I took a glimpse at an angel— so beautiful;
I took a gaze without giving it breath,
I couldn’t recall her name.

And oh, what a shame it was,
Not knowing what to speak, of an outwardly presence,
I relentlessly chased after an old dream,
Hoping for a hint of conclusion— a foreign illusion.

For in spirit and in truth, —
I watched the skies crack open; splitting wildly
My sights, between a longing & desire.

Desire: the great betrayer to an eye,
When what you see, isn’t what you get to own.
Owing to her gaze; upon such a beautiful architect,
But some time later, it all built up another phased regret.

Angels that leave you out of breath,
Whether passing out on their lap,
Or passing idly, on Death.
    Beauty, is all so terrifying.

Dig out my chest a grave,  
Bury my heart a garden,  
**** out my wickedness,  
In the hopes of love to grow.  
To those falling in love;  
Falling out of it more,  
Rising out of that grave,    
    — Aren’t you a beautiful rose?

Trying to understand my identity’s subtle ideology,
hoping I could foresee my own wealth as a prophecy
—as a mind tells me I’m a prodigy.
But around certain people;
      [it’s an Anomaly.]

I pray more so to be a better leader to all
my successes, so they all can follow me,
While playing out life on time’s court; waiting
on all of my choices that judge me so much.
One day they’ll honour me,—
like raising wine glasses, after my tears cried
their red, of a harsh found maturity;
After times of losing the sense of common sense,
       [often times, known uncommonly.]

I used to live for laughs; making disrespectful jokes;
I stopped to listen to what the world had to say; —
just more disrespectful jokes in turn,
in this life of sickening comedy.
Probably why I won’t let the world force
me to be, what it wants me to be
Living as the glitch to a broken system,
for when you choose to live out of the world
      [we’re all its Anomaly.]

Surely I’d ask; that do the stars not play witness to a love’s beauty:
the belief in  the power of love that runs deep, like the air
we rely on to survive.

It feels like a faith in the unseen forces that sustain us; we have faith in our connections— a testament to the unwavering trust we have, even when faced with the unknown.

Oh, how each passing day can either divide or bring us much closer; seemingly creating a somewhat perfect balance between us—  two halves of a whole, each complementing the other in the ways no else can.

Seems to be a task; navigating through the seasons of every new found relationship; the weight of both parties’ mistakes, all serves as a reminder of the lessons we’ve learnt. Or rather the reminder of our human side. For our present self in thought, faces the future with sometimes a renewed sense of hope, and a determination to cherish and protect that we’ve now built.  

Brick by brick; I lay the depth of my soul, as I yearn for that deeper understanding of the purpose behind any love. — Searching for meaning and clarity, so too, seeking for guidance from a higher power.

Still, I must quarrel with myself.

For the seconds you’d spend with a lover, are as fleeting as a shooting star across the night sky; effortlessly slipping away— quietly turning into the short minutes we try to weave together in the hopes of making it the story of our lives.

Sigh, another love lived, serves as another love that will eventually leave, — and so, another chapter in the story of one’s life.

You’d say it’s the last of your lust,
“Still would we stay strong, and not bust when I bust”
Even when the feeling of wanting to party,
comes around partly,
Hardly though, according to a recent thought, —
I’m a little box-shaped heart; of my love’s accordion.

And as soon as someone finds a nut in a nutshell;
it would be coming from a hard external covering,
before busting another nut.
A cruel notion that what usually ***** the most,
is the most you’re forced to swallow.

Just as *** sells; ***** intentions sort of smells,
—making sense of any humor, chasing after a laugh.
Though I’m quite convinced that the woman wants one
extra arrival, while the man is the first one to come.
    “You hear it as an awkward after laugh”

The feeling was premature; a broken timing for a
jack in the box—a story of premature *******.

Mother earth, oh mother earth; may I cherish
these precious moments of such an outstanding woman
— in these delicate grains of sand slipping through an eye’s hourglass.
For all will pass by as quickly as the gentle whisper, but the love of a
mother is undying, in all its outspoken words in these countless days.

Even as time dances forward, I fervently hope
that through it all, my dearest mother, shall I always
remember your love, joy, and peace, withstanding the test
of these countless days.

Carelessly putting your smile on display, as the portrait
of constantly looking towards brighter days.
A mother’s radiant happiness, becomes the focal point,
brightening up even the darkest corners of these countless days.

For if I could express all the thankfulness, I have of you
each day, it would all be countless in these countless days.
Happy Mother’s Day.

As I steal a glimpse of the clock's dance,
A yearning swells within, a fleeting chance.
Moments slip through my grasp, like sand they flow,
Tick-tock, they whisper, time won't slow.

The hands move ceaselessly, a gentle plea,
To remind me that time won't wait for me.
No pause, no respite, it marches on,
Ignoring my plea for serenity's song.

She had dried my eyes with a strand of hair. Stranded.
Searching for a reply of care, her calmly gaze had
made my face so fragile— as hers was made up a vase,
Smiles that came from clay, shaped in all manners of display;
dependent on those who seen her wilted flowers on display.

An empty hand will keep on searching,
a full hand is satisfied with what appears enough
The heart pleasantly echoes an expression of love,
but it’s a blinding siren, without putting the mind to it.

The eye is the most jealous body part,
the mouth an unkind blade of a man’s great envy
The ill of man, is quickly giving a judging
depth between their sins and others;
As according to us; the next person is the greater sinner.

Your faith wasn’t a quick given,
as you learnt how to cherish it firstly, as a beginner
How you live, comes from the ways you choose to adopt,
some do start out strong, faithful, loving caring and humble,
But throw in pieces of fortune into the combination, and
their morals are bought out and lost.

Your greatest mistake is what isn’t done yesterday,
and the longest regret isn’t doing it at all
Drunkards can drink together, laugh fight, &
drink together again; yet a sobered heart, will hold
onto unforgiveness until death.

Finally and true, a childish person,
still chases after their old youth
As a child forced to grow up quickly,
despises their own youth
As you’d find bliss in a lie of your own desire,
and would be disgusted by what is spoken in Truth.

I’m just a stone; skipping carelessly
through streams of love.
  One
      Two,
          Maybe three
Seeing how far I’ll make it this time; distant
enough to not see where I immediately sink.
  One
      Two
          Three,
             I made it to four
Still however far you go, the awkward silence
you can hear, is a distant failure’s echo.
  One
      Two
          Three
             Four,
              Must be luck to make five
With the smooth skins of stone, often to tattoo the
smoothest words on tongue; patiently ready.
One
      Two
          Three
             Four
              Five,
               Honestly, best not to count on your failures,

Its so easy to lose count, but just count on one:
—the one day you eventually find what you’re looking for.
One day does feel like a distant arrival, still it will be
one day, you’ll know you have found the one.

There goes a heavy mind, of speaking such
a mind— which I try to do.
And its hard to admit sometimes the crack of a smile
cuts through my skin, just a few.
On the lines of lies; the straight answer sounds so crooked,
As the itch of resolve, comes from a different view, when most
of the actions seem so confused,
—used, abused, and concluded as making a lack of effort.
Oppressed, in such a depressed action; pressed out of
maturity’s wine— blood red of repentance.
I’ve failed, and have failed people; also the latter, people have
failed and have failed me also, now having to come to
terms with the fact with great acceptance.

Enduring the plank within a jealous eye;
a speck of envy entails the nonstop question of, “why,”
—the yearning for such possessions had possessed me
to speak upon another person, with such evil.
Even if I had more than what they have, it would all feel
trivial, as what is considered important by people.

Some tears at times do feel milked, that they have stained
my face with a façade of innocence.
Oftentimes, my mind comes with equal amounts of
guilt, through its own filth.
Walking with eyes focused on every step, to avoid a
reflection of themselves in the gazes of the sun,
Still the reflection displays my darkness,
as a shadow of secrets, pressed onto the ground.
For what man so desperately tries to hide, is always found out,
And what they’re not proud of, becomes the pride of the
overestimation of their lies, that have them bound.

Oh, how tall life is, and we’d fall so short of it.
Our words of praise, are as sweet as *****,
Revolting; sickening acts that say,
“Buying into the world is more important,”
Despite what the end will be, when a ticket into Heaven,
isn’t close to a cost’s fit.

Truly for truly, did they not often feel
like everyone’s personal convenience.
So convenient for people to know them, — just to be
what’s in store, for them all to buy into their dreams.

How convenient; suiting people’s purposes so well;
well enough, as a worn-out suit; to suit those only in
a matter of addressing their personal battles, grievances,
qualms and historical hurts.

It must be so frustrating, to see the reflection of such pain
in these eyes; painted red from every tear we all had cried.
A mask in disguise; a disgust in the discussion of how
their given something, is looked later on as purely NOTHING.

Truly for truly, it must be worth the hurt,
for us to repeatedly be the better person,
around those who only give you and I the worst.
People are truly the worst; and so too
must be loved the most.

I saw the time in your eyes,
that had me pause my breath like a stopwatch,
As if the feelings were a crime, that had
me caught out with what all it had got.
Cos when love had robbed my heart;
I grew impatient to go and call the cops.

Or was it me being impaired,
to humbly assume we could have made a perfect pair?
For the chorus of kisses subtly convinced every troubled
thought, dancing carelessly on top of my hair.
I could have been trying to force fit a puzzle piece, but it
only cuts me into pieces, realizing it was all a jigsaw.
And to nobody’s own prediction, “a shoot your shot
moment,” could prove to be so lethal.

Three stanzas; a standard for a quick understanding;
Accepting what’s current; a love of passion quickly
turning out so passive— a casual happening.
A cold turn, in the direction of a quicken head,
turning to have a glimpse of you as much.
But for this time, after having the taste of another broken
heart, I’ll put a stop to that broken stopwatch.

Throughout the vast expanse of time, the answers to
life's mysteries are scattered within the arras of our personal histories.
Life itself resembles a game of chance, as we navigate through
the unknown, hoping to discover love and understanding along the way.

Among the myriad of factors that shape our lives,
religion stands as an incredibly powerful force.
It is the belief we invest in it that grants it such profound influence.
Religion has the capacity to guide and inspire us, but it can also,
at times, create divisions among us.

Death, — the inevitable end that awaits us all,
is a language that resonates with every soul. It serves as the great equalizer,
reminding us of our mortality and the fleeting nature of our existence.
In the face of death, all other differences seem trivial and insignificant.

Betrayal—, a painful reality that knows no boundaries,
can come from those closest to us - whether it be family or friends.
Strangely enough, it is often easier to forgive a stranger,
someone we may never encounter again. Perhaps it is because
the absence of familiarity makes it easier to let go of the hurt.

The selfish among us often cling tightly to their possessions,
unwilling to share their blessings with others. Ironically, it is often
those who claim to be religious who are the greatest deceivers.
They may recite the teachings, but their actions speak louder than
their words, revealing their true nature.

In this flawed world, where lies and deceit can burden
our conscience, it may seem challenging to find love and acceptance.
Yet, despite our imperfections, we strive to love one another
to the best of our abilities. And amidst it all, we find solace in
the embrace of our Lord, who offers us unconditional love and acceptance.

Oh, dear poet of old, as I ponder on our shared past,
The irony of time's turn, a role reversal unsurpassed.
Once, you stood as the elder, wise and experienced,
Now, I find myself in your shoes, the one more advanced.

Nostalgia floods my being, memories resurfacing anew,
Like the innocent words we penned, when youth first drew.
Together we crafted a poem, a tale of popcorn's delight,
At the tender age of ten, our creativity took flight.

How funny it is, when memories unexpectedly arise,
Recalling mischievous days, crafting love's sweet guise.
Love letters for our peers, seeking help to express,
Feelings for their school crushes, a secret we'd address.

Those were the days of sharing lunches and causing a stir,
Chaos on the school buses, moments that now seem a blur.
This retrospective piece, a tribute to your resilience,
Facing challenges hidden, from prying adult's brilliance.

I remember your struggles, grappling with life's profound,
Questions of death and despair, a tightrope you walked around.
Contemplating drastic measures, to end your inner pain,
Yet, you persevered, your strength not in vain.

Your self-doubt and longing, they resonate within me,
The search for belonging, a struggle to truly be free.
But fear not, dear poet, for growth has come our way,
In finding our place, confidence blossoms each passing day.

Oh, how I lament the time we abandoned our pens,
Resorting to spoken words, a silence that never mends.
But after five long years, we reunited with our true art,
And the joy it brings, the growth, a masterpiece's start.

If only I could assure you, every word you write will be seen,
Celebrated and acknowledged, by eyes that have never been.
But alas, the reality is oftentimes unseen,
Yet, hold on to old dreams, for progress lies in between.

The journey may seem daunting, the finish line afar,
But take that brave step, and let your light become a star.
For in the depths of your soul, the fire of passion burns,
And with each word you write, a new chapter, the world learns.

Commitment and trust, a safety pin so small,
In the tapestry of bonds, they stand tall.
They shield and support, like a gentle embrace,
But one misstep, and the balance we chase.

Delicate threads woven, emotions entwined,
Unintended consequences, where hearts find,
A wounded soul, left in the aftermath,
When commitment falters, trust takes a path.

So cherish these elements, precious and rare,
Handle with care, for they're beyond compare.
For in the fabric of relationships, they reside,
A safety pin's power, when love is our guide.

Sometimes I feel like a star \\
Each time I'm falling in love
Crashed out on the girls' mother earth;
Wishing them a comment as I was just
A comet, passing by in their world.

Saying bye to being another guy, in their
imperfect world— pretending to be perfect
/// Just to make their world perfect,
seeming out of this world; now I'm constantly
forced out of their space.

The rustic wood exudes an oak essence,
imparting feelings reminiscent of timber
running through the depths of
a contemplative mind.

The morning wood embodies a
hardness akin to the tenacity of roots
growing defiantly out of solid mountain
rock—a force to be reckoned with.
She savors a taste that mingles with a sense
of triumph, a bittersweet victory vividly
displayed through a masked countenance.

Her prowess is demonstrated by
splitting rocks effortlessly with
the razor-sharp edges of her teeth,
wielding a tongue that doubles as a
deft weapon, teasing and tasting with
calculated precision. Each fiber of the pink
flower's stem is thoroughly imbued with flavor,
with a cascade of nectar streaming down
his throat, carrying forth every inspired
thought on a voyage of fervent creativity.

Reflecting on the past reveals remnants
of everything that has been left behind,
a realm where he fearlessly surmounts
challenges from behind the scenes.

Amidst disciplined actions, he occasionally
employs stern measures, firm and
unwavering. In his possession is a
substantial jumbo jet, soaring high into
the skies, causing her eyes to involuntarily
roll back in sheer awe, a testament to the
impressive magnitude of his influence.

Kissing under the gaze of the twinkling stars,
with the moon softly illuminating our embrace,
a tender melody whispered through the night air,
its notes a gentle serenade to our budding love
—reminiscent of innocent children joyfully
chanting a prayer.

In that timeless moment,
as we became lost in each other's presence,
I found myself wishing fervently for this
enchanting connection to linger for eternity,
to be relived over and over. Nostalgia filled
my heart as I envisioned our souls intertwined
in a dance of everlasting affection, painting
our future with hues of passion and devotion.

Yet, the quiet whisper of reality began
to seep through the soft night,
reminding me that all enchantments must
eventually yield to the break of dawn.

With a wistful sigh and a sense of acceptance,
I held onto this fleeting interlude of happiness,
drawing strength from the memory of
celestial magic that had woven us together in
a cocoon of love and longing.

And so, as the first light of morning peeked
over the horizon, signaling the end of us, and
timeless embrace, I embraced the bittersweet
beauty of impermanence, cherishing the
ephemeral bliss before the rising sun
dissipated our shared moment in the
gentle embrace of the day.

I wish a dream was easy to buy into
like a cancer stick;— dying for a piece.
Inhaling vapors, and blowing off
smoke in a puff of dreams.

Life is like a cigarette; an addiction
to living with feelings of regret.
Time is all ashes, slowly deducting
your frame till death,
And love consumes the lungs;
too much of the wrong kind,—becomes toxic.
To advertise the biggest buyers of such dreams
for a rich life like a **** cigarette;
To be honest with the kind of addiction,
being rich appears costly.

But I guess if I'm an old truck blowing
smoke, it just means I'm exhausted.
Addicted to the cigarette life,
whether tip toeing, or running towards death,
either side, do play it cautious.
Cos whatever end you smoke the cigarette,
all roads lead to death.

Before all of this happened, or at least for
someone who can journey through time,
the way you present yourself as a kind
and deserving individual makes it feel
as though going back to meet you once more;
is a privilege that can be repeated endlessly.

Your demeanor and character seem to
transcend time itself, evoking a sense of
admiration and respect that beckons for
more encounters in the past, present, and future.

Each interaction with you feels like stepping into
a realm where the best aspects of humanity converge,
where sincerity and kindness are not only valued
but celebrated. It's as if your essence brings a sense
of comfort and familiarity that transcends the
boundaries of time and space, creating an aura
of positivity and warmth that one can't help
but be drawn towards.

So, in this realm where moments intertwine
with meaning and significance, meeting you
repeatedly feels like a continuation of a
beautiful journey that has no end in sight.

Start a line of thought, like a youngster
who had the chief insensitive;
Now I select my words wisely, with
silence—as no evil will be a cause of a weapon.
And of course, I start every prayer, by
coming with a confession.

As I’ve learnt the sharpest
dagger, is a jealous eye,
Worshiping all the things it lacks;
recalling those who refer to your
character only by its past—the ones to
stab you in the back.

Building up my anger,
      brick by brick.
Laying a wicked heart upon
the cement of hurt I feel;
And if I were a street— everyone would
now be correct to walk all over me,
      brick by brick.

A bridge, to gap two parties as the
middle ground to all their arguments
—an abandoned apartment, filled with
all the tenants, of memories well lived,
      brick by brick.

A madhouse, for all of the creativity;
to out there for the world to even understand
So brick by brick, they lay
Day by day, I try not to build a
wall around my constructed smile,
      brick by brick.

I could intensely sense the metallic tang
of blood coursing through her weary eyes,
painting a vivid red picture of agony and despair.
It was as if the very essence of life had transformed
into a distasteful reminder of mortality,
akin to the off-putting sensation of morning breath.

The realization that death could manifest itself
within one's very being caused a shiver to travel
down my spine. The odorous assault of decay
lingered in the air, assaulting the senses with
each blink of an eye, echoing the macabre scene
painted by the stained marble floors,
a canvas of violence and loss.

There are moments when I yearn to hold onto
you as a means of seeking stability in the chaos
that surrounds us. Love, often described as a blind journey,
leads me to close my eyes at times, attempting
to shield myself from the harsh truth that love
can sometimes obscure reality.

And it’s in this miserable, and
disastrous handy advice,
All that is left; for those who aren’t
as adroit; as fishermen in the game
of love, to find their catch
— a master baiter.

Ends up being what they’ll
believe is the right choice to make
then after, to instead be
— a masturbator.

And so, it seems like an additional day
you’re back counting on misfortunes,
As when they named you spoiled,
that always made you feel so less important,
A foreigner everywhere in gatherings;
as your spoken words, feel imported,
You’ve felt like fallen wine, as all your
maturity blemished the floors—
A child grounded, by your countless flaws.

Dreadfully ascending out of your many
troubles, but you slip up on life’s stairs,
As all of those hypothetical elevating eyes;
sometimes bring you down, with people’s
awkward stares.

You’ve done your best, while
pretending like you never tire,
But sometimes you lose the grip to
that drive, like a worn-down tyre,
Still, you have to wear a heroic smile
as a part of your attire;
—and between having a part of will to
do any well, the world spins the notion
of it not being so, like a tyre.

You’re covering up a wave of hidden
emotions, in a couple ***** durags,
Articulating them, always feels too late,
—a poor clothing of words; in these due rags.

In truth, you feel like words
that sound the same, but with
two different meanings,
Your life is just this relentless,
finding out one remarkable meaning,
As your purpose is what you’ll look out
yourself...no I mean, In.

Who am I,
But the meaningless purpose, set out
To echoes of their tears— dancing their fires
upon each tongue. Am I wrong wanting not,
to be as equal to parentages?

What does it mean to be free; to be not
Set to be, or set free in a world, only not to be
Anything it recognizes— for the freer person in
this world, are only but the dead. So must I,
sacrifice my life, to then feel alive?

My time each day, is all amalgamation of
Escapeless breath. Oh, isn’t it such a waste to
Be young; for the subtle interest of being ill trained
By the perception of the Owed?

For our youth is truly a debt to those
who train us to be better—
But it’s a lesson not meant to be free,
for when you meet their age, you like them,
feel something is owed.

“Oh, where is the time, I had invested in you,
The wisdom and guidance my
hand laid upon your head?
For from the full of my flesh, I raised you up,
From being a fool. I had decided your
purpose from what I had seen fit,”

Enough then said; to ask of you again,
who am I, who am I then?

If I cry out to a gaze of boisterous
watchers, as every star falling out of the
sky, —I’d too, feel so out of place. I would
appear, a feast to Time, by just a second’s graze.

Truly startled at how short a life is;
even by the Greener pastures we so
meaninglessly hunt after; do know
full well, all the grass that grows so
promising; will all eventually be grazed.

And perhaps the purple envy I had
for the freedom’s worth knitted into
the sky, would all at last turn so grey,

And so, I would cry a river’s mountain,
upon knowing how much time I spent,
chasing after meaningless things in all my days.

For the cares of the world offers
only a moment’s praise,

Till I’m of course consumed, with finding
the reasoning to clarify such a craze—
I’d have no answer to my Creator’s name;
and I’d be so ashamed.

His voice,
voyages through the darkness of every
cornered shadow, chasing after the reins
of ultimately being consumed,— annihilated.

As if being pressed to the heart
of an angel; as the tears of stars are
dancing in the drape of faultless dark,
Sweltering bright, — as a flame impaled
his gaze, with the loudest of needles.

Every breath grew harder, and harder,
as if the same needles were jabbing around
in his stomach— they must have been nerves;
the butterflies he had felt, declaring his
hidden affections to a crush.

The same crushing feeling you
have for a crush, that you hope
won’t crush you with their refusal,
But rather crush you with
the crushing idea:
         of falling in love.

Oh, those sixteen seconds; —
schoolings we learnt, stories on the
sixteen streets, where a few flowers
  Would be daring enough to grow.

YOU!
Bystander to the narrative of six teens,
learning about life, through every twist
and curve. Take part in such an account,
for you too, to be flourished in what
  Truths we learned.

I was sixteen; though that made
you feel like eighty-four in a concrete
jungle, where you heard stories of
its corruption, as it scarily roars.

The novel days, but with a broken
system of old. From feeling broke;
covering holes with holes,

— You could only tap into success by
the connections of who you know, and
they know; prior sixteen years. Henceforth
  Why we all sensed being so old.

Or was it, "owed"
—dang, what youth could know?
But to be honest though, the feeling of it,
was so cold: a degree less than sixteen, for
  Any flower to be frightened to grow.

As if the promise of an improved
tomorrow would never really show,
To say—"you head in your own way
and I'll be a head, ahead of you; thinking
up sixteen likely ways of where to go,
  And how to go.

I was told a story by so and so,
who knew so and so, —that said,
So and so, about so and so, that a man
claimed this was the right time to sow.

He threw out his seeds; some that hit the
emotionless ground as cold sixteen stones.
Others were pierced by the cold’s thorns.

He spoke a lot of brave words and
eccentric quotes, that held with them
great wisdom and growth.

Some hard to swallow, some fell on
deaf ears, the rest gnawed by birds.
These teachings didn’t speak of being
owed, as we were told; but were
secrets he seemed to own,
  That shone out of his soul.

I was sixteen, a nervous teen,
who gave this story sixteen seconds.
We were careless and obviously reckless
—a wonder of which gods ever forgave us.

Feeling cold as snow, in a place where,
it gets colder as the rain pours.
The man gave us sixteen of the most
profound words:


“Sixteen seconds of the Word,
your spirit grows, — sixteen
seconds of rain, and life will show.”

I was termed a flower in that story,
given sixteen words of advice
from a stranger I didn't really know.
And it was by age sixteen, the bud
  Had started to grow.

I guess flowers are
the boldest of us all.
—on where, and through which
situation they choose to grow.

She's XY beautiful,
but she'll be my ex,why?
Cos not all love is so beautiful."

"Her kisses were like ivy,
and our love sickness put me on an IV"

So said the lonely man who spoke,
"love used to lay besides me, now it
only wants everyone else, besides me"

Who am I, but a vessel of past despair,
    With a tangled knot in my mind, aware,
    "Break free from the chains of depression's snare,
     Confess your truth, find solace in the air."
     But does this advice still hold its worth,
     When wielded as a weapon, causing hurt?

"The words from a pen, a mind's indulgence,
     A gateway to thoughts, seeking resurgence,
     Escaping the prison, a soul's penitentiary,"
     Said the one who loved fiercely, with intensity.
     Yet the voice of the voiceless, it seems,
     Falls on deaf ears, lost in a realm of dreams.

Misunderstood, they heard me wrong,
     "I wished to shed my identity, be strong,
      Not brave enough to change my hair's hue,
      Like my smiles, I alter, but never anew.
      Wearing a frown, they won't take me seriously,
      Even when I express my pain so clearly.

In moments of boredom, my words flow,
     But relationships have taught me to go,
     Through a board of scrutiny, every decision,
     As if love owed me, demanding precision.
     But this time, I'll confront it head-on,
     No wooden board, just justice to be won.

Success, a pinnacle that feels unwise,
     A light-bulb to illuminate my eyes,
     To see my reflection in a brighter light,
     But as pockets fill, judgment takes flight.
     Counting the screams at empty walls,
     Filling the void that my soul enthrals.
     No cries of woe echo louder than before,
     Two Forty-Four, the hour I silently implore.

I was raised in my father’s ill-timed
           old ways: as a man saying how he feels,
           was like ash in his ashtray. And I had
           smoked up a few reasons of not finding
           certainty; but instead finding answers in
           all addictions as a troubled youth.

I remember looking for a quick fix,
          like a constant broken clock—
         without a lot of time.
         As it felt better not to admit to why I
         was crying secretly at night, and instead
         going around faking all of my smiles.


As I never once felt like I could fit an
        ounce of myself in my family, and
        sometimes the thought of being a
        mistake would be a thought I’d accept
        so gladly.
“I’ve been a fool, I’ve been a ******,
           I’ve been an idiot, I’ve been a coward,
           and I’ve been less than a good friend,
           Feeling less of myself most times, in
           saying I don’t amount to anything”—
           were all of the things plaguing my head.

I’ve been so sick of love,
          pretending to have known it as much
          And to my luck, I’ve been unlucky enough
          to know the way I lived felt like a vortex,
         cos it always ******.

Sprung out on how I forced my appearance,
        sitting on bottled emotions, ignoring
        how I’m really feeling— all thought
        to show a man in their great zealous.
        Such a lie it was; and a door to the
        knowledge of depression, that I tried to
        hide so well, with years of experience.

Cause I was taught,
          “real men don’t show their feelings”
           Still what are these feelings, I’m feeling?

Feeling sad, depressed, a mess,
          who can’t confess that sometimes
          he's a mess and not always at his best.
          Still, self-perfection isn’t what the
          whole world expects. And unless this
          boy chooses not to digress from tackling
          the feelings that have him compressed; that
          boy will only be a boy who still sits in their
          mother’s nest.

Cos no bird will truly soar where it rests—
          so would I; never be a man in this crazy
          world, by just covering up all of my sores
          in my heart with a bulletproof vest. I
          already swallowed up those bullets; choking
          up on all of the words of, not saying
          what’s beating at my chest.

Today, today marks the day,
          I threw out that **** ashtray.
         Cos the ash in that tray, made me feel
         like, the *** of the day. And I refuse to
        do the donkey-work, of pretending that
         I’m always okay.

        No, I'm not okay, because I’ve spent
        my life being burnt by the scorching
        ash, in that old ashtray.

                          It’s time for healing.

Bang! I surely heard the graze of conflicting thoughts;
setting a battleground across their minds.
Every word was in a blaring tone, as every
negative word the world spoke of it; was its
quick and merciless first fire.

Bang! Shooting down the innocence of
young, innocence that was held an infant—
still it hadn’t stopped man from killing them
in an instant. A snap of  a camera, of every violent
act played on the news, following every instance.

BANG! The gun grew louder to the crime that was
deemed by fighting for resistance. And how so will we
ever find peace in a world, if all our actions leave it
in so many broken pieces?

You witnessed the envy in your own eyes
as you gazed upon those priceless evergreens,
their lush greenery a sight to behold.
You couldn't help but yearn for their beauty,
a jealous lip bite betraying your desire to have
such splendor tucked and packed
like treasures in a boxer short.

As your legs tremble with resolve,
drenched in the intensity of the moment,
You bravely shoulder the weight of all
those taunts and challenges hurled like sharp
horns towards your chest.
Just like a bullhorn painfully piercing through
excited flesh, the sensation resonates within you,
stirring a tumult of conflicting emotions.

Your eyes, wide and searching, dart towards
the fleeting images playing out in your mind,
where the memory of being placed ever so delicately
on the bed surfaces.

Initially, his touch held a sense of
innocence reminiscent of cradling an infant,
but that purity is swiftly overtaken by a primal,
almost sinister desire that extinguishes it in a single,
searing breath.

His primal groans start chasing at your ears,
resonating with a deep and primal intensity that
seems to echo through the confines of your room,
reverberating against the walls and
enveloping you in a raw, untamed energy.

The tight moans of his fleshly presence fill the air,
creating a palpable tension that seems to draw
you closer to him, as if his very essence is intertwined
with yours in that moment.

His inviting eyes, like hot fires, burn with a
fierce intensity that seems to sear into your very soul,
their gaze captivating every inch of
your skin with a magnetic pull.

So beautiful were his eyes, reflecting a love that
enveloped you in a warm embrace, his affectionate
gaze mirroring the depth of his feelings for you.

Oh, how long you had waited for this moment,
your heart swelling with a mix of anticipation and
desire as you finally found yourself in his loving embrace.

Soft kisses, reminiscent of gentle touches on the skin,
Enveloped the senses with warmth.
Every steaming breath embraced the moment,
Saturating the air with indulgence.

Each sip from the largest mug etched a soft memory,
Like a painting on the canvas of the mind,
Capturing the essence of Sundays filled with
The comforting ritual of hot chocolate.

Glorious failure; as I write this letter to my youth,
With always a fair share of bad news.
For try as you may,—
you still have a lot of yourself to prove.
Blaming yourself over all those who failed you,
at most— the ones who made it seem like you had
nothing better to do.

God, I know all of my sin; still for what’s left of a saint,
Would you by any chance let me in?
Spare a portion of change, to spend on the worth
of a name—as if I were feeding myself away
From any of indifference; by firstly starting
every prayer with grace.


Even when there’s a stone stuck in my throat;
Skipping over the waters of my soul.
I’m a cryptic message always, as whatever advice
you try to find in a cryptic poem.

Roaring, as an empty lion who lost his voice—
I’m instead rowing in an ocean of tears,
in place of not conquering my many fears.

And this is the part I’m supposed to
say something positive, as the charge of the
battery that powers my thoughts—
Though I’m not a leader of all of my words,
I do quote myself, to often misjudge my own worth
And not to find the right words to say;
to then break my jaw¬—and be as broken
as an empty wallet could ever relay.

Loved as an animal; for a dog faithful to a hand,
serves its barking remarks to be chasing its own tail
To one day come around, hoping to find change
still change comes with what I’m willing to spend,
And sacrifice; as the very old ways I held so much,
at hand.

My dearest younger self, there’s so much I wish
I could show you earlier on, that you need to let go of,
Especially the things you’ve kept hold of
In hopes of protecting it in an old glove.

Let go of the idea: that you’ll make everyone
so proud, the idea that every smile you see,
pictures what they hoped for
As even those you love, soon disappear in the crowd;
and the idea of trying to fit in, isn’t as easy
As trying to be everyone’s puzzle piece
For being yourself  is the better fit, but the biggest risk
But I guarantee you will gain your biggest fill.

         All I’m writing is, for both of our sakes
                                        —stick to being Real!

You ever met the idea of beautiful & tragic;
when she calls you handsome but your pride to her seems so average.

You dated her black, but she seemed more like a blonde; she still believes there’s magic in love—she called your long ward a wand.
And that’s why she fell in love.

                                                               ­                 It’s tragic!

You ever met the idea of beautiful & tragic; she said she made a pass on all the other guys, but calls your attitude out, for being so passive.

Some words feel so raw, before it harms. She wants it served raw, and for you to pound her guts, like pounding alarms.
She says your character is ugly, but she still loves your charms.

                                                        ­                         It’s tragic!

You ever met the idea of beautiful & tragic; you try to dress all of your words to sound so lovely, but it all seems so old fashioned.

You ask yourself, “what’s wrong with love,” even when it’s not found. She doesn’t spin enough times in your head, so you give her another round. You’re both now filled with pride, but only one of you
is feeling so proud.

                                   She was Beautiful, & you were Tragic.

I wouldn’t find a reason to smoke again.

Even though she always wants a piece of my heart, that’s like a piece of my lungs for a piece of a smoke—while trying to get comfortable around me, searching for some peace just to smoke.

And even as I gave her a piece of my soul, that came with a few shatters of love from my broken heart, — I could neither find a reason as to why I still love her, while trying to piece together a reason at all.

Still as it cracks me up, with a broken smile each time we lie; to each; and together—baby I must have the crack you’ve been itching for.

Let me ignore all of the sounds that you’re no good to me, and share resources for our love as a drought filled community. Especially when our love feels so dry, that my eyes burn with sands trying to cry for my own sanity. You cursed my heart, and before then I promised I wouldn’t let that happen again—I swore.

                       I swore for all, searching for some peace
                       just to smoke— I wouldn’t find a reason
                                               to smoke again.

                               Guess it was just a smoke break!

Love, a complex and ever-evolving force,
can be likened to the shedding of skin
with each passing season, rejuvenating the
spirits of the old to make room for the embrace
of new beginnings.

The ebb and flow of
relationships echo this continual metamorphosis,
as some individuals offer solace through
gentle caresses that blend seamlessly like a
poetic kiss, while others wield their words
with a sharper edge, concealing deceit beneath
the guise of intimacy.

Just as the gentle whisper
of a kiss may be heard, so too can the sinister hiss
of untruths slither beneath the surface,
reminiscent of a serpent's deceitful ways.

Stuck in between being
broke & broken,
While finding
hope, & looking so hopeless
In between being
loved & trying to love
In between
falling in love & falling apart
While constantly
questioning myself & questioning God
In a game of
weighing the odds & feeling so odd.
      
      But whether which side I’m on,
                 in the end I feel so stuck.

I've been traveling for so long,
Swimming in the depths of the Ocean's sun
And I could kiss a thousand girls, but I could only love one
My lady,— has that bush fire, that makes it seem like
Her water's could be split apart with a Moses tongue.

She's got the snap of a buckle, just to support her Levi jeans
And I must have bitten the apple bottom a couple of times,
That she paid the full levy in her family genes.
Her kisses are like the blocks of ice in sweet lemonade,
And she may butler your thoughts, but trust me she's a self-made.

She's a dime on the quarter mile of my mind,
Running on it, with that chasing perfect smile
That makes you wish a moment could stay awhile,
So when I think of her, I can't help but have a stupid smile.

In every quaking breath, as my heart trembles beneath
the weight of exhaustion evident in my weary eyes,
I found myself standing witness to the relentless winds
of pride, which fiercely clawed into the depths of my gaze.

Anticipating a vision so foreign, so unseen in my own
reflection, my breath, clinging by a thread, delicately
sampled a fleeting moment of time.
I tasted the bitterness of arrogance and promptly spat
it out with profound realization, akin to the futile act
of chewing on ginger in hopes of it turning sweet.

It is no surprise then, that for many individuals, the act
of swallowing one's pride becomes a formidable ordeal,
an immense challenge that tests the very core of their being.

Subtle comforts,
nonchalant cuddles under
the covers of your pretty eyes.

Undercover kisses, as like
every star coming out at night.

All soon to become a bright tomorrow;
oh my darling,- I want to show you off
to the entire world in such a glorious light.

please excuse me,
i have this
bad habit
of falling
in love;
as quickly as the'
traffic you see
-my heart in a rush
living under that
rock; you're my
favourite crush
when you strut you stuff
darling, i can't get enough
please excuse me,
i must have fallen hard, when
i fell in love- with you.

Feeling imperfect, I am constantly striving to perfect the
way I look into your captivating eyes. It's like skipping
rocks on the symphony of tears that sometimes grace your eyes,
patiently waiting for the melody of your beauty to
reverberate back in the echoes of your love.
Your essence envelopes me like a sanctuary of celestial beings
each time our lips meet in a kiss. The moment you lashed out at
me with a bat aimed at my knees, I found myself unable to bat an
eye, at the sudden weakness that overcame them.

Our love story isn't the picture-perfect fairy tale, but nevertheless,
let's endeavor to make it extraordinary. Whenever weariness
overtakes you, I will be the place where you can seek solace and
reprieve. Even in the wetness of our shared kisses, there is
a power that could extinguish flames, yet not the passionate fire
that blazes fervently in the silent yearnings of our intertwined hearts.
And when we do dare to verbalize these desires, our words
take on the cryptic language of love, whispered in the secret
lexicon of our shared passion. Embracing each other, the space
between us is transformed into a warm cocoon of affection.

Struggling to contain myself, clutching onto the tautness of
my pants, these garments serve as a vessel to bring vitality to
the depths of your being. With every fiber of my being,
I seek to erase any remnants of you from all fabrics, so that I
may intimately discover you within the confines of your very pores.

Sing to me that serenade of love, a melody tailored for our
intertwined souls. Even if the lyrics slip from my memory,
the everlasting chorus echoes loud and clear, proclaiming,
"My darling, I am profoundly in love with you."

I can barely think,
feeling so nervous to be in love,
I can hardly blink,
don't want to lose sight of you my love
Sometimes I'm at the brink,
of trying to jump off the edge for love.
My feelings tend to sink,
so close to drowning in your love.
I might pour another drink,
of your wine lips- just another kiss my love.

Still can't help myself falling in love.

In the majestic skies painted with shades of fiery red,
an awe-inspiring spectacle unfolded before our eyes.

Two magnificent figures emerged - a powerful bull
and a skilled matador, engaging in a mesmerizing
duel that played out against the backdrop
of the vast heavens.