understood, so unaware of what’s
really the problem. We run into relationships holding
open scissors —the result? Just another love story
cut too short.

But teach yourself to love someone new, still maybe
the lesson won’t stick. So brace for impact when they
say, "I truly love embracing you."

And I feel like Saturday news — as they talk about us
like weekend headlines. They say I left my imprint
on you, but that just comes from being pressed for
a time, rushing to report every mistake before the
feeling fades.

Needing nothing — and in the same breath, needing
each other. Yet neither of us has anything long-lasting
to give. To love someone with real deep depth while
they only offer surface depth. Lurid entertainments.
Frozen, unflattering coitus. And quoting someone else’s
expressions because we’re too shy to speak out our own
love language.

Two people, extending their existence — but modern
love feels like this: one of us still alive in the moment,
while the other is just living in a picture without you
in the end. ////// You claimed to be bound to each
other, but it was really bound to end

God smiles. The devil always laughs— in a world where one
man can be a hero to all, but never a hero to themselves. But life
is life, and that’s something we all have to live. Growing ****
for hands, doing your best to explain all of life’s noisy jazz.
Improvising grace with filthy tools, sculpting silence from
the din. Finding gains from feeding peas to peace— small
offerings to vast ideals. But we’re all just boiling in the ***,
seasoned with hope, too numb to scream it all out.

Guess I’ll be filming a field of angels, watching them grow
into a movie I’ll never get to see. Faith on reel, a fate unreleased.
Goodness is easier when it’s clinical; cut, clean, and color-coded.
But look too closely, and even virtue starts to rot under the
microscope. But good to know most prefer playing doctor
to ever being a patient— yet none of them have the patience.
It's just one's self-diagnosis without much reflection.

Guaranteed: casual racists smiling their remarks so sweetly
that even the laughter sounds like applause. But I less applaud
for I’m more appalled – but we all live in a world.

Two wild tales to tell — there are two stray dogs chasing
pedestrians again. That’s the story they’re telling the authorities.
Meanwhile, on a sunnier day, a ledger’s pages yellow daily —
all outlasting the smoke of all the fires you swore were for your
own good. Cigarette-stained fingers; noir pages of a crime scene
unnoticed — that’s what it feels like, loving someone who’s
stopped seeing you as their focus. Funny, isn’t it? They stole
your heart but make you feel like a thief, for stealing all of their
time. They claimed they needed space, but weren’t they the ones
who first called you, their star?

The mirror in your bathroom is cracked; you can’t wash
it with your tears. But hasn’t the bathwater been quietly
counting them all?
____________

Now, there’s finance to be contemplated — those complicated
relationships, where compromise is contemplated, but then
quietly makes things complicated. But let someone hand me
a sans discussion —they’ll only subtract the font of my love
language, erasing the letters of my love before I’ve spelt them
out. To say we don’t talk like we used to. But truthfully?
We never spoke that deeply at all. As a lot of people still
drown in their shallow thoughts.

A touch of time —
feels like marigold marmalade,
like spending slow summers together.
Syrup-dripping tears sting as they stick
to your face, attracting bees; and those
jarring truths of a dream unfulfilled.
It stays sealed in glass—sweetness
postponed, a closed jar never tasted.

You plant a flower of hope in the smallest
of gardens, and prove that even a drop
of nectar can fertilize your faith.
You want to rest in blessings, but
blessings move — so must you.

You pray for daily bread, but life
kneads your hands into making it.
You earn your piece, then spread it
like marigold marmalade on warm bread.

Because life isn’t so sweet; dreams only
taste a little once you finally get a bite.
And Lord, could we be forgiven for
craving the fruit of another’s labour?
As we mistake living for pleasing —
and forget to live for our destined reason.

Practiced hope becomes the sermon we preach —
Seeking justice, and trying to live peaceably; but
Even peace has weight — bone, muscle, presence;
And some days, I feel so lost in this present.

Slipping into reflections, my mirror-skin cracks.
When all the smiles I wear shift with the script —
All these different moods, and a different cast.
The broken hands of time can't be set in a cast,
Yet we keep fishing for love, throwing out our
Hearts, trembling hands; hoping it's a good cast

For youthful exuberance — my crustacean lips
Would sometimes sound cleverly selfish.
Saying I want everything, but never speaking  
The language of real and given effort.

Still, everything you long to hold completely
Asks for patience — love, answered prayers,
Dreams and hopes —lest they drift from us,
Being quiet as uncast lines on still water.

Plotting a course toward destiny isn’t as romantic as it sounds.
Some days, I feel like I’m walking on half-baked schemes rather
than solid plans—improvising hope on cracked pavement.
There’s a “field of dreams,” sure, but not the kind where the
grass is greener. Instead, it’s overrun with the weeds of
disappointment—unwelcome thoughts I have to keep plucking
from my mind before they take root. As I try to find cover under
the so-called tree of life, but even its shade feels uncomfortable.
Too warm. Too uncertain. And rest doesn't come so easy when
your thoughts are always so heavy.

And tell me—if someone else’s life came with a perfect promo,
polished and so promising, would you still blame me for
my FOMO? I mean, what if their dream life is the one I was
supposed to live? What if I just missed the sign-up link? To catch
myself trying to live out the picture of someone else’s success,
because this life of mine? It’s painfully YOLO. And I try to
keep my horses steady, but envy isn’t exactly a stable creature.
It wears me down, day by day, like I’m stitched together by
Polo—fashionable on the outside, but worn-out underneath.

Failure, though? Now that’s the real villain. It doesn’t just sting—
it lingers, like emotional PTSD. It makes you flinch at the idea
of trying again, as if effort itself is a pointless punishment.
And fingers? Oh, fingers love to point—especially at people
who haven’t gotten far. But when it comes time to point out
themselves, they suddenly feel too short.

Still, I keep my fingers crossed, quietly hopeful I might achieve
something real—something I truly want as a need. It’s a bright
hope, exhausting in its intensity. But even in darkness, there’s
always the flicker of a new light waiting to be found.

Giving myself odd looks, while trying to even the score—
pointing out my faults like counting sins on abacuses.
Too many to tally, and every action I take I just hope
adds up to something. But I’m outnumbered by myself.

Feels like an inverted midnight— too heavy to be noon.
Doing the most, while barely praying at all— maybe
because doubt multiplies faster than faith settles.

Failures pile up like fractions with no common
denominator— just me, subtracting reasons to believe,
dividing purpose by disbelief, and hoping somehow
I’ll solve it all to find some peace.

Trying to count what I can still hold, not out-of-hand
habits or dust-covered promises. My Bible feels more
antique than answers— pages heavy with silence
until I wiped it off and saw… another layer still
hiding underneath. Like dusk, again. But this time,
I opened it— and let it open me.

I guess now, the night we met is just a memory—
    a self-portrait without ****** features,
Only streaks where tears once ran, as the image
   is so blurry, but I still see myself
Running back to you… too easily.

It’s such a sad picture— an enigma, half-painted
   with eager thoughts quietly bleeding
Into the ink of doubt, each brushstroke pulling me
   further from the truth I never wanted to name
Now it just hangs… so awkwardly crooked

You left me walking alone in this gallery
           of only terrible memories.

Tragedy never seems to run out;
a cat runs through traffic —
and unfortunately,
    it finally
        ran out of lives.

Time doesn’t weigh much — even when you’re fed
every second of it. Food for thought piles up like
leftovers, a full plate of ideas you never quite digest.

We serve our dreams once they wake, laid bare beneath
an open space —hoping stars will shine back on what
we once believed in. But from a distance, everything
looks so harmless — get close enough, and it burns
through our skin. Dreams, truth, love — they all come
with scorch marks when held too long.

Time steals slow, but mistakes move fast. You step
wrong and feel it instantly — unless your pride is
a glass slipper, and you’re too enchanted to feel the
crack. Because it’s one thing to know what you’re
not — you’re not a clock spinning past reason,
you’re flesh and fatigue, and this life… it winds down.

A broken clock still gets it right twice a day — but a
broken person has twice the time to bury themselves
or choose to rise and heal.

I am a silhouette that’s almost human —
a wishful thought, a half-formed tune.
A path that doesn't circle back,
no map, no rewind, no past to track.
I’m a gunfighter — my words are the bullets,
time the outlaw I’ve hunted in dullness and pullets.
As I’ve killed it slow in many hours lost,
paid my thrills in tears, but never knew their full cost.

I’ve held a love like a flood — wild, rushing, raw,
then dried out in its drought, begging heaven for more.
I chase new highs like I’m being chased —
while fear cracks at my heels, but I still keep pace.
I smile like bravery wrapped in so much doubt,
as each piece of laughter is a whisper trying to shout.
And see that my eyes have carried their tearful ache,
and never the cherry on top of cheerful cake.

But still —
I’ve done the hard things though trembling inside,
lived among broken people; the ones who’ve also cried.
And I may not be whole so often, but I’ve learned to feel,
in every fractured moment — to be something real.

Crowd noise — silent tones said under my breath, as my faith’s
HP is beeping so loud, that I’ve learned to ignore it. I’m semi-
crawled, half-walking toward a maze of unknowns, given just
enough truth to fold and tuck inside the mind.

But I guess it’s the advice to mind your step… especially when
overstepping your reach, as the hand that lives in poverty often
feels cut short — and life itself is even shorter. You exercise
your right to live, but the final test is only passed at your passing.
And right now, I’m growing into my own powers, but even I can
get overpowered by my pride — refracted slightly; border-jumping
into lives I was never really invited into. An alien, indeed.

See me hovering like a UFO above heads that don’t know me, but
still see me appear in their atmosphere. And I don’t fully enjoy this
alienation… and sometimes I wish I could just land and be human —
and to actually feel grounded on this Earth, so that the atmosphere
of my prayers don’t feel so tight. As the atmosphere of a prayer feels tighter when the pain of your struggles, wraps its hands around
your ribs — a tightened breath, and even tighter belief.

When it gets so hard to say thanks when you’re hurting, harder
to say Amen when you're unsure if the line still connects. As the
mind feels so crowded — a room full of voices, echoing opinions,
guilt, hope, and noise. And sometimes I wonder if the silence in
between prayers, becomes the answer to help me feel better with
it all.

Beating a stigma
 with a stereotypical stick — as they tell me  
“Do stick to your kind” if I ever hope to suite in.
But trying to suite in never really means you’ll fit in —
it just means you’re dressed for the part, and not the room.

Because when the interior world doesn’t match
the exterior’s performance, the walls echo as a stranger.
    Being “mysterious” is still a bit of a mystery to me —
Especially when society’s own boundaries blur like
  breath on glass. So they’ll corner you with regulation
and call it freedom. But the regulars aren’t in order.

Again, boundaries do blur,
  like lines drawn with wet chalk.
Regulations - written by those who keep changing the page.
Still, society will corner you and call it “open space.”
The regulars aren’t in order. They call us too young to be this
    tired, by this idealistic age, that has us exhausted by reality.

Some mornings, I hate being told “Good morning.”
It sounds too bright for the kind of dark I’m carrying around.
My face? Is mundane by necessity. And I’ve surrendered to
the grey — because bright ideas can get you darkened these days.

Memories always haunt us —
   but we never get the gift of being ghosted by our pasts.
We are phantoms in the present, shadows behind the future,
hoping to step into the light without burning.

But let’s make light of the struggles we face, and not
just fight demons in the dark. The dark is their territory —
but the light is where we name things without shame.
Cos in the weekly sense — you wear your weakness
  like cologne, but cover it in the smile of a pretend-bright today.

Time...

Tell me — how much does it cost? ****, I don’t know.
I’m just trying to keep watch on the blessings I’ve got —
but more and more, they seem to stretch thin... like needle
and thread, barely holding the seams of me together.

I’m fading in connection. A rock flips — and I’m ******,
yet still trying to show decent manners. A “decent citizen”
in the dirtiest world — where the canopy of utopia is just
the Tree of Life man’s always itching to cut down…to sell
its fruits, to chop its wood, just to make pencils — so we
can write stories about it in our edited history books.

Love…

Tell me — what’s a dropout lover, anyway? Not one
who failed love — but one who stopped trying to graduate
from failed attempts. A degree in hopeless romanticism,
and a Master's in being a bachelor — but if time is really
worth it all, then tell me… what all do you really have?

Just a handful of yourself and a whole lot of doubt.
Now... what’s that about?

Two ties to a screeched past —still scratching
at the crust of blessings, just praying the miracle
comes wrapped like a lottery win. I've got creative
thoughts on command — I’m a poet in general,
drafted into survival, writing lines inside a starving
chocolate box, where sweet words can’t keep you fed.

They say they’ll pray for you, but it all feels like a
soft-spoken nothing; a sugar packet of sympathy that
dissolves too quick. Good intentions catch my eye
from time to time, but I’ve learned to watch the fine
print, because love these days comes with a return policy.

They spread your “daily bread” with butter, but the knife
I return is always too blunt, so when someone messages
out the blue and I ask, “Okay, what is it you want?”

Rung by rung, I hang here, along with the clothesline
of everyone’s ***** laundry ready inside; to air it out.
Willing to play into the villain — but never mind that
every villain was once just human, walking around
with personal vendettas to air out.

But I remember a child — nuzzled into sleep, dreaming
of the nozzle, not a pacifier… reliving wars they never
asked to see, in a world  that’s grown cold enough to
make you breathe in snow and spit out fire, burning
down the globe just to feel some heat.

We own so little, yet feel owed so much.
We carry too much, but hold on to nothing.
All that we know… is that even our knowing
has become a debt we never asked for.

Tomorrow’s eyes watch me —
but I am blind until it arrives.
To cease to exist feels like a ceasefire
in time, where I burn away inspiration
on the fumes of an energy drink.

Notebook scribbles doing their best
to unknot all my thoughts —
tangled passions poured out in pen.
This art… it’s love in its messiest form.

Beneath every star, there’s a space
between us — these stained brown eyes
aching for more time, more ink, more breath
to write out the seconds before they disappear.

The pen, a formless weapon — shaping
silence into meaning, turning pressure into
prayer, forming words to be.

Ten toes down. Ten fingers clinging to
the cross — but even I can admit: some
unanswered prayers leave me feeling  
so cross.

Where both the heart and mind
start to whisper —"maybe we’ve already
been crossed out from receiving blessings,"
even after giving ourselves to that same cross.

The soul isn’t an X to unconditional love —
it still holds on, trembling, but my human
nature keeps crossing out its own heart.
Unwilling to believe in the redemption that
bled for it, too caught in its own voice
to hear anything softer.

Pride’s the loudest preacher in the room.
It tells me, "you deserve it all" — as long as it's
everything I want and nothing I have to wait
for; even when I try to even the odds, I’m
reminded: human nature is always at odds
with itself.

Life has its many high notes –
a song of misery that works on itself,
It’s its own company, inviting anyone
to the party – misery always invites company

But the song of a friend’s love
isn’t so loud – it’s soft, reassuring,
something to count on, to help you recall
your worth – even if all you need is their company.

I knew a girl —weathered by the kind of life that
doesn’t  warn you before the storm. Still, she tried
to keep a spring in her step — but smiled like cheap
paint on a fading wall, peeling off, little by little,
every **** day.

She told me: "We don’t own enough to be claiming it all."
She’d hold onto the hands of time like it owed her
something, clocking in for the kind of love that clocks
out as soon as it settles in your mind.

And I swear — it was always the careless water she
feared the most... the kind you drown in without
noticing —a pretty smile, a warm voice, the open
door that leads you straight to your own unraveling.
I watched her from that doorway — wondered which
room of herself she let people sit in.

Was it the heart —that wicked room where love
rushes in faster than you can catch your breath?

Or the soul — too expensive for lips that try
to bargain it down with sweet nothings?

Maybe it was the skin —that kept aching for touch,
even when desire left bruises where tenderness
should have lived.

Or the mind — God, the most attractive part of her,
modelling strength on a runway of thoughts that walked
out daily for the world to judge. And maybe the reason
her story broke me was because I saw myself in every
cracked wall she tried to paint over, and over again.

We are all just houses hoping someone might stay
long enough to know the rooms we rarely let them in.

You can’t be everything to everyone —
You’ll run out of breath just trying to be heard.
Water dead plants with your last drop of clean water,
And still be called selfish for not flooding the room.

You’ll give so much; your name starts sounding
Like “help me.” You’ll leave the party empty,
Because you fed Everyone but Yourself.
And somehow, the silence you sit in is still too loud.

Even your worth will start asking for validation
You yourself don’t have the strength left to give.
Be everything to you, before you become —
Nothing to anyone. Not even you.

It's often such a strain
Trying to keep up positive thoughts —
To strain my mind, hoping to get rid
Of negative thoughts; sometimes,
It just strains me more…

Life boils me over.
Some days, I get too steamed to even try
And move on forward... feeling so stuck —
Sitting still, too hot to handle,
And being too heavy to pour it all out.

I feel like white rice —

Plain, overcooked, forgotten, and just
Sitting there, cooling off in an unattractive
Bowl, that no one really reaches for…
Sometimes  I am the metaphor, the idea,
The hope, the dream; or nothing at all —
Yet I’ll give everything of myself, every
Last drop… even up to tiniest piece of rice
In that open rice bowl.

It’s like you plan to feed yourself with time
but never take any seconds. And I swear —
you could hear me second-guessing
myself over a plate full of food for thought,
just trying to feed a little of my ego. And it takes
a while to finish expressing myself — so let me take
the express train on any passing train of thought.
Cos it’s a full course — learning how to be well fed
in a world where everyone’s trying to make bread
while praying for that daily bread.

A man does all that he can for himself, before he
even says Amen! And all men are expected
to have themselves in order — but never given
the time of day to order the meal that fills their worth.
Because most of that time gets spent spending on
somebody else’s worth.

And sometimes, I wonder if it’s really worth it at all.
There’s a man who regrets giving it all to a girl
who became somebody else’s girl…that sentiment,
doesn’t only apply to him giving his all to girls.

—He gave everything to a seemingly self-fulfilled
world! And that meal is always so cold...

A creative reflex —
Writing as a way to reflect
While breaking in between myself —
This is me, finding a recess.

And if kidding around is for kids,
Maybe some parts of me haven’t really grown
up yet.

Still, if I’m set —
Placing a quiet bet
On all these dreams I haven’t cashed in yet —
I hold the right
To keep searching for my best.

Because being better than the me from yesterday
Might be all I’ve got left…
And maybe, that’s enough!

A prideful person looks
Into a mirror without glass —
Because pride won’t let you see
The truth staring back.

I don’t have a license to drive anyone crazy — but I do have a mind
that keeps itself driven. Always on. Dreams at any given. And
I’ve felt the kind of love sickness that lingers too long — where
obsession is the disease of craving for something that was never really
yours to begin with. Envy stays green, growing tall like something
proud. But even weeds grow healthy, and we still call them plants,
right?

I’ve been tied to other people’s hopes — roped in by their strong
faith. "And I still try to believe." But saying that out loud feels like lying
to my own mouth. So I daydream in the interest of peace, trying not
to wake the ghouls I’ve tucked under my thoughts. I’ve had people
toss my advice like a smooth stone in their hand; pretending it’s
weightless, like their hands aren’t made of sand — like shallowness
could ever carry any real depth. But it just echoes the sea.

I always notice the ones who aren’t really seen. The unread...
The Blue and Grey ticks. While others get their messages read and
ignored, I’m just the message never opened. Still typing, still thinking
of the right words. I’ve come to represent the depressed, the lost, the young — the ones really trying to figure this **** out.

Pause yourself if you need to cuss, but I swear it’s not a curse to feel
like **** sometimes. It just means in that moment, you’re not feeling so clean. Not broken — just not fitting the costume.

Sometimes you just need one reason — just one — to feel like
yourself again. Not a version of you tailored to fit in. And that’s why
it suits me better not to force anything. So yeah, I wear shorts to
church — because life is too short, and I don’t see the point in
dressing up pain to make it feel prettier. Especially when it’s always
some casual man speaking formal hopes, trying to iron your sadness
into something presentable. As if comfort should only come with a
collar.

But I’m not here for that. I’m just here trying to feel real —
and maybe make peace with the parts of me that still feel unseen.

Quick to fold into myself — these are the cards I’m keen to hold.
I’m playing the game of life, love, and growing old.

“Here are your cards, son.” But no one taught you how to play.
No rulebook, no dealer’s grace — just silence and a seat at the table.
So it’s up to you to figure it out, Kassan — learning to deal with
regret while life deals you more hands of hardship to accept.

Go on — place your bet. Will you find success? Will you chase the
dream? Will you even get a shot at love when every reason still
shoots you down? And would you risk it — even after every loss
you can count, forgetting how many wins you once held close?

You deal with the hand you’re given. But even the purest heart holds
the dirtiest intentions — so by extension, you might be playing
with a ***** hand. Still, we all play into this game we call life. It’s a
poker bet, a Crazy Eight, where you don’t even get to declare.
So you study the faces life deals you and wear a poker face to keep
your tells in check.

Don’t count your gains too early. Take them home to count —
slowly, privately. Don’t get robbed by the table just for showing
what you’ve earned. And the casino only closes when you leave.
The lights stay loud and lovely from across the street, but there
are no clocks inside. So you better watch your step.

Because despite how it looks, this life smiles, knowing **** well
it’s not a friendly game.

Her Plan A was simple —

Don’t have kids too young, so she invested
everything into Plan B: watching her step,
protecting her peace, staying ahead of
what the world might expect of her.
That was always her plan, see.

...not willing to risk it all for Plan D.

She’s still out here hoping this one
might be the one to drop down on one knee —
and not just another one wanting her on
her knees. So tired of bruised knees;
from praying to God for someone real,
while a man’s bruised ego is the only thing
she’s expected to heal.

...she just wants to be free.

My thoughts stagger, trying to carry hopes heavy as heartbeats.
Two lovers, chest to chest, whispering, “let’s talk soul to soul,”
trying to make sense of a love story that hasn’t been written yet
—a heart-to-heart moment, I keep dreaming of.

I tell myself: stay focused. But I’ve been tiptoeing through
daydreams, because chasing love too fast leaves you breathless
when it runs the other way. Cos everyone wants the highs of love,
but no one talks about the problems on the down low — the quiet
exits, the silent tears, the way loneliness can sneak in even when
someone’s lying right beside you.

Maybe it’s a late-night phone call — a sleepy “goodnight, baby”
before the line cuts out. Or a “good morning” text just to fold into
my memory like a note tucked beneath my pillow. Maybe it’s
wanting to tell you everything — not just the good, but the messy
middle parts too. Like you’re both my friend and my fire. Like you’re
the one who fits the empty spaces between the soft notes of this wild
birdsong my thoughts keep singing.

I want that kind of love. But I know relationships get complicated.
And honestly, I don’t miss perfect — I miss partnership. I miss
the “we got this” when life gets heavy, the “I’m here,” even when
we don’t have the answers. It’s not a complicated thing — just
someone to solve life with me. To laugh when things crack. To stay
when the flaws start showing.

I want skin I can breathe in — not just touch. Someone who sees
my silence as depth, not distance. Who holds my flaws like fragile
truths, not defects to be fixed.

But maybe that’s too much to ask. Maybe that kind of love only exists
somewhere between sleep and memory. I’m awake now — and I
don’t want to fall too deep just to find the woman of my dreams.

When is “enough” enough?
When doing too much ≠ enough. It falls somewhere
between “you care too much” + “you’re not doing a thing.”
If I say it with the sharpness of heart, it still lands blunt.
And I don’t want to come off like I’m doing a stunt
or overstaying my welcome.

But what is enough when doing nothing
starts to look like too much? —You ever feel like
the *** on the street —living on love that isn’t
concrete? Built on hope, but the cons increase.
They say it’s home, but the rent’s called unease.

Is there a way to multitask love —
a multiple of itself in a multiplied path?
A multitude of love in a multiverse math…
but it never really adds. Because it subtracts —
you. The more you give out ÷ the less you get back.
Yeah, it’s a trap. When you’re solving for X
but losing Y. Then you carry the one, but forget the why.
—
So I ask again: When is enough enough?
When devotion is debt, and love's just a sum
of what’s left. It’s never enough. But it’s always
too much. A pointless cost we still call Love.

Tomorrow is always so dark —

I don’t have the eyes to see it, but I’ve got
the faith to believe in it. And if dreams never
die… do we still dream after death?
And do you still dream with open eyes —
or do they close by the end of the night?

We dream in colour in a black-and-white
world. But what’s colour worth when we
judge by shade, by place, by blood?
Even their own goes against their own
for the turf they hold onto of the authority
they own.

My thoughts —
  
Black as summer storms over my mind.
Winter is coming, and all we want is to
stay warm by standing with our kind.
And I hear those churchgoers
tell the best lies — where are they going,
if they say they carry His light?
Leading us all into a “tomorrow,” but
is just a place made for the dark…

Tomorrow is always so dark...
and somehow, still the thing we
all hope to find… but it’s also a
place we use as a place to hide.

Untie me from your thoughts —
acting loose from your love;
  not what I should’ve known.
Knot-tongued,
  unable to say what I’m really feeling
    inside the chambers of my heart.
Dumpling cheekbones
  feeding off your smile —
    it's a soft scene.
But all of our best actions
  still aren’t worth a movie screen.
And aren’t we looking
  a little too scripted
    in front of our peers?
You —
  my original promissory note.
Please take note
  of every step you take in my mind,
    scribbling down your movements
      like wandering footnotes.
____________

There’s also the shaking trial of courtship —
  in the jaws of both judges.
You say what you want —
  and it turns out to be
    exactly what I don’t.
You try to live in my thoughts,
  but I’m still renting that house.
No roots, no keys —
  just memories on a month-to-month lease.
____________

To say every man is just, "a dog" —
  their barking mingles on,
chasing their own tails,
  returning to the ones who wronged them
    as if they were wrong.
But the dog’s got a bone to pick,
  and it contests every bone.
____________

Truth is —
this, like our love,
  was never meant
    to be a love poem.

Under these words – under pressure;
a reflective gaze cast on restless skies, days
becoming mirrors to us all — shining back
fragments we try to ignore.

Thoughts over water, drowning away in
myself — no lifeboat in sight, just ripples
of casual doubts, and this casual self that suits
the occasion of standing on business — as if
duty could silence the tide within.

Later rehearsals play out in the theatre of trials —
where life keeps testing, and those falling in love
in public become gossip in the rain.
Soft, but heard. Brief, but echoing.

Give us a little space; space exists to be used —
lest we start to feel abused by presence that
doesn’t pause to respect the silence.

There’s always a clue to finding yourself —
often tucked inside those who build you up,
brick by spoken brick — sticking to your side,
a friendship made of genuine glue.

And its occupants; are the ones who don’t
overstay their worth, who know how to shape
time into a home away from home.
Not permanent, but warm. Not perfect, but safe.

To share tears like rivers drawing in and from
one another —currents of grief and grace,
there are gifts in that flow. So appreciate those
in your life who’ve been so current —both
present and moving, flowing with you instead
of watching you sink.

You may not see the final destination—
but every step, every fall, is part
of something forming. The direction
you're heading will always be patient.
Even when you feel sick from believing
you're stagnant, you are still shifting.
Still becoming.

Don’t worry! The silence has its own
voice. And the waiting has meaning,
even when it feels so cruel. In time—
it will all make sense.

The past you came from will become
a mirror. And your future self will look
into it and see how far you’ve really come.

There’s a girl who mirrors my every move—
   it makes me afraid of my own reflection.
And if I’m biting time,
  then please— serve me a couple seconds.
I should’ve loved you better, much earlier…
  so I’ll be with you in a second.

Let me shield my eyes— watching you put
on your armour, decorating your smile,
 you’re a mouthful of colour.
A love picked from the bunch,
  too rare not to treat like a flower.
First as a friend, protective as kin—
even when your salty remarks
 mistake pamper for pepper.
Your attraction? In mint condition—
     a treat like a peppermint.

My skin’s a little tinted, my cries tilt
a little sideways— these long-*** messages
   just to keep you from trailing behind.
Smiling beside you, you give me food
  for thought, and a kind word on the side.

It’s hard to find the genuinely kind.
      But you?
You’re a rare kind— the kind I’d hold
on to, if only I knew how.

Dust off my feelings — I could say
     I’m a little rusty when it comes to love,
so please… forgive me.
With all these needs and wants, I don’t want
to seem so needy — believe me! Sometimes I feel
like the memory of other people, a name echoed
in stories but never fully seen. I guess the fantasy
of connection never really ends. I loan myself
abundant confidence — but only in my heart,
and even then, only vaguely. Behind the irises,
tired eyes rest on the soft outlines of what
the mind believes it can finally see. To participate
in finding oneself… it’s a gruesome search party.

My floodlights are filled with a bit of drought —
shining outward, but lacking what flows within.
I’m strolling where I never had the courage to step,
everywhere I turn feels like a new pressure.
I give out my heart, but don’t have much of a chest
to hold it — barely a ribcage to defend it.
Yet still — there’s treasure in this tenderness,
a worthwhile chest of purpose hidden in the pretending…
of escaping real life. But here I am, in real time —
taking the first step.

Tick Tick; goes my heart in the line of a drumbeat
whereas I stray away from long hugs – it’s an awkward heat
A stray dog shows love to any hand that helps them eat,
so sure — call me a treat when you say so I’m sweet...
Just don’t toss me out on the street; or throw my heart over
the waters of selling me a dream – just to make it skip a beat.

Hiss, hiss; is how even the sweetest of kisses can go –
giving a lover a part of my soul – stepping out with my love;
Being so much like their sole. Meets and greets; those events
and your people – but if I see they’re not good for your soul,
Don’t expect me to tolerate them at all. Those are the snakes
waiting to bite you, and their venom will poison us both.

Click, click; are usually those friendships that won’t last –
blind mice, never calling you out; for the good times to last
Friendships made for the hype, the interest of camera smiles,
but never a picture of genuine trust. Your attention to their
problems is a must, but paying attention to your problems
is too expensive – and that just cheapens love, and I doubt
they would have a problem not showing any value for us -
And in their many smiles, is a smile of joy that we didn't last.

But then again, I’m not in love – but if I was,
I guess these sorts of guidelines should be a must for us.
To make a love that holds onto loyalty, truth, and mutual trust.

Can’t be everyone’s hero—
but it’s so easy to be framed as the villain in someone’s story,
caught in the blur between goodwill and what they believe is ill will,
the wheel spinning from “helpful” to “harmful” without warning.
The sickened influencer—tired of carrying hearts like glass—
now catching cold thoughts, like a mind with influenza,
and I’m wondering: do I get any better at doing the most,
or do I just give less of a **** as the walls I build
crumble beneath the weight of everything I try to hold back?
Does any of it matter, really—at all?

Not everyone will love you like a lover in the honeymoon season—
the moon only glows for a night, and even the sweetest honey dries
when left open too long. And what you think might bring us closer
can become the very thing we learn to hate together.
But maybe in the court of opinion, I’ve become too quick
to cast judgment—forgetting that my sense-of-self
sometimes acts selfish too.

But I’m not standing tall above anyone—I’ve got my own
shortcomings, and none of them come in small doses.
I sin too. Like you, I can act so human, too human, too often.

Chandelier tears—pretty faces, pretty tears, pretty much falling,
crashing. Clear the room—this empty space sobers me; I’ve
been drunk on emotion again. The heavier ones don’t bring
me peace anymore, they only hit as hard as another strong
drink.

Should I speak? And in the same breath admit defeat—
these dark thoughts are so creative they become destructive,
crafting a beautiful kind of ruin I can barely reason with.

Hey—just speaking truth for those interested in it. Truth is...
I’m not always okay. I pretend to be, just to survive the weight
of another day.

It’s a dark space, and I clear the room to break down quietly,
to feel like I’ve repented something, to write myself into a better
place—hopping over the pen, jumping the fence of a mind that
sometimes cages me in. I’m not so pent-up anymore— not when
I let the ink do the talking.

And yes, I try to wear a brave face—but every face sheds a heavy
tear, every person caves eventually. Pitted against themselves.
As even the strongest people, the loudest, or the proudest—
they cry too. Just…not in front of you.

Bite into an idea— rows of teeth, tension tight.
Crowded smiles feel so exposing— but this one,
it gnaws deeper. The tension between teething
regrets and tethered faith feels so frayed, as if
the cord was always a little too short to begin
with.

I’m not riding the wave— just swimming a little
longer in my dreams; watching surfers sail off
while I sink into thought. But I surf the internet,
researching the cultivation of infinitude—
whatever that means. Diving into unfathomable
depths, only a few steps in and I’m already losing
my breath.

Have I sprouted yet? Most days, my sadness
drowns in my anger. Then a spark of joy appears—
brief, fleeting— but its glow only makes me
so sad again. And that sadness simmers back into
rage, and the loop begins once more.

A cycle.
A seesaw.

A silent crusade to love myself again.
But the journey never really ends. Even while
searching for one. we push forward—again,
and again— until we find a better end.

Everything is so terrifying for the introvert going outside—
the overthinker rehearses all of their prestored sentences,
Sitting on impeccable lines with no trace of uncertainty,
but ever so certain that it’s what the ear wants to hear.
The hopeless romantic knows the picture of a good love
story, but can’t seem to paint that picture for themselves—
Because imagination never quite imitates real emotion.
                                                        ­         And it’s irritating.

But haven’t I been them all? A single character playing
too many roles— the pencil in my story, trying to sketch
out the scenery of a better life. The pen, trying to write
out a good script that fits in the ink folds of my cerebellum.
My skin wears the wrinkles of time, bruises like an overcoat—
a weathered face, but it’s body has no spring in its step.

I’ve been depressed. But when you’re made to grow up too
fast, to keep pace with the world, what else do you expect?

Still, don’t expect me to be anything less than my level best.
Elevated fears go up, while my hope quietly goes down.
Yet on the upside? I stopped pretending to flip my frown
upside down. Some days I’m up. Most days I’m so down.
But I’m not always down— just holding onto the little hope
I find in creation; beauty painted out from my frustrations.
Like the weather, my mood keeps shifting. And whether
you’re caught in a long winter after a short summer,
Don’t worry— it’s all just a passing season.

Can’t hold onto anyone’s time—
 their life is out of your hands.
But still, we all take these
   steps of being so etched in
somebody’s memory—
     like footprints in the sand.

I keep counting all the time I
  tried to hold onto the past,
 without a watch in my hand.

Watch the moment pass—
 tense, sinister in tenacity.
  A voracious hour—
      feeding off  what I didn’t say,
    what I left behind.
      Art quietly buried in my mind.

And all those things I thought
were gone— they love to
  reappear as a new regret.

Still transparent. Still off-putting.
But put off those mistakes—
  and put on the lessons.
Be beautiful in your time.
Not perfect. Just worth building.

They’ll write it down— the inspiring
  story of how you rose,
 even when time kept slipping
      through your hands.

With a naked eye,
I share these naked thoughts—
so bear with me a moment.
You found me in a vulnerable stance—
bare, but still standing on business.
Banking on every dream that still
has a resting chance.

Even when life feels mundane in too
many ways—I keep pushing, fighting
the material gaze of critics, and the
cryptic ways some people define love
and measure trust.

But between all people, there is life—
and in life there’s the chance to live out
a dream, to become who we are without
shame, to love who loves us back, yet still,
hold out a hand, as an extension of love
to those who need it the most.

And maybe, just maybe—that’s the kind
of dream worth believing in.

Forgetful dreams, trapped on the pillow of my
bed— tiptoeing thoughts, almost like a ballerina
having a good stretch. As an injured picture frame
hauls away the canvas of a dream on a stretcher.
Giving pretence for a pretender—and knowing
whether the weather decides to jump over your
head, is knowing when it has a spring in its step.

But it never bends to tender hearts—it only offers
them the work of love. A group of tenders; all their
touches tender, all enlisted in affection’s labor force.
And if it's a compulsory love, we'll love with force.

Cos Love is a chin check sport—and you pay
for it with the protruding part of a chin cheque.
Control, and out-of-control—to the ones living
so remote. But lose that island, and you lose control.
And lose the answer to the power of influence—
and you begin to question what control even means.
Control is part of that… this far, at least, but a life
without risk— is the risk of never having lived.
Because everything you love to do might just be
the very last thing that finally does you in.

In my eyes—wide shut—
I rearrange the scattered pieces, trying
to build a better version of myself from
what once felt like a creature. I frame
my thoughts to get a clearer picture,
decorating the past in shades that turn
away from mistakes, and painting the
rest with the soft light of my achievements.

Time drifts like dust—
blown apart in fragments. And I wonder
if anyone has ever truly been put together
perfectly. Even the greatest successors were
once victims, parts of themselves quietly missing.

To be complete is to keep finding yourself
again—to return, again and again, to the
reason you began. I stay committed to the
foundation of a dream, building it day by
day from these few, fragile pieces.

I am not the owner of my words—
not the master of my quotes,
nor the crafter of my stanza,
nor the painter of my verses.

I am simply the extension of the pen—
a vessel of expression, granted the freedom
to speak what aches beneath the skin.

But take away the artist who holds the pen,
or take away the pen itself—and the voice
of the artist, soon becomes the pen instead.
Words find a way to bleed through silence.

No matter how noble your intent,
to silence one’s voice is to sever the
soul’s right to breathe.

And still— they will return,
stronger than before; they will fight
for their word— words that once gave
them armour, and the pen, a weapon.

Not to draw blood—
but to cut through blindness.
A violent expression, yes—
but born of peace, wild but tamed,
structured but never caged.
Because there is freedom in every
word, written or said.

There’s a prayer with a sigh—
a breath let out like scripture,
written in stone, signed by a former lover.

Would you ignore every sign,
just to chase the shape of a feeling?
In over your head, thinking you’re
heading in the right direction—
when even the stars have stopped pointing.

A little too forceful, a little too often,
repeating the same mistake like it’s part
of the ritual— a pattern etched in skin,
but called love, to make it sting less.

But maybe… it’s the measure that matters most—
how the repetition finally taught you to become
your own ruler. Not of someone else’s heart,
but of your own.

The greatest betrayal?

When the positivity-giver isn’t so
positive themselves. When the light
they hand out doesn’t reach their
own shadow.

Belief in self-worth— they say it’s
your shell. But I haven’t found the
pearl that fits my shape.

Still liquid—I form myself to every
room, shape my smile to fit their
forecast. These tears? Not weakness.
Just soil erosion.

Washing away what held me—
leaving me bare, unready for tomorrow’s
weight. Like the trampled flower—
I’m not phased. I remember the feet
that pressed me into the same ground
I bloomed from.

I haven’t forgotten all those soles
that stepped on my feat.