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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!
11h · 19
Glassless Mirror
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.
7d · 13
Chandelier Tears
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.
Jun 26 · 11
Tender Force
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.
Jun 25 · 4
Silent, Not Silenced
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.
Jun 24 · 14
Feet on My Feat
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.
Jun 24 · 16
Cracked Open, Quietly
Reflective tears— but none fall.
Glass-stained eyes, holding back
a flood that forgot how to break.
The walls pit inward— tightening
like regret, closing in like the hole
in my heart.

Hurt me again— my mind almost
begs for it; not for the pain—but
for the proof I still feel.
Cracked knuckles answer what
cracked thoughts can't say.
A fractured mental frame
held together by restraint.

I want to cry, but as I reach for the
memory of it, the tears don’t come—
Just the hollow ache of forgetting
how to let go in that way.
It be like that some days...
Pictures of my present— but none of them smile back.
Just me, talking to the man in the mirror,
    his eyes tired,
          his silence loud.

He stands in the frame, wrapped in skins made of fear—
To stand tall beneath the titles they gave him;
layered, worn,
  worn down.


To call it strength when you pretend to be more than you are.
But no one asks what it costs to keep holding up the
image they’ve
        painted of you.

I want to stop performing, but giving up feels like giving in
to everything they already believe about me, there's never an
account for the fallen man—
        only fingers pointed,
  as they count him out like a statistic.


I think about a demise so often it no longer shocks me.
It just waits—patiently— like something I’ve already
   shaken hands with,
    gripped by time pressing on me.

Sometimes I feel like I’m boiling alive, my chest
cracking open with a salty crunch, like a crab
   in a sealed ***—
    no escape, just steam and pressure.


A slow, bitter truth: no one’s turning the heat down.
And all I can say is—
   “Crap.”
     Not funny. Not light.
Just the word that stumbles out when your soul folds
in on itself and even pain doesn’t know
how to explain itself anymore.
A pistol tucked inside my heart
memories of old dreams echo like bullet
wounds. Freedom comes, quietly, when
I finally let myself be known to myself.

Lips are like public transport;
they carry heavy loads:
sometimes love, sometimes doubt.

But the private lifts? Those are the words
we whisper to ourselves when we’re trying
to lift ourselves up, above our own doubts.

What loads are you carrying? Will your
transport make...or break someone?

Because belief in your own worth is such
a heavy load. And no— it’s not something
you should carry alone.

The weight of any load feels lighter when
the ones you love—and who love you back—
don’t just stand beside you; they help you
carry what you were never meant to bear alone.
Jun 22 · 22
Becoming All Along
I’m in a drought for time— yet flooded with ideas.
as the sun rises with the dust, and by dusk, all hope
feels spent, or quietly scattered.

I know destiny calls— even without a map, signal
or a location marked. "Yeah, I don’t know what
I’m doing," I often confess, in quotation marks—
still walking toward the shape of who I’m meant
to become.

Pushing through bruises and bitter slights—real joy
flickers, but most smiles still feel perfectly rehearsed.
To stay above the arrows, but never ahead of myself—
sharp enough, still, to pierce through the soft fabric
of my many, many daily doubts. And I’m learning:
sometimes the cage has no door— but only the illusion
of one, built from fear.

There’s always a world just outside of it— waiting.
We’re all just finding ourselves day by day.
And life? It’s one day after another— until, finally,
you recognize the person you've been becoming
all along.
Jun 22 · 49
Stand Out Aloud
Don’t close your eyes on your dreams—
you’ll lose sight of what you believe.
The will of your work is measured by
the work you’re willing to put in.
As I live in a house of emotions,
courting words to plead my case—
bleeding through a see-through face.
A quiet ache, always on trial.

Knowing that the high-and-mighty
Christian is the easiest target to bring down.
Careers cut short— because in short, they
never really knew the Lord.

And me?

I live like the world’s greatest plot twist,
my mind a tornado of thoughts—
every turn unexpected,
every breeze loud with questions.
I’ve known the chill of a cold finger turned
trigger. And felt the weight of a sharp tongue
used as a silencer. As it’s easy to shoot yourself
down the same way you shoot others—whether
whispered or screamed out loud.

But those who follow their worth,
instead of searching for it in the crowd—
those are the ones who stand out.
Aloud.
Jun 21 · 62
We are We
In a brief squeeze, my chest wheezed
there goes my heart, falling out of itself,
into another rhyme, into another line.
Queue me up for feeling less than myself,
lost in being so lost.

Letting go of old grievances just to make
room for new ones today.
“I’m not okay”—
but I won’t say it, because you MAYBE
won’t think of me the same.

Sometimes I’m determined, other times,
indulgent. I look like I’ve got it together,
but beneath the surface,
I’m exhausted
completely out of order.
Struggling. Sweating.
But short on words to explain what’s wrong.

I’d be seen as too much for speaking my
pain aloud— but pain is always louder
when it’s silent.

So I speak now for those who are just like
I am.
We are We:
navigating identity crises in these
stretched-out teen years of our twenties.
We are plenty— and still enough to
surround each other in love that counts,
instead of letting life count us down
or count us out. We will rise. Together.
Jun 21 · 2
Tired of Remembering
Missing names in my letterbox— but mostly yours.
And I have no right to claim it, no reason to expect
your name to arrive again.

I try to write it out— all that it was between us.
A love so bizarre, so hard to define, yet somehow…
energizing. But I want to cut the ties my eyes have
to their tiredness— but I’m still oddly entangled
in the thought of falling asleep to the memory of you.

Tired! Tired!

But no rest compares to you, or the rest I see.
And maybe—
just maybe— the measure I hold love to now
is too tight, too closed, to give anything new
even a chance.
To each stroke of luck—these strokes run wild,
painted with ambition. Life is a wondrous garden:
to some, every bloom is beautiful, to others, the
loveliest things are guarded by thorns.

What looks like harmony can be smeared on
an ugly wall. The signature of familiar pain—
it’s often signed as a lover.

Two met by eyes, blush.
Two lips in love, brush.
Two weights of emotion, crush.
And the quickest reason to fall? A rush.

And long indulged is the ego— eager to rise
above itself, but low on accepting its flaws.
We are a world painted in delicate watercolours,
slowly dripping away from this life, until we no
longer remain as unique colours to paint this world.

Still—they will remember our impression, through
the force of our expression. And when we’re gone,
on the great canvas in the sky, we shall hang up
there instead.
Jun 20 · 45
The Hunt and the Hand
My hands grow tired
  trying to hold onto sleep—
gripping fragments of tension
  while my thoughts drift too deep
to be attentive, to pay attention
  to what the world calls worthy.

I swim in the farthest corners
  of thought—beyond my depths—
yet I never run out of breath.
There’s freedom in this dive,
  in expressing all I feel.
This pen is the extension
  of my soul’s most honest reach.

Above a mantelpiece,
  I search for a worth I could call
my dear—starstruck like a deer
  beneath hunting lights.
And though *******, the trophy
hunter loves the chase
  more than the prize.
That, too, is a kind of art.

By genuine reflection,
  I still call myself an artist—
one still learning the form,
still finding the lines
  between vision and mastery.
The lessons are never done.

What I hold in my hand
  feels like something from a
Divine hand— a gift placed gently
  by a hand not my own.

Art is adamant progress:
unyielding, sacred, slow—
  but still,
  I move.
Jun 20 · 23
Premium Type
A thought worth believing in: that all of creation is alike — made
of the same breath and dust — though many still pretend we are
not the same. I see it in the quiet places, the soft golden glow people
follow like it’s salvation. My eyes, like old cracks in a hallway, have
watched footsteps ascend toward that light — sometimes blindly,
sometimes beautifully. I  remember goosebumps rising when I once
felt the shape of love not through words, but through Braille
fingertips — a language of touch, not talk.

Life is a beautiful kind of horror — man’s power to create always
shadowed by his capacity to destroy. And too often, women —
aching to be seen — to throw themselves into nets that were never
meant for them. But the fish that swims willingly into the trap is the
one that’s easiest to catch… and just as easily discarded. Know
your worth!
Don’t offer yourself as convenience. The one worth
having you, will search for you. He will wait. He will chase, not out
of ego, but because your absence will echo louder than any sea full
of options.


The kind of man who feels your loss as a hollow space is not the
one who tells you, “there’s plenty of fish in the sea.” He’s the one
who dives into THAT sea, because it’s you he’s trying to find.

But these days, wild tenacity has turned inward. People want love
just to say they have it — to wear it like a badge, a filter, an accessory.
They want the treat of love, not the truth of it. Just someone to
sweeten their image — arm candy for the soul’s sugar rush. But love
that’s only a treat will melt under heat. It won’t last past the craving.
It won’t survive the unsweet moments.

And beneath love’s gloss, beneath its shining underside, lies
something raw, something more — not always pretty, but worth it.
A love that doesn’t just sparkle on the surface, but endures the
sanding, the softening, the polishing. The kind that shines brighter
after it’s been tested — not replaced at the first crack.

This love isn’t a free trial. It isn’t a game or a placeholder. It is sacred.
It is earned. And it demands your best — not just your best look.
Because not everyone is ready for the Premium type.
Jun 19 · 55
Ghost in Daylight
Cross my tears, lose my eyes—
these feelings fall as sadness starts to rise.
I lose my space to lose my mind; I cross
my hopes and pray they survive the night.
My joy feels too old;  these skins
want to die young—tired, stretched thin
from wearing sorrow too long. I feel like
a blade that’s forgotten how to shine.

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

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

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

I am the despised poet— too hideous
even in my sweet dreams— this is
the  real version of me: unwritten,
unwanted, unmoved.

My soul’s literature is tired—
not of bleeding, but of no one
noticing it still bleeds.

And truth be told... I know the
purest colour of feeling blue.
Jun 19 · 34
💔 Fragile Passion
Your skin is made of glass— cut by a tear
that  rolls down your cheek, splitting the
good and the wicked parts...
You kissed two versions of me... as we all
live switching roles— mirror for mirror,
mouth for mouth.

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

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

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

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

I take you late nights, for some extras
you come like a few sides—and I
measure you with my eyes...
You're such a grand size; I can’t take
it anymore— the closer we get, the
thinner it feels; the glass— it cracks
the further we grow apart.
Jun 18 · 30
Cleopatra’s Current
My clear-skinned Cleopatra—
 you orchestrate pyramid schemes
  just to steal my heart,
and I fall
  willingly
   into your empire of allure.

–––

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

–––

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

–––

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

–––

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

–––

And here I am—
  washed for words,
    mouth half-open,
trying not to drown
   in everything
     you make me feel.
Jun 17 · 69
Vision in the Cold
Ballerina creases – a ballad of broken pieces,
Break me down in parts, where pain still leases.
My past lives on in inches, bruised by time,
Dancing round the reasons, moving out of line.

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

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

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

Chasing myself through a frozen road,
Where passion burns, and a runny nose shows.
They can’t see breath—or the vision you hold,
But seeing it yourself is what helps you go bold.
Jun 17 · 59
Makeup and Meltdown
You’ll regret crying in my hands—
  but only because
  you’ll miss the way they held you.
Your tears slip between my fingers
like quiet reminders
  of how far you’ve run
  from the person you used to be.
And still—
I know you remember your feet
each time they find their way
  back to my door.
    Instinct.
      Muscle memory.
        Need.

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

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

Darling,
we drink so this love doesn’t burn out.
We drink
  instead of breaking up.
And when your mascara smudges
  under my kiss,
when your sighs leave trails
  from your stained makeup,
I taste the salt of your sadness—
hidden beneath powdered cheeks
  and perfectly drawn lips.
We kiss
  beneath mood lighting
    and half-lies.
We are mature enough to drink,
  and broken enough to
    make up
      in every way
      the word
        dares to mean.
Hopeless romantic—I want to cry. Feelings pressed so deep, they die
quiet deaths between sighs. I don’t know what you see in this eye—a
dim-lit portrait, painted in the bruises of love dye. Questions coil
around my spine, but the heaviest one hisses: “Who the **** am
I?”


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                    . . .  

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

               So I  
            paint my  
       foresight with  
   fireflies  and  sunbeams,  
     hoping the dark  
          makes room  
             for the  
            light I  
               keep.
The sky is falling
ashes in slow motion,
  raining smoke laced with doubt.
I’m trying to figure things out – trapped inside
   of my mind, trying to map a way out.
Time wears you down like a borrowed face.
Money races laps around your mind—
  and we’re all so deeply
    invested in the chase.

I think locomotive thoughts—
   every train of thought heavier than the last—
but somehow, I keep losing track of time.
But what is time,
  if not something that’s never mine?
We spend every second like a dime—
  but not every moment
    is worth the time.

I dress up for someone else’s moment,
tailor my soul to suit their life—
wearing joy like it’s rented, hoping the fit feels right.
Every mistake I remember from yesterday
  becomes a brushstroke in the picture I paint today—
a portrait of someone better
  hanging up in my frame of mind.

And maybe, just maybe,
there lies the real way
to fit in.

Moments of love feel almost medical—
but my patience for it is cold, clinical.
I never meant to overdose, just chasing
comfort in a heavy dose of someone new,
to help me cope.

I try to build a house from broken pieces—
too many to count. I am the empty echo
of a heart still full, but far too loud
to be heard.

Echo...
  Echoes

     fall between the silence of our words,
two awkward breaths apart—trying
to keep it innocent, just as friends,
while our primal skins just want to skip
to the part of just having ***.

It’s the risk of falling in love—
that makes us stumble near the edge.
It’s beautiful. It’s ******* stupid.
It hurts. It’s love.
Whether it finds you first, as the one
you need— or shows up last, as the one
you never really wanted.
Sinking tears –

 feelings don’t fall,
  they crash
   like glass hearts
    meeting pavement.

Your chest?
 A sunken place.
  No bra strap to hold it up –
   just white linen,
    innocent for a moment,
      until it slips
       in front of eyes
       like mirrors
        reflecting
         every scar
          painted on your skin.


Sandcastle kisses,
 built soft –
   fragile
     on lips that no longer
       believe in forever.

Yet you speak
 like royalty,
   saying boldly:
    “Love me for what I am –
     not just who you think I’ve been.”

Not a princess.
 Not a saviour.
  A mess.
   A wreck.
    A fallen queen.

Wearing her cracked gold crown
 like a forgotten joke –
   that still makes your heart ache
     when it returns
      in the quiet between memories.



Bones for time
 you pick at every hour
   like it owes you something.
    Tick.
      Tick.

        Snap!

The clock breaks
   where your mind does.

You may live in the day,
   but you breathe
     in the night.

Freer beneath moonlight,
  where shadows stop asking questions –
   and silence
    finally listens.
Let’s build stars like unicorns – dream
of things we could never afford.
Feel the depth of a love swimming in
emotion, a relationship drifting overboard.

When I’m lonely, let me think of you –
like I’ve got nothing to do, or when
I’m just... feeling too bored.

I’ll be your customer, waiting in line –
eager to buy into your love, even when
the shelves are empty, and the price tag
is pain: that keeps me on edge at your
cornerstone.

But like that first verse… this kind
of love darling, never existed at all.
Just stars... Just unicorns... Just hopes...
Just dreams we both couldn’t afford.
autumn tears...
  falling for you
    all over again

we’re just friends
 in the present tense
        making amends
     like cracks filled
          with silence

tears of yesterday
    still
      water my lawn
  i’ve been banking on a love
    that never matured
          just an emotion
            on loan

tell me—
  do you rest your hand
    under your chin
         like I did
             when you’re alone?

sharp edges
    on my mind
           but it feels
             pointless to forget you

to accept you
  is to accept
            not having you at all

the drink of your love
            I could never finish—
              you were
                too tall

too much
  too deep
     too far

you poured yourself
    out for me
  and I drank
    greedy

we kissed
  like language
    like memory

and I felt the shiver
        escape your pores

so why
    can’t I
          escape your love?
Jun 12 · 23
Ashes of Us
What is a love turned into ashes –
Burnt by the flames of forgotten passions
Actions are so passive;
Our stories still left written out
In captions

My feelings for you are still massive,
Despite being inactive –
So when my lips spell out your name,
I start to fall in love, tasting that old
Bittersweet magic

And it’s truly so wicked, tragic
By feeling so fickle now –
But I happily accept all
That happened…
I went looking for someone to blame for all the cracks
in my name, for the mess I made — but that mirror
didn’t tell a lie. The culprit wore my face.
I don’t want your love. I don’t want your shame.
Still, somehow, you found me — tongue bitter with
the taste of your mistakes; pressed against my teeth
like communion for the broken.

Tears rose — blooming smoke, clouds of falling flowers.
A storm of soft destruction, raining petals made of regret —
but it never rained just mine. It rained yours too.

Yet you learn to grow from the things that once cut
you down. Even the sharpest wounds can become
something softer when you let them go.
Edges trimmed; old roots shed — and still, I rise.
So now, when you see me, don’t mistake me for my
damage. I am not the bruise. I am not the blade.
I am far better than the sum of my mistakes.
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