Cut the Music, let the Nights play –
Resting my mind in the tune of Your sweet voice
Cushions and songs; the city lights Purr
Always so Curious about what happens in its
Streets – like a cat at any twitching thing
          
As I searched for the key to all her lost dreams;
Tears in their place, those Girls lost in city streets
The Room was messy, a light bulb barely flickered
In the dark nobody sees your tears, Your forced smiles
Yet, we always know that silhouette touch of a body

Sadly, curiosity seduced Me; loneliness consumed Me
Gentle perfume pulled me inside, to Sweetened eyes
My cold heart was Searching, that it sank in warm music
Under the Canopy shade of covered sheets, vowing never
To leave –

World's appetite for devastation,
leaves it always hungry
Those who feel like nothing,
will be the ones to do something
Behind every shadow, is a long battle,
Climbing our dreams. Don't fall off the ladder.

Wide eye tears; crying all the same
—for the ringing memory bells that call your name;
all of the kisses in French are in Notre Dame, that
had placed a thousand stars in my sight’s eyes.

The blaring drums to the sum of
a sound of love — it was loud, it was rough, disastrous,
distant, and sometimes so longing; but also so caring,
hopeful, understanding, peaceful, building, and close
to my heart in the simplest kind. Vanilla like, still it
was a taste so hard to explain.

For that I am truly grateful, even if it felt brief,
I did get my plateful. So until my next fill of what
I get to feel so familiar: I look forward to falling
in love again.

Delete the Text of my time – the Seconds won’t reply
Money in the Worth of time; is never worth the Money,
If all it does is Slowly eat away Pieces of your Time

No shape, but Maybe it’s shaped like your darling;
But they won't promise you the entire World

                             We live, surrounded by Time
                             Consumed by money & Wealth

The worth of self, has
Now become what
Worth
You hope to buy–

her style is cold figure
kisses that are a heat seeker –
we lock eyes and I’m so eager
     our passion is equal, though I’m

divided

between which parts of her I love the most
"your soul is what holds it all"
in every action she does; smell, taste, sight,
sound or touch –
                   I hear her soul’s call.

A full stop to the end of something worthy of time; -
a spot in the crowd, as a fool stops by feeling unwanted
here and everywhere else; - Less important than everybody
else; who am I if not a man silent most of the time; - sadly,
and greatly; his greatest work never becomes sublime.

Oh, it’s a curse; - that their eyes other face to
meet, but forget so rapidly an honest verse.

Still- he braves another line, despite what feels
like another pointless lie; - Still, he writes!

…as a violin with no strings,
…an endless sleep without beautiful dreams,
…a courageous bird with no wings,
…a mortal passion that never wants to die; -
              Still, he writes!

Is she merely a commodity, – or is she a daring spirit, traversing
the farthest reaches of love? To express to her young – an odyssey!
Often, they would hastily declare that a woman's deeds are common;
but to counter, her core is to weave a painting of sentences adorned
with countless comas.

She…

Is a stormy love, obliterating all that stands against compassion,
wielding a wisdom that is both fierce and gentle, she knows precisely
when to voice her thoughts or to elevate the spirit of a man who may
overlook her brilliance, a celestial body, she requires no stage to
illuminate the world; her radiance persists, unwavering, she is a
lyrical composition, igniting the pages that attempt to confine her
value, she embodies the sweetest of a restless soul, finally finding
solace in her nurturing embrace, she is tranquillity, she is affection,
she is the embodiment of patience, the lessons and warnings of a
discerning gaze – she is… a Woman.

I kissed a night;-
that had promised to keep me warm inside, falling
in love with its ghost- her absence haunts me still.
Steered by the afterimage of a crafty mindset;
a dramatic picture- its frame, filled with all pains;
their hurts written in unflinching paint.

Suddenly, I find myself hanging it all on a wall;
staring at it in a perfect dark, a dark work of
art- capable of still seeing it all.

Sometimes, its just her, him, them or it;
how I choose to see it, isn’t how well I express it.
Killing time, while battling a bipolar practice
of depression; that promised me just a subtle kiss-
but had embraced me in its dark aggression.

I kissed a night;-
that had promised to keep me warm inside, and
it was that very kiss that ****** all the life out of me.

L ovely are you, my darling~
O ver my trade of thought:
V aluable, yet vulnerable;
E specially in my eyes.

S tick closely with me through;
M iles leading up to love~
I' ll hold till the last skin' hand:
L ost in your beauty' sights;
E ntirely made of that Love Smile.

Had it been a year ago,
you'd tell me a cough would be the scariest thing to hear,
I wouldn't want to be in that year.

Had it been a year ago,
The common flu wound be the death of so many,
I'd think all common diseases are working to be my enemy.

Had it been a year ago,
the four walls of my home would be my very prison,
I'd think the year had gone against us, so I can call treason.

See,
I've feared enough in my life,
to never fear the same thing twice,
But now I see,
I'm much afraid of a sickness,
that I fear twice of my own cleanliness.

As I see,
the flu is the possible thing to take my life
Sorry, but am I even reading that right?


Now this year,
I was told to be insecure of how clean my hands are,
rather than being insecure of myself.
To make social distancing a trend,
for the sake of my health.

To now questioning how this might all end.  
Sorry but I had a more eventful  year planned out,
rather than this year instead.

Now,
tell me what is the cause,
I've heard so many theories, but who really knows.

Tell me how it got here,
I've heard it came from so many places, but I fear mostly that it might be near

Tell me why I'm in Lockdown,
the news told me it was the safer way to live, but my isolation isn't doing me the best to stay calm.

But just tell me please,
where did this Corona come from.

Was it the hands of man,
who for the many good we make, we make one bad to throw it off,
Was this the supposed plan,
decrease the population and leave them all guessing where this virus came from?

Sigh,
never mind the cause.
Why question so long of things we don't really control
Human nature often pushes us to question everyone of our flaws.

Pull away from that disease,
maybe do yourself the justice of getting on your knees
Maybe pray a little more than you'd like people to believe.
Then again you were taught well to know asking is the only way to receive.

A cure really is what our hearts are hoping dearly to receive.

But have you prayed enough,
given your all, till all was foreign to you
Taken the time to fast as much
Asked the Lord how the cure would look if the cure was in you,
and all of us.

I seem that silly to think such a thing,
but I've heard a man state "he has a dream",
And my dream is such a thing wouldn't be as hard as it seems,
We just have to believe.

Believe that we'll conquer this pandemic,
For I refuse to let a sort of flu be my death,
I won't accept it.
I may be isolated, Locked away from all my people,
But I'm still connected.

I won't shy away to check on a brother by the dial,
"Hey there brother, wanted to know if you're doing fine
Or quite bluntly are you still alive"
I kinda figured my concern of your life might add more time to mine.

I'll still be connected.
I won't be defeated,
Cause I won't accept it,
I'm broken yes,  but I still have a lot of fight within my pieces.

From them I remind myself of what I've once said,

The world is in a moment of chaos, but only as a moment.
So if the miracle the Lord has for us appears in or after the chaos we'll  be the ones to show it.
I may act a little selfish and say I own it.

But I'll never own the victory of all my people,
I've told myself, "at the end of this all we'll share this victory as equals"

We're the cure but only if we're willing

Willing enough to pray to be the cure of this virus,
I've prayed to him enough to though he wouldn't deny us
Cause he told me all our battles don't break us, but only define us.

And I'm defined to be  the cure if I'm willing,
cause I'm grown tired of people dying,
To hearing that corona did the killing.

I'll be the cure for my people,
ask them to be one for another,
To be the one's to call up a sister,
send a text to a brother.
Show compassion more than a little,
Cause right now should be the time we learn how best to love one another.
Perhaps more than a little.

And that love doesn't need a gesture of being the biggest hugger,
Rather of the simple task of checking on one other.

The cure or cause to me can't be the thing that matters
I just want my year and people back
And I'd never be much gladder.
Cause the cure or cause to me can't be the thing that matters
I just want this all to end, and go back to the days of happiness and laughter.

As the likeness of dark; a pathway into
the mind of a depressed tormented soul,—
The beauty of their expression is a walk in
the park. There's a spark to a passionate flame to any art;
But also a hurt of creation from the echo cracks of their heart.

A mountain top I'd have to climb, a large hill made
of stone. A thorn in my side, as the bleeding anguish
to paint out favourable dreams. The kiss of so real;
in a reality painted in the colours of tears.  I've seen things
so clear, to see nothing of this world was meant to be so real.

Yet the realest tears of unanswered prayers, falls upon
the bruises of my knees. Real as knowing not all will
believe in you and your dreams. The Dark's light—is
seeing past the shadow of ominous oppressiveness.
A lasting restlessness of wanting to impress all those
around, the larger crowd, of painted smiles of daily clowns.
They'd easily praise you being brave—the loudest voice of cowards.

They would shoot you down, (bang, bang)
and after you make it big; turn around and say they're so proud.
(Enemies becoming fans) letting it be the case, humble character
wouldn't make a boastful sound. In the end I know my God has
and always been so proud.

There's always a light in the dark.

The shadows gaze silently, cloaking me in divorce clothes
–splitting my mind in two. Nobody is innocent; for even
in the innocent eyes of a child, they must grow up –
Certainly no exception to this rule. At times, I find myself
draining the essence of my dreams, spiralling into a vortex
of procrastination, throwing my efforts down the drain.

Life is a canvas, and the art of existence is wrought with
suffering – the masterpiece of my story will be a portrait
painted with my blood, sweat, and tears, left as a haunting
Stain.

Yet, how we cast judgment upon the suicidal for not being
brave– praising the brave for flirting with the precipice of
risking their lives. As a true master of their courage; are
those who confront their deepest fears and still strive to
soar beyond them.

Still, I’ll walk through night as a strange person follows me;
only to discover that the shadows watching silently are
merely the echoes of my own regrets.

Asking myself where do I fall in people's eyes
–brave or suicidal...

I am not liberated; I’ll be drinking till I’m free
Dancing like a puppet; a puppet with no strings
If this is the land of promise; promise that none
Of the promises have skipped me

Do not assume that it’s over, to consume your  
Self-worth to just presume that you’re sober  
To close your eyes, to feel your joy coming closer
I do not amuse the fact of getting older, or overlook
The fact that the world is close to being over

Here is the past, images of your youth running past
Memories of it all, live as long as you last, be careful
Not to be chasing the pleasures of it, as chasing after lust
Take a secret fast; cleanse yourself of the regrets that
Have come past

In these vacant palms — cradled by the essence of my aspirations;
I clung to you with every enduring emotion, trembling and slick
with the weight of nostalgia, far beyond what could be deemed
ordinary, or wise in grasping at faded recollections.

My throat feels parched; I gulped down a swarm of love bugs,
hoping to replenish the affection I’ve lost — lost lovers. My
fingers bear the scars of nervous habits, raw and gnawed down
to the quick; the restless heart fears that the sharpness of love
might not pierce me as it once did.

If I could have a taste of everything,
I’ll probably die, before I dine—with a jaded smile;
Cos everything that you see, is really not worth the time.

I know there’s more time we could have spent – forever striving to
close a gap between love and loathing; spreading myself thin as the
bridge I am. Parts of me still want to be your man, especially in the
solitude that envelops me, carved into twelve equal pieces; echoing
the essence of what we were and what we might have become.

Gazing into the mirror, at a reflection that won’t stare back; both of
us lost in trying to understand what they’re seeing.

My love for you echoes a silhouette; passions like dark phantoms in a
hushed chamber where you stand across – my heart is lost! What once
felt familiar is now scattered by a tempest, carrying away the words
that once escaped our kiss – two bruised lips, conjoined hips in passion,
now reduced to a mere bruised ego.

Vast eyes begin to flutter open, yet never wide enough for these tears
to escape their confines. I am filled with regret; I should have wept for
you long ago.

Feelings drained: ensnared in the relentless grasp of time’s
drain — spiralling just before the inevitable plunge; a descent
into nothingness. The narrative unfolds; a black hole nestled
in my chest; I am its plug- feeding it every toxic craving to fill the
void. The chill seeps in as I lie sprawled on the floor, gazing up
at the distant heavens.

I should shield my eyes with memories of the Word, yet I
find myself lost in the endless scroll of my phone — I ought
to whisper words of encouragement on the days when coping
feels impossible, but my lungs are heavy with smoke.

I need someone to explain the enigma of love, yet all I crave
is a taste of every girl that crosses my path. In the mirror, I see
only a ****, masked with a genuine smile draped over a hollow
shell, devoid of thought; it simply seeks gratification, even if
too much indulgence leads to regret.

I’m addicted to pleasure; yet each fleeting moment leaves
me feeling the least pleased.

Physical desires intertwine with emotional sensations;
the gentle caress of skin speaks volumes about the essence of
one’s character. Unveiling the joy nestled deep within your spirit,
playful, alluring smiles flicker in the radiance of her being.
As the weight of guilt, anger, and anxiety often shadows the one
you cherish, mingling with the mysteries that linger unspoken.
In the wake of a love that has slipped away, she dances through
fragments of her dreams, clad in well-worn socks, still striving to
find her footing. There’s a lingering fear of being tainted by another-
whether through intimacy or confusion—yet she clings to the
innocence of her youth.

A lovely woman stands at your threshold, inviting you to
embrace her; don’t hesitate to welcome her warmth, for her heart
deserves to be cherished. Public displays of affection may be mere
theatrics, but the sincerity behind your words can convey her true
value, no matter the distance between you. Take pride in calling her
yours, but remember, she is not a possession; she is a daughter
of the Divine.

Seek not your reward in her actions meant to please you,
but rather find joy in the vulnerability she shares exclusively with
you, unmasked and genuine. Honour her in such a way that even
with her eyes closed, she can still feel your presence.
Love your woman fiercely, safeguarding her as your treasured gem—
not by offering the world, but by creating a sanctuary where
both of you can thrive together

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?

And I know time isn’t in our hands.
Still move with life, or watch it move
on without you. Either you walk with
time, or time walks away from you.

They gave you a one-star review for
your love, judged your heart, spat into
your scars, dragged your name through
the mud. Still, don’t paste their words
onto your heart.

Because when you live a better life, they’ll
circle back to copy. You’ll ask yourself,
“why do the ones who once overlooked
me now want to over-book me… or cop me?”

All the seconds you felt like sloppy seconds
will become the taste of their main course.
And what they called leftovers is the meal
they'll hunger for the most.

Remember:

Time is a thief, it steals your hours, your hope,
your years. But don’t let wasted time rob you  
of what’s real. Don’t let it steal the reason you live.

As you reflect on a promise of tender hands; tiny
tremors shake your will to hold yourself together-
Tethering lines of kisses guiding your eyes to a moon
as you are a bright smile of the day, and the cool
whisper of hope late by noon

We’ve been lost in the yesterday of a garden filled with
flowers, that grow brighter as I look at their hues- I’m giving
my affection by an attention to pick at some petals: darling we
Both grew into something special; through a dream bending
my will to ever say no to you

Sometimes I get it wrong- especially when it comes to the
unspoken language of your eyes, daring deep inside my soul
when we’re alone to our own thoughts on this long drive home
My aim was a bit off, off into the places I think helps me better
into seeing your pain- but I can’t read your brain, measure any
of your griefs, or attest to being able to share all that you have
experienced

Still, I can offer my very dreams as an escape

All the innocent eyes-
guilty of something;
Guilty pleasures that lie,
resting in between their eye.

the dew of my tears feels wet on tight sleeves
the sweat from my brow jumps like water in springtime
and if I could use words to describe my heart – it would
only seal away my lips

my tears are like scattering flowers
blown away by the winds – my lungs are a leafless branch
veiled in such a dry cough; choking away at my pride

nights I’ve dreamt of suicide, to live on
and tell of it lies; it was an empty void that wouldn’t fill
the belly of some hungry wild dog – and if I could speak
a fruitful prophecy for my life, my lips would be the scent of plums.

In this modern age,
every man is just looking for a hole to fill,

I’m just looking to fill
the heart-shaped hole in my chest
to find a love that is honest and so real…

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.

Tell me how to wind up the wind’s tears trapped in my broken
car window. How to play a heart’s love songs on an old radio –
with the buzzing sounds in the speakers, speaking so ill of me.

And if I fall on my knees, would you watch me take my bow;
would you look me deep in my eyes, as if searching for a heaven;
or anything close to a safe haven?

While others marry happily yesterday, to be merry for tomorrow –
savouring the bites of sweet nothings; suckling, to feed a need
of their skin’s heat. In the rest of their night, they rest on innocent
linen washed with their tears of joy – but what if I don’t cry
anymore?

The wind in my life journey, has blown away my tears.

Everything will become nothing; snuggling closely
To all those days much brighter than yesterday
Running out of places to hide my shadow- a rush hour
Of emotions, hoping not to get stuck in more traffic
Laying on the sofa, putting a lot of thoughts in place
While she does so too, re-arranging her wig; sipping on cola
Weaving, adoring words to say at little speaking volumes;
Channelling together those gentle souls; generally speaking
Of how her tears sink away into the grass, like thirsty water
Thursday nights, where I’m planning to disappear into the earth
Folding into old habits with origami precision; time’s prison
Is feasting on me for dinner, and I’m drinking myself thinking
I don’t appreciate the time you and I spend together
But I argue with myself about it, when you’re only away

And it’s funny, how I’d pretend not to care;
Now here is the man who cares enough when you’re not there

In the quiet corners of my
mind, I get lost
in my words –
as are my thoughts swirling
like leaves in the wind.
My notebook and pen become my
abditory:
a secret refuge where I
can disappear.

__

And it is here, in this
cherished hideaway, that I
lose
myself completely,
enveloped in the embrace
of
ink and paper,
crafting a reality
all my own.

Who tries to make ends meat,
but never been fed
Pray on the daily, for just for an extra slice of bread?

I want some cake,
just to know the taste.
Make a little dough, so I can bake,
Get stuck in some beef. A while
since I've had some steak.
Put your life on the line, just to see what's at stake.

Food for thought I gave, can I have some feedback,
Light on all my responses, guess I'm just a snack.
Pray for me, with grace, and thanks.
To never overindulge, avoiding stomach cramps.

And a couple meals, to keep me fed.
Gain a couple pounds, earn a little bread.

My eyes are hungry.

This life is bitter; dearly to me—as only a moment
is sweet. My eyes deafen defeat, defending it's right
to channel violence with peace.

There's a war inside of me!

A looming shadow is every brick, every corner, every
tiny echo of the walls. Of my room, my mind, heart and
unfortunate life. Fortunes of which are counted in Heaven.
A golden castle —I'd trade every brick on earth.
Trading my life away of this unsettled grief.

Skeletons trapped in
the closet;
trying to pick a bone,
I'm feeling so lost;
or maybe I'm just
feeling alone.

I found a beautiful threshold of you
-lost somewhere, in one of my dreams
the very last of us both laughing, speaking love,
singing sweet nothings, being the best stanzas; -
these days it’s just callous lines, of a forgotten poem.

Beautiful reflection; why do you seem so empty...
weighing your faith, yet your doubt overflows plenty,
plunging back into the abyss of your sadness—
your declarations of worth echo loudly, yet your lips
remain sealed, indifferent to the truth that aches to be spoken.

Beautiful reflection; why do you seem so empty...
Arms withdrawn from embrace, a gaze a sharp weapon,
severing ties to love, drifting like a forsaken leaf—
your words, mere shadows of substance, a hunger
that only leaves the soul impoverished.

Beautiful reflection; why do you seem so empty...
I should have come more often; would you expect me?
From the grime that clings to my skin, I sift through the
muck for miracles, offering a sweet smile that belies
a heart worn and weary...

Beautiful reflection; why do you seem so empty;
“cos I have gazed upon my reflection too many times,
as the glass being half empty.”

flowing as smooth skin, pimple pebbles in between;
the break out of my skin – still I flow freely as I am,
while my tears weigh heavy on the bank’s sand…

still, I’m glad to know how much you enjoy me tickling
in between your toes – wash off the struggles of your heart,
but please don’t use it as an excuse to leave your *******
inside of me

          you found me as a clear river,
   and I've always known where I'm going
                                    let me live a clear life.

Picture frame of ugliness – but not what the world sees,
when your paint yourself under your insecurities.
Does that make you a coward; or are their eyes
the cowards, too afraid to see the real picture of
themselves?

societal expectations, and passive judgments –
behold their critical gaze; yet so are the eyes that can’t
stare themselves in the face. so too, blinded by their
own fears, and personal insecurities.

But as you start to peel away at the metaphoric picture
frame, retracing their hidden layers of drawn over
strokes of new paint - embracing vulnerability;

I'm between finding myself in my inner self-criticism,
and external judgments – I could be the picture of the
prettiest flowers, and hoping one day I learn to paint
myself under the brushstrokes of security, and
vulnerability!

my picture is finally complete!

To anyone who cares enough to care for me, though I couldn't care enough myself...

Take care!

Sigh; why does everything I write turn out to be a poem? Why did I have to be the one so attached to their emotions? Why couldn't I have been a doctor,  a lawyer or even a **** mechanic? Instead I'm just this hopeless unheard poet.

I envy people for not what they have, but what I can never be. I can't be a man, and I'd never be a pretty enough woman. Can't stand up for myself, but constantly get cut down when I stand up for others. I've been labelled a ***** by my own brothers.

I know they don't say it in person- but I hear their thoughts in all those disappointing sighs.
And I've disappointed all the women in my life, and still act hopeful that I'll get a wife.

I'm bullied by friends, bullied by strangers Bullied by family, bullied by myself and people's impatience.

This wasn't supposed to be a poem!

Maybe it's a rant; maybe it's a way to cheer me up for not feeling like a man. Thinking about death while listening to jazz. Seems like I'm still far from the end, of a slow death.

Why won't I fall short out of breath, why won't God put me out of my misery because it's a misery being such a disappointment.

I can't trust my dreams, as they lead me to nothing good to hold onto. I trusted someone else's advice, and got accused by them; for being so stupid to listen to them. Then again;
I'd still take their advice again and again

I've been accused of being gay, and maybe my life would have been better if I swung that way.
But okay I could accept that accusation- still not when people say I'm so spoiled, to spoil my mood. Now I'm always doing things just for something to prove.

This wasn't supposed to be a poem!

I guess I couldn't stop these words from flowing. I'm just caught up in my usual emotions.

A note to some, noteworthy ending remarks.
For every tissue to a tear, is a tear to a new scar.

A suicide note to a public, in secret, away from family and friends. I'll be gone by this moment's end- saying goodbye to the old me. See you in ten..

                      surely this is now an end.

Suffocating beneath a tidal wave of feelings —
struggling to stay afloat, gasping for breath.

My lungs are heavy filled with so much water;
I may swallow my pride — but I can't hold
these tears anymore in my chest.

And in this life, we:
Live, we regret, we learn –
Lessons from regret

And for bodies, we are:
Skins, touch, ecstasies in –
Two hearts that touch

Finally, we are all to:
Love, give breath, have *** –
To expect, another breath

              We all create.

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.

My excuses for wild love,
not a **** cheetah.
The truth is,
the feeling does make me starve.
A loving man, but also a hungry creature.

Pardon the time I waste,
tend be doing *******
Gibberish written on my face,
many words sound garbage.
I'm a real mess, I must confess.

Mind the shattered ideas,
best to pop the bulb
Explaining myself as such isn't ideal,
but I'm not one to be loud
Much quieter in the silence of the crowd.

Excuse myself from peers,
not on the same surface of pressure
Excuse myself from kids,
off the scale who can't measure
Worth me understanding,
but also understanding depression
I'm not lessor,
but I am one to question.

Excuse me for this,
and I'll excuse you for that
Excuse me being lost at times,
life didn't come with a map.
All we do could be the last risk.

But not an excuse to never take it.

what has happened to your hand, its touch has gone so cold – you
don’t hold me as you did before; that first time we fell in love, we
could spend hours of the night tangled to each other. I wasn’t as
pretty as the other girls, still when you held me, you felt a sense of power - an ownership. you never demanded much from me; you understood how shy I got at the beginning – yet that never stopped you from acting so possessive

even in the times I knew you cheated on me – going after those with much smoother skin, and who held that bolder strike; I knew that you’d never forget me – I was your first after all. I gave you the belief in your dreams, gave you confidence to show off your talents, helped you through your struggles, gave you a meaningful way to express your problems. darling I was your unshakable addiction, the mistress who added value to your diction, darling I was with you when you wrote your very first poem


what has happened to your hand, its touch has gone so cold – I hope
you found the right girl, still I’ll love you forever even when you get a
touch of every one of them in their words.





“And I too will love you forever, my first love…
my write, my words, forever my first poem that
came from you… my Eversharp pen."

Searching for love;
feels like a risk
Especially after-
that first kiss.

By the odds of life; tell me what are the odds
you’ll know the rhythm of a bee’s heartbeat –
And as you skip a stone across the water's surface,
would the river’s heart skip a beat?

know that all of creation are alive too…

I am alive too, as my skin feels beat; self-discipline
is no easy feat – for the flesh is weak, but has the
strength to torment your mind the entire week.

But we are more than skins; capable of beating
the odds, of giving to our skins.

Puzzled— are all of the pieces falling away,
or falling quietly into place: these are assumptions from
the course of nothing, hoping to become something-
As for something for the time, I’ve come to ask whether
the feeling of nothing isn’t a feeling of things not fitting
well into their place

The picture feels like a maze labyrinth of emotions,
written so well out in braille- as that’s all I can honestly
feel right now

As the laid grail, comes from a sore back with *******
sacrifices- through the chambers of night; that which scares
me the most, is the constant nights where I’m trying to put
the puzzle pieces together of my life.

As the searing, ashen smoke erupts violently from
its flaring nostrils, it envelops me in a suffocating
Embrace, each inhalation a cruel reminder of the
scalding heat that sears my delicate skin.

I am crushed beneath the weight of its colossal hooves,
like a forgotten stone lost in the depths of a murky,
Unyielding puddle — its foreboding silhouette, crowned
with a mane as dark as the abyss, gallops through the
Labyrinth of my thoughts, casting a chilling shadow that
clings to me, a relentless spectre that whispers of doom.

This creature, a true harbinger of death, exudes a frigid,
acrid scent of regrets that seem to claw at the very core
Of my existence — night after night, my dreams are invaded
by tormenting visions, vivid and unyielding, mapping out
the grim path to my own funeral – a foul stench; chilling
reminder of cold regrets that claw at my very last breath.

I see a pristine white coffin, adorned with stark white
blooms, marred by the crimson stains from my own wrists.
And amidst these agonizing dreams, the ominous beast
stands tall, solemnly bearing the weight of my coffin towards
An unknown afterlife, a spectral horse of death draped in
the deepest shadows, embodying the very essence of my
self-inflicted demise.

And to a sinking story; desperately trying to find its depth –
when two people walk together in love, would they at least
share their story with others, of those important first steps?
But would you build shopping carts in the market place of love –
going round, and round, till we crash into the boundary walls
like excited go-karts?

Wouldn’t you make good butter kisses, that slip off the cheek –
telling me that you fight to speak up for yourself; owning up
to that bruised lip. I’ve heard pots, and pans being hit all over
town; those shelving love, and hoping shame doesn’t fall down.
But the pots have gone cold; like no one has been around – but
when your glass eyes fall down, would you hear their emptiness
in that cold sound?

Of course, she tells all her friends that she still keeps in touch,
and never that she misses his touch. They don’t talk that much;
but find it in good taste to ask about the other’s mum. “I hope she’s
not doing too much. Does she still think about me being her son?”

****, love can be really much, breakups a bit too rough –
but in the growing pains of it, we learn to finally grow up!

life, has had its few licks of me – to envelop me in its envelope;
a sad message to myself. but don’t we all wish we were perfect
messages from God, a bit heaven sent? to the people who worry
what people say about them – their weight of words; drowning
more in people’s words, then any piece of writing in the Word

p.s, a well written letter to myself – I’ve been trying to line up
most of my better memories in alphabetic form; while holding
a solitary feather. I got stuck at the letter A, to list all of my
achievements

hoping to steal time like a stolen kiss; conscious thoughts that
escape my lips – speaking of me as someone you’d truly miss.
as I sign a message of my life in the ink of my fallen tears
       trying to stick onto the side of hope, as a sticky note!