I couldn’t even afford our first kiss;
in a rented car — it happened quick,
a cheap love on borrowed time,
but we drove it anyway.

Our hands on the wheel felt like
promises, turning too sharp, we
were never licensed to keep it at all.
The engine of us coughed with hope,
the brakes already weak, but still,
we sped down that one-way road.

                    Speeding too fast.

Every glance—green light.
Every laugh— a corner I couldn’t steer.
Too single; really a turn we didn’t signal.
Love in motion— but emotions unstable,
trying to stay alive.

And when your breath touched mine,
it wasn’t just a kiss— it was the impact,
the sound of an airbag failing, two crashing
hearts colliding into the wall of something
neither of us could truly own.

The irony is: it was the kind of wreck you
never want to walk away from

Heavy are the thoughts of my crown—
shining like praise, sitting like gold,
but weighing like stone. A halo to some,
a shackle most days. To rule, or to ruin—
always my own.  

Strangers slip seamlessly into the crowd,
positive, negative—all charges allowed.
Their pull is soft, then suddenly loud.

And here I split a poem in two: I am a
double entendre, a meaning doubled—
a double-edged sword that cuts away
the rules, and the cut you take when
you refuse.

–––

Once formal—but now cutting ties, from
those who cut me. Knowing is freedom
dressed sharp, but dressed like an excuse.

I am the canopy stretched over my throne,
the highest branch of dreams I’ve grown.
Shade to protect, shade to conceal—
comfort by day, a curtain from light.

But get under my skin, and you’ll taste
the irony— me throwing you shade.
You’ll stand in it, unseen in my sight—
just another stranger, swallowed by night.

a silent laugh—
an inside joke no one else can catch,
trying to take flight over the height of a dream.
but what is a dream if it only stings the eyes?
an eye sore, instead of wings to soar.

...I am a prisoner of flesh and skeleton,
fueled by passion, smuggling scars beneath
my skin; blood turned ammunition,
bones as empty shells clattering the floor.

...I am animal, and I am engine—
factory default, released into a world
obsessed with modifications.
we bolt wings like spoilers onto cars,
spoiled for choice, but never to lift—
only to weigh us down.
heavy disguises, dressed up as flight.

and still, we dream of air.
still, we hunger to rise.
such a cruel irony:
built for motion, yet forever
grounded.

Chances seem high that I sink so low tomorrow— where
do I return the belongings of my skin, stitched too tight
with sin? And is there a good intention I can borrow?

To call love a bullseye, but it's just something darting past
me; for a lap dog on the leash of longing can’t run free—it
only circles the grass. As I fuel my odds at a gas station lot;
feathers searching for a birdie; practicing my golf swing,
hoping for a hole in one— or just putting one in a hole.

"Find a stable life," they say, but the horse track is empty,
where hooves never sound, and only echoes of betting slips.
Online, some search for a type, the screen listening to the
type of fingers. But knowing is never seeing, and belief
needs more than a glow of pixels.

"Good grief"— so cried the one who buried their beliefs,
but they still dug the dirt back smooth, as if planting a
seed for tomorrow. Till we're gone, we'll always have
tomorrow.

Right here: surface level regrets— a smile rehearsed hides too many
oceans underneath. To lose the mark of a purpose, drowning in
the weight of it, falling asleep too far from tomorrow, and begging
the clock for hours to borrow.

I was almost crushed, a branch torn from its root— still green,
still alive, but already withering in the dirt. Among circles of people,
most days stack like square bricks; I fly too low, chasing reflections,
the heron staring back from water’s despair.

Fresh lipstick still stings— beauty sharpened into a lethal injection.
Kindness can be your only mistake, forcing a straight smile onto a
crooked day. Faith rubs raw against friction; love can be a salvation,
but fatal is it's attraction.

But to stay still, makes a silhouette pinned to the wall, lonely but
lovely in outline— as the shadows above become surface level
regrets. But tomorrow, I’ll trace the same lines again, hoping each
cycle might end better than the last.

I whisper my struggle against rage, a vulture perched, refusing to
budge, circling the leftovers of life. My tears — a mirror, awkward
disguises, suggesting more than I admit. What is a man in his own
fantasies, if even there he dreams himself as someone less?

Knowing a circle of friends blooms misshapen, my circle is more
like a triangle —each angle pointing out each other, each edge
sharp to sharper your edge. I am obtuse among the acute, aware
of my struggles with precision; people measure me from distance.

Still, their echoes and hues pull words out of me, inspiration sparked
by friction. But I’m just this jar chasing lightning, as if it ever strikes
twice; each dream I hold flickers fragile in my hands; the texture of
a dream is lucid, slipping through like current.

The recipe of life: tears, sweat, regrets, a hint of success for taste.
And the chef? Shadows us like a grand tree on the hillside, quietly
stirring the ***, watching, seasoning my days with the abrupt nature
of time.

If I could move past the point of *******— my bull horns
are beaten down by life’s whip. Feeling ready to blow
my brain, an itchy finger on the trigger, searching for
life's plus centre: a positive man stuck in the middle; senses
sharp, but it sounds insensitive to an eager mind; all
of our dreams have been suffocated by the placenta.

I think I can be honest about the work of others, but
speaking that truth loudly — for some— sounds like
we don’t really love each other. Chained only by deeper
ambition; passion weighs heavy when it isn’t complete.
Here’s a writer’s petition: loving poetry— an appeal to
careless ambitions over being Christian.

Pride mirrors itself— words reflecting the world’s
weakness, ugly earnestness to be outstanding; going
out to make something of yourself as an artist surely
disappoints a family. Gain success through your own
struggle, heavy prayers; "I guess we’ll all be wealthy."

It all depends upon: the task of multitasking most
of your dreams— to exactitude; the power of words,
poetic charge, poetic energy. But know this—the
lightbulb to your dreams is what will turn them on.

All those wanting pieces of your spark—
you’ll lose track of where they all came from.

Before the profit of the prophet,
He tried to fit into a prophecy,
Living like furniture wrapped in plastic,
Always waiting, never too honest.

As a kid, barefoot on the stone,
Toes split rocks he called his own.
Didn’t matter, he never kept score,
Tears skipped like pebbles, lost on the shore.

Teenage nights taught him to choke,
Lungs full of secrets, lungs full of smoke.
Coughs hidden deep in a pedestrian bush,
Dreams of riches, but so broke on a hush.

Exhaust from his mouth, he claimed the street,
Pretending that silence was something complete.
But silence was clothing, handed down rough,
Trauma sewn tightly, never enough.

Now he walks past mannequins, frozen in glass,
Faces like lessons too heavy to pass.
Breathing was something he learned to fake—
Lungs filled with pressure he couldn’t escape.

So he asks in the dark, was he living at all?
Or just holding the smoke longer than them all.

My words morph out of place— would you
still entertain the thought of me in the end?

Every star rules its own space,
but the circumstance of a cosmos knots me up,
its circumference bending beyond my grasp.

A smile cracks the mirror—
I cut myself and I bleed from the shards.
Alone in my room, my sighs are heavy
as a tomb buried under the world.

It’s cold, too cold, and I’ve waited for
the heroic ******, that movie moment
where the hero rises—but I’ve climbed my max.

My throat feels split by an axe.
It’s all out of my hands; I tried to leave
it in God’s hands, but faith feels like
hand-me-downs— worn thin, never quite mine.
I light another cigarette, to drag time along with me.

I am not a sad song, just a tune people sing
along to, a chorus written in tears.
Tear me apart, piece me back like armies
lined up only to be shot down.

And when I fall again, I look up,
choking on the silence, and ask,
"Is this really the life I was promised by God?"
But then again, I did this all to myself!

In the breath of time, I gasped a second of a dream –
to clock it all in a single second; to live off seconds,
to starve on scraps, constantly second-guessing
myself. It feels like going back, stepping into my
past – a time traveller, as much, wandering the
ruins of yesterday.

Give me a second to catch my breath; here in this
second stanza; I wear each stanza like armour–
armour stitched from broken words, to fight for
peace in armour, to piece together what’s left of
honour. Where hell meant to crush my thoughts,
I cover my head with a helmet, shielding my
mind from the fire.

And if they break my bones – I’ll pick a bone with
the breaking, laughing in the face of the fracture,
gnawing on the marrow of pain until it tastes like
defiance. Every scar another tick of the clock; every
second I stand, I steal back from the seconds that
tried to finish me.

Call me a time traveller, for I’ve learned to turn
broken seconds into futures

Insulate to the sharp needle of insulin – as this pan
creases over daylight frying a canopy of trees, left
with skins that smell of mould; moulding us into forms
that don’t fit, following titles without ever playing the role.

Models parade as model citizens, while forests fall around
their footsteps; smiles reduced to emojis, connection flat
as a screen. Each impression feels like a coded message –
profiles lined with Bible verses in their bios, good at quoting
scripture, but so not good at keeping notes on The Message.

But we fashion ourselves into “the latest,” but our dreams
arrive too late, departing long before we catch them.

We are all stories inked together from the sharp tip of the
pen, injecting more time into our veins, yet living diabetic
to our morals – sugar-high on indulgence, starved of truth.

I saw a depressed clown haggling
at the flea market for balloons—

Joy marked down to a clearance price;
he holds onto second-hand laughter,
and a fragile piece of air tied to rubber skin.

By each nightfall he flees, on a rusted
scooter cutting through town, and his
balloons trailing like tired moons.

The crowd never cheered him on —
as he carried the silence anyway with him

Fire, wind, water, earth—
perhaps I’ll be
    the element of surprise.

No scent of intentions;
I broke my nose, sent into
a world that watches with
  wide eyes.

Premature ideas delivered
to a man’s dream;
            the stillborn
still cries; echoing even
    after not seeing the light.

Often my heart feels low, unruly—
     recognizing no boundary,
******* the sacrifice required
  To be a man.

Sometimes I am a stone,
skipping past life · · · · · ·
    1, 2, 3, 4, 5...

But never six—
for by that count,
     I begin to sink.
Life and its lessons still needs
   to polish me, to reach my reach.

I didn’t pay heaven’s worth for one hell of a ride— for all the
Valentine cards, I’m just calling their bluff. What’s carved into
stone is too heavy to skip across the rivers of my chest; love
sinks deeper than it pretends to float. A carousel of emotions
spins; all its horses in place— some only love horsing around.
Round and round it goes; the painted smile, waiting for
the cycle to end, for the spell of tomorrow to break.

So I write letters to the future, hopes tangled in snares of my
doubts. The tongue—sharp as steel, soft as silk—knows how
to give life, and *******. We cover scars with scars, as the
extending arm, just to say we’re armed, clutching too many
guns inside our ribs. But how can blessings hold on when
your hands stay hidden, when you wear a balaclava over
your smile?

Harvest comes only from what you’ve planted—patience,
honesty, or silence. Soil on the tongue buries every word
that could have fed us.

So tell me—was heaven’s worth ever meant for one
hell of a ride?

Before it all… before anything, before the measure of time,
before thought had its first spark, before the first word
was ever spoken— there was Silence.

And in that silence, there was peace— a stillness vast
enough to cradle eternity, untouched, unbroken,
where nothing was needed, and nothing was lost.

But silence does not last forever. From its depths came
a fracture, a tremor in the void, and with it—Chaos.

The silence cried, and its tears fell like stars, scattering
across the endless dark. Their echoes stretched beyond
forever, reminding us that every peace carries its price,
and every beginning is born from breaking.

For even before creation, before the heavens, before
the earth, there was silence. And when all else is gone,
silence will remain.

“Perhaps I never lived, perhaps I never died.
For dying is simple, but living is the harder task—
yet in the silence, I hear the first true sound of life.”

If I were a fruit, would you still date me, would my shell  
be easy to crack, or would your patience bruise at the very
weight of peeling me back? I laugh at my own dad jokes
that crack me open; would you still concentrate on showing
me a fruitful love, or just beat my heart to a pulp. Whether
sweet or bitter, would you press me down to juice or savour
me in sips?

Would my scent linger like ripened promise, or fade too
quickly, forgotten at the bottom of the basket? Would you
call my softness spoiled, or taste the sugar hidden beneath
rough skin? I can be sharp as citrus, cutting your tongue;
other days, mellow as a peach, velvet against your hands.

And when I start to wine; my actions feeling like a bunch
of sour grapes, do you drink me slow, or spit me all out
as vinegar, too **** for you to swallow? When my seeds
of advice scatter, do you plant them for more, or toss them
aside as waste of the core? Even my flaws ferment into
something you might call flavour—but would you learn
to love the aftertaste?

So tell me— if I were your fruit, what fruit would I be?

The *** never worries about its shine,
but only if the chef can stir more than heat.
Good looks can season the eyes, but flavor
fades quickly if the soul isn’t fed.

Jewels on the counter don’t make a meal—
the scars of the pan prove it’s lived through fire.
A recipe isn’t written in gold, but in burns,
in the scrapes, and in hands that keep cooking.

So dress the kitchen however you please,
but know this: the worth of what you serve
is weighed in the scars you carry, not the shine
you polish.

And now I ask—
which kind of *** are you?

Across her sweatshirt, ninety-nine names
stitched like constellations —a lover finds
a hundred reasons to say why he loves you.

A slogan turned into scripture, she wears
it close to her chest; words sweating with her
on the mattress, to wait patiently, following
all the directions from the map of her heart.

I’ll mark the landscape, paint portraits of her
in my mind’s eye —learning the grammar
of her body, and the rules of her orientation.

Inside her, every detail is an interior design,
yet all of it points outward towards me.
She proves me down to earth, grounded
by the gravity of her presence.

Her breath is thick; honest words grazing
the neck like prayer; and in silence, our eyes
speak the sentences our lips can’t form.

Love repeats itself, a devotion like unanswered
prayers, whispered night after night; to find
a surrender that completes both sides of us.

I found my Hundredth Reason.

Tears for makeup – brushing possibilities
across the mirror of morning, peeling blessings
under the sunlight of a warm prayer.

Feet sweat inside the slippers of comfort,
even rest feels restless; slipping words
into the day just to deafen my small defeats.

Winter battlefields – I never learned how
to march in snow, waiting instead for March
flowers to break through frost, for warmth
to unclench the ground and teach my steps
to bloom again.

Water wraps my soul, drowning my heart –
my teeth chatter like crushed ice, dreams
circling like planes overhead.

"Don’t miss your flight plan," I whisper.
Ninety-nine departures, over one hundred
days of tears until that final arrival.

So when I finally close the shutters of my eyes,
I'll wear them as makeup once more – believing
the face of tomorrow might hold a smile
that feels real in reality.

Would you please excuse my grammar —
I'm only trying to caption my heart
like an Instagramer; chasing moments
that vanish in an instant matter.

When and where you eventually find
yourself —no other place will really matter.
We are fragile as glass, fingers made of dreams
swiping the screen, touching reflections that
almost feel too real.

But I’ll never be younger than the day
all my dreams began. Still, I stay punctual —
marking time in commas, pausing in semicolons,
leaving ellipses for the stories I wasn’t ready to tell.

Question marks kept me up at night; exclamation
marks made me bold enough to try. And the older
version of me scrolling through this feed of years,
may have the joy of ending it all with a single,
quiet full stop.

I choke my vape,
lungs burning, multitudes
of tears droning — bees,
hummingbirds, all their
beauty spilling nectar...
                          
I’ll never taste it.

If this is a song,
it’s an instrument playing
itself, strung out on instincts,
but struck without melody.

And still—
this feeling ******* stinks.

He sits on the edge of the bed;
tears rolling, no reason.
             Not sad —
                   just leaking.

Hand across his face,
sniffs, straightens his back.
         Deep breath —
                               Done!

He moves on,
like it never happened at all.

“Never mind,” he says,
                      “that’s just life.”

My breath, light as feather, words like dust—find it best
not to speak too much, lest I seem soft as a feather duster.
Dreams of a perfect body, shadowed by many premonitions,
permissions granted only by the mountains where I took life
by the heel—miswriting heal, and climbing that endless hill
toward closure.

I saw a fish in a teardrop, a sad smile crossing its face; and it
weighed the world on its scales. The river’s currents glistened
with depression— so I pushed upstream, crying a mountain’s
worth of water.

I fought not to wash myself away, lying beneath it all, while
an angel kissed my twisted hair; locked my thoughts in place.
Perfectly ready to die, dancing to a song of reoccurring suicide,
a melody only I could hear. Must entail the full act of dying,
feel the strings beneath your fingers— chords played in secret,
as if David himself taught me the strum. To be an instrument
to a horn, to hone your skills, to feel like a big man someday.

Think of this the next time someone says, “Yeah, I’m okay.”
So much hidden, beneath that quiet syllable, an entire ocean
of grief swallowed in one breath.

A relationship’s anchor— we could be falling in love or sinking
down, holding on for far too long, too shy to step fully into the
moment, being too hesitant to taste a worthwhile experience.
So awkward in time— yet the stars in a smile still flicker, asking
for a space in time, a little corner of the universe to stretch this
love beyond its natural season.

But seasonal heartbreaks are just another episode, and you
know how it goes— new loves spring up, and blossoming
overnight, only to end in snow.

We cling to them in desperation, but strange terrain prevails
dismay; hard to walk steady as every step sinks into the cold.
And still we rush— rushing to fall in love, slipping through
the snow, hoping this time the anchor holds, hoping this time
we don’t drown.

Where will the anchor fall down to?

Heart —
   hollow until tomorrow.
A man, a painter, once aimed so far
he broke his bow; his reach stretched
wider than his hands could hold.
Dreams, swollen with glory, dripped
    down the bristles of a hardened brush
— dipped in the wetness of tears,
     each stroke a storm, heavy with passion.

It starts with a pit —
    a seed pressed deep in the soil, a hollow
carved where something once stood,
a cave widening in the chest.
In the immensity of a workshop built from
cheap wood, tell me —  
                  where does a heart take root?

Cutting down those trees is mayhem waiting
to happen; for when the pit is flawed,
  the whole foundation caves.
And maybe that’s why we doubt
the truth we’re told.

They said,
    “the great tree fell.”
But if you never saw it fall yourself,
would you ever believe it made a sound?

A blemish across the mark of my skin —
screamed into a corner, I’ve screened my
eyes. My chest is like a TV screen, the flashes
of a dream —the world waits for me to
tell a vision.

If I write, I could write, so good and well —
my finger type: printing stories on these pages,
A dogs-ear bent down to listen, to serve the law
as it runs. how long the mile? A canine chasing
commands.

A man afraid of the light, finding comfort
in a shadow. shadowing the past, living
best when hidden in the shade of regrets.
our mistakes are perfect at throwing shade.

Shall I live the blemish of a dream —folded
onto itself, my best days creased like dog-ears,
marking important chapters of my life.

But a man so afraid of the light forgets there
are two kinds: the one that reveals his darkness,
and the one he’ll face at the end of his life.

Still — we must step out from the shadows
of our mistakes. Eventually, you find a time
to shine.

This heart to love — abrupt,
a door slammed open in the storm.

No warning, no gentle knock,
just the rush of something that's
too vast to hold.

And this face, a gallery of what remains:
a canvas carved by wounds, a battlefield’s
aftermath; a work of art painted by scars —
proof that breaking is its own design.

I:
The drunk says he can handle bars— but I just
handle handlebars, chasing thoughts downhill,
gripping acceleration on life’s crooked road,
her words tasted like lightning—a storm reigning
in my chest. If the truest lover’s tongue can write
the truth, truth still needs a page— so promise
me this time I won’t crash in the margin.

                        She:
         But darling, I gave you shape; I traced
                                 your edges in circles, crossed out the shadows
                                 of your past. You were a box caged in squares,
         I bent the lines, bisected all of your fears—
                                 in the middle, we met like intersecting skies.

I:
Your kiss felt like a riddle— a puzzle mouthed
in motion, syllables pressed against skin, body
language shelved in cynical libraries. I wanted
to read you without tearing the pages.
   
               She:
        I am neither saint nor sin, just a storm
                             pressed close to your skin. Claustrophobic,
                             yes— but don’t mistake that squeeze for chains.
                            I’m the thunder that reminds you to breathe,
                            the silence that steadies the wheel.

               Together:
     Handlebars shiver, storms bend the ride,
     but still we grip, still we glide— every fall,
                    every bruise, a geometry of love rewritten
                    in motion. Here we are, pedalling into the
                    pulse of rain. Handlebars & Hurricanes...

Skin’s breath whispers along a contour, just toward a mask—
I covered all the fears I wasn’t ready to face. No step. No path.
Only the law of this place: the rules you never choose, or chase
and lovers who kiss, and then debate. That kiss that lingers,
then pretends to take shape; and finally collapses into shame.

But I climbed anyway. Dust settled on the staircase, each rise
slower, heavier—stare at the case; for this trial to court a love
that never stayed.

But the further I climbed, stretching the definition of luck,
I fell down more than once; the air above didn’t fill my lungs,
it just filled my lungs with nothing— it swelled my chest with
pride, hot air expanding this heart, but it was too fragile to hold.

Still— memory warmed me, heated moments in my pockets
I had to tuck. I spent dreams like coins, a childhood innocence
bought out too soon, those poor kids who spent all their tuck.
And hope bursting like a cannon shot, life demanding I give it
my best shot – stretching the definition of luck.

So I climbed, until it all snapped—
I fell, rose, and fell again. Here we are.

“Boyfriend,”
my inner voice laughs, with grins.

“Benefits,”
maybe one-sided — never love that knocks
me off my feet, just more accidents that bruise
my shins.

“Relationships,”
nowadays are so hard to relate.

“Let’s communicate,”
always seems to rhyme with “let’s debate.”

“Let’s go out,”
only works if food’s involved,
that’s the closest thing to a date.

“Our first kiss,”
could be bittersweet on the lips, a downhill
ride when “kiss” rhymes with “hiss.”

“Go touch some grass,”
but how tall has it grown outside?
Love is anything you choose to paint it, though art
can be creative — it’s also unforgiving and wild.

Tuck in your breath under your chin –
cheer up with a chin up; taking all that
wants to hurt you by the chin.

Asking himself, "how did I wind up here,
winding the clock in my back, searching for
something in the past; "those silly laughs,
those silly long hugs that wrapped around
like they belonged.

Both snuggling closely on that party sofa.
“But no, I shouldn’t sleep over,” she whispered.
He was still speaking in volumes, to own the last
control of his remote living.

Those expectant lips hoping for a soft taste
of goodbye. But the other party let down their chin,
chin knocking away his kiss. Dismissing me with
a gesture gentler than words, sharper than silence.

The night ends in tears.

To feel the hum of skin—
a rhythm under flesh,
bleeding ears of melodies
louder than memory.

Flaws fall, resting like
skipped notes on the floor
of silence. I said,
"I’m not a song, not a chorus,
not a chorus, nor the neat refrain
someone can replay.

Yet these songs in my ears—
they take me in, to teach me
how to belong.

I’m not a song, but maybe a lyric—
unfinished, still searching for the
right line. Perhaps in due time, to the
metronome of my heart.

__

believe me
i know my tears—
too wet,
 too sudden

my eyes a washing line
of memories, regrets
hung me up
  to dry

searching for a loan
of love like a borrowed
heart pinned to a shirt

to find the wear and tear
of time; every memory
is washed,
 wrung out in silence
until it dripped from my eyes—

finally, oh finally,
  this man has found
the time to cry.

Something that tastes too sweet stops feeling
like a treat. The tongue grows heavy, and the
stomach twists; as what once melted into joy now
rots at the edges — a nectar that poisons, a kindness
that clings too tight, a love that smothers until you
can’t breathe without choking on its syrup.

Sweetness in excess is a quiet cruelty.
it does not heal; it only hides the sickness
it’s already become. And maybe that’s the trick —
a treat that tricks the tongue, a sweetness so thick
it sticks like honey on the heart, leaving you
starving while pretending to be fed.

Too much **** sugar and even
the heart gets cavities.

silent suffering, voices in this room
ai-generated. please, algorithm,
feed me tears to cure this suffering.
silence stuck in my throat— i can’t
scream long enough, to become
the silent man in the silent crowd.
wiping my face feels like nosebleeds
but dismissed as nothing. an empty box
stuffed with matter, atoms and pieces
building me up only to crush me down.
what really matters in this silent suffering?

Is it worth walking the tightline of life
as a drunken trapeze artist— feeding on grass
from the greener side? We are gentle, grazing creatures,
trading paint against the rail fence, peering through
cracks at a better life, always just out of reach.
I meet the ceiling of my limits, hanging from the rafters
of myself. I face the wall as if it could talk back, as if
my skeletons could speak through the plaster of the
closet that hides them.

Beneath the roar in my chest, a lion would still cry—
but never in front of their pride, perhaps because
of pride. A new man, mane brushed clean, yet what
is new when the old still haunts, when it’s harder
to forget regret than to accept what must be accepted?
So I obliterate the past, declare death to the old self—
all the undone things, all the debts unpaid.

On the cards I’ve been dealt, I keep a poker face
for enemies. But I never play a hand just to impress;
I clean up my own mess, one move at a time.
Watch every step you take. This is life’s tightrope.

I saw a madman
walking in the middle of the road. At first, I thought
he was a stranger— a figure broken loose from the world.
But then I realized: it was only me, the reflection
of myself wandering in the middle of my thoughts.

Perhaps...

I was lost in the endless expanse of my nonbeing,
caught between the idea of living and the weight
of simply being. A human being, maybe only as a
reflection in the mirror, the real self— a madman
trying to repair his mind, patching every pothole
in the road with trembling hands, covering cracks
no one else can see.

And I wonder, which is worse:
the madness of walking alone in the street, or the
silence of pretending there was never a fracture
beneath my skin.

This is war!

Not with guns, not with flags, but with myself. Every scar,
every voice in my head is an enemy line I’ve crossed. I fight
with silence, I fight with scars, I fight with the version of me
that swore I’d never get this far.

From being a punching bag to punching back. But it’s hard
not to fall back—into old habits; retreating from myself,
and telling my reflection to fall back...

Headlights slice the black, brief flashes through the dark.
Shut my eyes over myself, let their auras pass like thanks.
To all who hurt me: I’ve grown from you all, see my thanks
and my exhaustion. I’m too tired of you all, to carry your
remarks, too deaf to listen to people who say you owe them all.

Between myself and a tertiary exterior: a third self waits—
the superior version of me, complete, unbroken.
Body, mind, and soul to show off to the outside world...
still searching. Thankfully, I’m on the right road.

Tending fruit of what we leave behind,
roots break walls we build.
Hope grows heavy,
then it falls—
like Jericho.

Once there was glory,
then the world swallowed it whole.
I am not cursed,
but every apple I’ve bitten
tastes of the core.

Where there is money,
there is love—
and the root of all evil,
sweet poison.

I watch the lives of others,
dreams they wear like fine garments.
We chase illusions,
so gladly,
so foolishly—
to end up full on nothing.

Trust me, and know me whole:
I’ve floated on white lines,
pretending innocence
with powdered breath.

Say goodbye too many times,
and I won’t answer the last one.
This is my sonnet—
the count of the fallen man.
All men have fallen.

And when the call reaches your heart,
what cost does love demand?
It speaks in voices tender, cruel—
the sound of devotion
from a wicked heart.

All men have fallen.
All men have fallen.

Much worse than me are all the prior versions of myself,
all of them still stumbling through the riddle of identity.
Fate, destiny— both play me like a long lonely chord,
strumming my heartstring, a song both bitter & sweet;
truly the taste of a man’s casual defeat.

See if survival is a means to meet an end, then I’ve met
enough ends to know, each greeting feels like a farewell,
as each rise a false high that drags me lower still. And in
this place where I stand, this ground I call my own, are
the days life slowly feels like hell.

Much worse than me are the questions I can’t outrun:
do I hate myself, or do I hate the eyes that all watch me
through everyone else? “Oh, he sits on his ***, or he’s
someone just to chase ***,” they say— but truth is, I am
more of an *** to myself. Kicking myself for not doing
enough, and beating myself down for doing too much.

Much worse than me is the interference that shapes
me, this half-formed man that I keep trying to correct.
Incomplete, unfinished, still searching— as if figuring
it all out is not my burden alone, but it's the long road
of every man, he must walk.

I am no-one. Yet I feel everything.
I do everything. I am rewarded by no-one.
Tragedy? Nothing. I am owed nothing
but a fitting death.

To fish for dreams on the scales of my life,
weighing all options—faults already exposed,
a past made of glass: reflective. Fragile. And so
unforgiving.

To be credited as a modern writer, despite
my financial pressures. Swiping left on bait
too absurd to bite. My ID card? A license
to exist— plastic proof I belong to a world
that never asked for me.

Fate. Destiny. Whatever it is— tilts the odds.
I tilt back. Desperately balancing: one side,
my bank account. The other, my place. Truly
my full worth. Every moment I must make count.
And if the world won’t remember me, then let
my balance sheet of scars be the proof I existed.

More than the breath of a sigh —
I shut the front door, draw the curtains of my eyes,
turning toward a long prayer, and hoping for a sign.
I sign my name on a sigh, to dot myself in doubts;
quietly trying to align the stanzas of my life onto
these right lines.

For someone's booming voice rising in prayer;
you lift yourself as a public speaker, while I hide
my own voice in a speaker box, in the back of my car —
playing the music of these dreams only you can hear.

While the sunlight sinks into my skin, inhabiting me
like a parable. I live inside the story of another mystery,
a hidden teaching I pray I’m not just listening to, but also
one I'm slowly becoming.

We are creatures chasing the simplest endeavours —
where lovers fuse together when they find their spark,
to blow a fuse when nerves are frayed, and ride the same
fuse that carries a car forward; an engine humming with fire.

To love more than skin and bones,
to write the story of our lives — immense enough
to bring me to tears, where the full plotline goes unseen,
yet I pray to God I can at least follow all my lines.

And in all of it, this is a feeling of being alive.

Putting my shoes on backwards — stepping straight back
to the past, searching for another path; where the fisherman
never loses hope of reeling in something worth keeping.
Another catch…fishing, baiting, catching on hope’s lines.
We filled each other’s hearts with perfect laughs, ran side
by side on the marathoner’s road — but I never thought
love would be the trickiest mile.

Hey — whatever happened to that silly boy who swore he
loved all of your vibrations, the ringtone that made him dance
whenever you called his name? He smiled in group photos
with friends he didn’t like anyway — if it meant he could
fit into your picture, He’d frame his discomfort and pose.
He’d stand in the rain just to give you a sunny day.

He wore casual smiles to match every conversation, he played
your superman in shorts, his confidence a little short too; fogging
his own glasses with the breath of your words. We stood so close
the air between us could have been a kiss, but we stayed as friends,
our thoughts and hopes sealed under the covers of  “what if.”
But we dressed our hearts in dreams of maybe — perfect lovers
undercover, hiding in plain sight because losing each other
would hurt more than never trying.

There’s a spark between your lips, and it lights mine
when we kiss— we’re a match: fighting against all
the ways we’ve tried to smother what we feel.
As the sun cuts through me, kissing my skin in
gold— but my tears taste like wine, and my hopes
lounge in the soft armchairs of dreams.

Now, I hate the silence when I’m left with myself—
scrolling through ghosts in my phone, each message
once charging me like a battery cell.

Now it’s just me, trapped in a cold heart's prison cell,
echoing for company, thinking of the days I was once
drowning  in a well. But all there’s left to say is a bitter,
shrugged,

                “Oh well.”

Dear IS,

Is it fair you hold the key to my drive— to make something, yet
make it too frightening to try? Your breath pretends to drift slow
in my ear, but beneath it, you’re clearing the field, planting seeds
of every fear you know will take root.

Is it the power lines I see wired from me to you— feeding your
hands as you siphon my strength, splitting my will from the things
I keep tucked deep in the vault of myself? As you arrange them like
weapons, calling each by name to remind me of the parts I’ve tried
to love but sometimes can’t.

Is it the way I urge, wish, and will to act— only for you to spool film
from my past, running old scenes like warnings until my courage
caves to your script? Your message is seen: as nothing moves unless
you approve.

Is that you, who rests on my chest like a stone, chastising, shrinking
me to the size of my doubts— small flaws made giant, slippery
floors of thought that tilt more than they ever should? Well… not
anymore. You don’t get to rule me, or write my rules.

Goodbye, Insecurity—as if I could ever feel secure in you.

Yours,
faithfully unfaithful,

Ex-companion.

Dear SD,

You’re always like an SD card slotting into my time with your own
version of memories – overwriting the good ones; rewriting the rest
until they feel like yours. You always chipping in at the worst
moments – slipping in like a thief of thought, leaving me as hollow
as an empty crisp packet. You’ve mastered the art of inaction –
teaching me to discard what matters, to throw away my intentions
into the wind until I’m caught in the sour howl of your shouting
breeze. And when I think I’ve finally got it all figured out, you arrive,
tilting your head, whispering, "Are you sure, my love?"

It’s a question that weighs me down by ounces; as you’re a mistress
who never needs to raise her voice to pin me in place. You’ve been
the needle that keeps me stuck in this bundle of hay, telling me it’s
better to stay, pretending everything’s okay. "Try again another
day," you say – but another day just becomes the next day,
just other days, hey?

And in the meantime, you hold all the orders, dictating how I move,
and how I don’t move. But I shouldn’t be listening to you – putting
you ahead of myself, when really, you’ve only been living rent-free in
my head, making my mind your house, cluttering it until I forget to
chase you out. You bring nothing but stillness – no progress, no
movement, just a hypnotic sway of hips tempting me to sit, to stay,
and to watch life from the window.

No more. Your rent is overdue. Your words hold no truth. Hush
your lips, still those hips – I’m done letting you make my steps
your property. It’s not you, it’s me – for letting you be you to me.
We aren’t meant to be.

Goodbye – Self-doubt...

Sincerely, insincerely signed,

Your ex-lover.

Thoughts on dotted lines – this is my right to write; stepping
into deep conversations just to say I had a shoe in. Maybe in
a thousand days draped in gold & silver, I’ll praise God again –
but do it a third time even when life feels like bronze, because
hubris slips in easy. So humour me this: as humility’s hands
still smudged in ***** pictures, like the past we pretend was
never framed.

To picture life outside the struggles that have stained your
heart, aiming for the middle of it all like a game of darts;
darting away from the past but also seeing red sometimes,
taking each hit with the sight of a bull’s eye: just another
reminder of the battles I’ve already fought.

And for the worth I am – more grand than the grand I would
have earned – the days still erupted like volcanoes, molten
interruptions to the places I didn’t belong. I bottled myself up
until I popped like soda, spilling lava into empty sentiments,
too deep to throw away, and too raw to leave behind.

Some moments do feel like *******, but life isn’t a game
with extra cute lives in a litter – but only pieces of ourselves
we shed like skin, littering the ground we walk on. And maybe
that’s how we breathe to live – by moving forward even with
bruised feet, never quite ready to admit defeat.

And to say, “find yourself a fit woman running laps on your mind –
and catching her breath just means she’s sitting comfortably on
your lap,” is really just a sprint into pleasing the flesh, a race with
no real finish line. And to say you haven’t tasted her in a while,
where one bite makes you relapse – a crack in the glass, it takes two
to tango… but when she starts throwing shade, you start asking
about her love, and where did that perfect tan go.

Maybe I’ve had many partners, but truthfully, most only lived in
my head – my biggest problem was always thinking too far ahead.
A big head, as the women I never touched became intimate in
dreams, yet so intimidating in real life. My insecurity became these
imagined thoughts, and those thoughts made them always fly away.
As my love sickness was a cluster of flu – practicing patience, yet
overthinking until everything failed before it could even start.
A real lack of patience in the heart, and that headache turned into
heartache.

Sure, if I’d asked more of them out, we might have dated – but I
was so out of touch with myself that I felt so outdated. They could
have been less shy, but I was more convinced I wasn’t much of an
impressive guy. Expressive, yes – more direct in invitation, but
never showing up to the party in the end. It isn’t easy for most,
but I felt like I had the most to lose – a heart.

Now I see: I was chasing love as a boy, not building it as a man.
And the truth? It lands heavier when you start by being truthful
with yourself –that’s the only way to fully understand.

Messages are read, all their ticks are blue –
an "I love you," comes double-ticked…
maybe it’s not you.

Love’s built for two, their reasons too –
a fake kind of love still tries to play true…
maybe it wasn’t you.

No, I won’t cry, still stuck up without glue –
a sympathetic protagonist, antagonised by
their own heart, and yes… this much is true:

Perhaps I was never meant
to fall in love with you.