The scars on your heart,
are from shots straight through your chest
Lead your life for no-one else will play your role,
our greatest pain is our own regrets.

You have to know what's at stake,
and eat it like it's a last supper.
Can't keep believing that you're a mistake,
because life doesn't come with a rubber.

Don't try to be what you're not,
and tie yourself into people's views.
Don't pay your way to the top,
the fall costs more when you lose.

Acting cheap won't keep you safe,
so save yourself the time.
Don't live in things not of your place,
it will soon turn sketchy when you're out of line.

Inhale the air by the moment,
exhaling out life.
For death comes unexpected,
when you die no human can call it.
So before then don't be the one left when all others did things right.

If you can't keep to what you say,
stick to what you can read.
If you want to complain try and do it after you pray,
see by then if you still don't believe.

And if life gave you a quarter,
how would you spend it?
Don't hide behind a smile,
you'll be only a poser.
Have only hate to say to a person, best not say it.

Good company is not always a given,
while bad we quickly run to.
Nothing can be done if keep on wishing,
and these words I've written is my advice to you.

You choose whether to take it,
or leave it be.
You choose whether to share it,
or leave it be.
You choose whether to declare it,
or leave it be.

Choose of your own will, not of others.

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

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

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

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

What's today if we haven't
felt yesterday.
And what's the future if
we haven't made the most of today.

What's love without words
how then do we speak into the feeling.
What's life without living
for we know Death can be so sudden.

What's a beautiful smile
without some past tears.
What's accomplishment
without pain and strain.
What's a true tragedy
than just expressions on a face.

What's a firm foundation
without the first brick.
What's the character of a man
without the wisdom of his father
And the loving compassion of a mother.

All are the things of us,
we are the very words
Spoken upon to create us.

We are many in the little,
as the little we give is many.

We are us,
mankind.

Let a pen run dry from it's creative ink,
maybe take more time to create your words before you say them,
put a lot of thought into what you have to say &
try first to think.
That's honestly got to be my loudest silent prayer.

Only time I'm running out of luck is when I'm running out of reasons to ever live,
thousand reasons not to wake up to this beautiful  life we all live.
And a couple more to throw everything away, before I'm ever open to receive.

That's got to be a point at the end of the tip,
at a mountain peak bleeding out on those below me and pouring out knowledge onto these small kids with my ink.

I see black things much blacker in the dark,
and it's not a pretty site but still a reason why black is art and who we all are.

And my pen is a paintbrush to a poet painting out his every word,
Probably blinding out your eye, so take a better listen or haven't you heard.

I'm only here to spell out the info of True,
So don't misread me for spelling it out to you.
If you can't take the truth then it wasn't meant for you.

That's what the relationship between a pen and a poet had to sink into your head,
so he best wipe his fingers now, cause his fingers have bled.

There's opportunity in the life
of eternity.
Moments passing with memories
that stay.
Stolen from us like a last kiss,
lovers do miss each other as they
miss each other's lips.

There was something or someone you
once loved.
They where lost with you in the moment,
now they've left you alone to feel torment.

Given it was the last time,
the last time you said "you were mine"

Could you then be wrong,
wanting more than much.
Selfish in the ways wanting this so much,
for you truly loved something as such.

You call the love for it "beauty"

Now beauty is just a stolen kiss you still
haven't gotten enough of.
Either way,
it was the little you got that let you appreciate that love.

So I ask,
this last kiss from that you loved
Did you make it beautiful, more than yesterday,
had it imprinted and had
your heart carved and scarred.

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

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

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

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

A few places of my thoughts remain hidden, their
shadows I dare not reveal, for there are moments
I wish to evade.

A prisoner of my own overthinking mind,
I dissect every word you utter by day; to become
a relentless ritual of overthinking that silently haunts
my nights.

Life isn’t about ending it all, it isn't a suicide, still
we do so much to **** our minds — lost in the endless
scroll of our screens, just to **** time - a daily genocide.

Still in the depths of your own being, do you
sometimes feel the weight of your own existence?
I hope you’re not gazing into the mirror, only to find
disappointment staring back—an executioner of your
self-wort; a homicide - that slow and silent ****** of
your confidence.

I don't give people enough
reason to laugh,
Why do you take me as a joke
on sunny days on less than sunny Sundays.
What's the rise of the sun if it doesn't  rise on hope.

I sung Christmas carols,
and got myself carried away.

Just like a Monday,
hate the feeling of starting it all again.
Waking up sometimes with no motivation inside the body.

Often I can be so choosy,
quite loosely before it's even Tuesday.
Best time for me to be so moody,
beating myself so much I love
the bruising.

Truth is, where's the religion
on a Wednesday?
Wed myself to the feeling of love
before I go slightly crazy.
If we can't wed that day,
then I can't marry you baby.

Cause come Thursday,
you know what it means to drown.
But come out of the very waters
still very thirsty.
Even if you ask for a thousand wishes,
you'll only get one just like a birthday.

So can't we be
free by Friday.
I know I've never been the
best at times.
But I'll try to rise to the occasion
and make it our high day.
Even if you hate to have your head
stuck in the clouds
Sometimes the clouds overcast pains of our eye's.

So by the time we make
it to Saturday,
The pain I have right now is making love to you in the best way.

Why promise you the world if it's
something I never had.
Can't blame the world for not everlasting,
everything we know has to meet it's end.

Just like my Weekdays and Weekends.

All coming full circle
just to spin all over again.

Would you dare to pull the trigger-
to press against my heart with the hope that its
rhythm could stretch beyond the confines of this moment?
I am equipped, armed with nothing but a pen, crafting
vivid strokes that dance across the pavement.
I soar above the streets, claiming the heavens as I navigate
the solid paths that define my existence in this urban landscape.

Beneath the joy of the breeze-
the winds reveal the essence of true freedom, whispering
through the branches; that sensation will return once more.
The elements have no true companion or confidant in
this harsh reality, lamenting, “it’s too **** hot, it’s so
freaking cold, this rain is too much, oh God, where has
the rain gone to?”

We exist in a peculiar state of numbness,
caught in the oddity of pointing out the flaws in others
while neglecting to reflect on our own.

Love: in just being an option
At times I don’t like most of them;
Where to start inside of a feeling
Is the beginning of an additional end;
Separate a place where I’m living
As a means to never fall in love again

Here goes a toast, a raised glass to the Heavens,
looking down upon us.

Wonder what you see

I could help, send back the picture,
a perfect sketch of this crazy world.
Send it back to you;  for you see it much clearer.

Our world is in a bit of mess,
havoc has made a home in the hearts of man.

Man's hearts have made homes in the idols they build, hoping to be an escape.
I'm guessing that's the plan, but it's a pointless thought I must confess.

Depression seems to be on a all time high,
yet cheap enough for everyone to buy.
But wait that's such a lie,
everything bad in this world is actually for free.
The good you work for, and working hard you'd have to do.

But I guess you knew

Here's something more appealing,
cut your right off that does the ***** dealing
And you'd have left the hand of stealing.

Here's something more relatable,
we're not really living in the time of he or she being marriage able,
Rather of;  "Hey I wonder if their sexually capable"

Still with me I hope,
cause if I don't have you to look at in these troubling times,
I'll fail to cope, laughing in my short breathes but it's nothing of a joke

Here's something more questionable,
trends of the new are just reruns of the old.
But someone kept bugging me that I stick way too much to the old, and that I'm not so relatable.

Must of been the way he read into my pen,
how it's words had something a little too unsettling to his natural discomfort.
Maybe because I gave him one word of friendly advice, and he only heard harsh criticism of probably ten.

Sorry brother, I won't stop you from doing the obvious wrong again.

Here's something I tend to notice,
took for me a while to get it. My advice, look at it with a little more focus.

Someone once told me I was useless,
how it echoed sadness in my heart.  Still it really wasn't what she said.
Rather it was saddening how easily I accepted it like that was my purpose,

Like I was only worthless.

Have I struck a nerve,
I know I may be complaining a lot, but I'm just seeing a lot we don't deserve.

We don't deserve the pure LOVE you open handly give,
Feels worse when I'm in my guilt and shame, as my pride makes it closed on my hand to receive.

I honestly don't deserve much of all the things you give me. Yet you won't stop.
And the sun of my heart sets sometimes into the  dark,
You're still the endless light watching me from up top.

Please never stop!

Cause in a crazy world, your sanity feels out of place amongst the insanity,
like being the black sheep of your entire family.

Still it's the little sanity keeping my eyes up to the Heavens.
The world is in a moment of chaos, but only as a moment.
So if the miracle you have for us appears in or after the chaos we'll  be the ones to show it.

Here's a glass raised, a toast to the Heavens,
looking down on us.

I do wonder what you see.

This really isn't a public speech, but really just a personal prayer to you Lord from me.


Cheers!

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

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

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

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

Time holds no escape
from your problems.
Only does the past hold the most,
most of which we haven't forgotten.

Man is defined by his past
in the eyes of another.
His present state easily overlooked,
while others believe they can
design their future.

Of course we are the fools
focused on others stories, than our own.

But if we can't be our own
character flipping the page,
This story remains on one chapter.

3:33 – My clock unwinds in reverse, clinging to the
Vibrant hours of youth; a formidable mistress,
Wielding the greatest dominion upon the day’s wake

So…

Reset your clock to the echoes of yesteryears –
Rest in a past that offers no respite; a maze you’ll never escape
Amaze in the cast of fleeting glances at your own existence,
Entangled in the intricate web of your own perfect maze,
While those above, are retracing our steps upon the parchment
Of this bewildering journey, on the maze’s page.

Life's got to be a trip,
question is where are you heading to?

World feels smaller in bigger shoes,
99% of the time I'm 100% sure I don't know what I'm even doing.
And a percent of the time I'd like to question what's living,
Asking myself, "what's the purpose in you".

The bright side of life could be a sunrise away,
so of course the lightness of life is just daylight found in another day.

So don't pray for the day,
just pray that you make it through the night
And I don't know if you shine, but you should be shining bright,
All through the day and burning through the night.
Might seem all bad, but every good is going to make everything seem alright.

In between us all, we're all shining,
and in between us all are the lights of our hearts.
So while it's still beating you're still alive to shine.
Stop playing shadow games with the dark,
you should know the moon itself still comes out in all of that dark,
So learn to shine in it from your beating heart.

Everything is going to seem so different,
like a changing season.
So stop betting on the weather,
you might find your fall before you spring into the next summer,
And it's going to be a quick Autum before you find yourself back in winter.

Clouds covering the sky are only a blanket covering the light before it wakes,
So learn from the sun and do your best to show a brighter face.

What you hiding from if it's only yourself,
and what you running from in life,
Looking for what's in store yet barely sticking by the shelf.

I know we can feel unsure about a lot of things,
and a lot of things can overwhelm the best from doing anything
But you're like a dream that isn't based on rules,  so maybe you could do everything.

Everything that is, what you were created to do,
shining in everyone of those tasks.
The simplest of course cause of the light in you.

You'll only know what you're missing when you haven't taken your shot in life,
And you seem to always do wrong cause you're never really looking to doing what's right

And I really should quote myself,
but really this me writing for anyone out there listening.
Cause maybe if we all had wider ears than a larger mouth,
we could probably figure out what's missing.

And really these poetic quotes aren't lightly taken despite me writing them in the dark.
But you should know broken people are the masters when it comes to any beautiful art.

So let yourself do the work in the things that set you apart,
Cause you're not living in this world for another  person's benefit,
so you best live for the sake of who you are.
And craft into the works of your gifting to make another piece of that work of art


Poetic Quotes.

Seems the Heavens forbid my tears a fall to the ground,
Upon the many cold whispers of self awareness and pieces of doubt.
A forbid fortress build inside my head,
great pieces of brick and metal clashing at each other.

Though I wish for peace instead.

What forbids my emotions, toys my heart and clouded judgement,
for I hung in grey skies past due the forecast.
A fallen sun, crashing landing onto a broken planet.

If I had enough dreams to buy it, I would to only later sell it.


Forbidden fortresses, and guarded walls.
Armed guards, and beastly dragons.
All forces against me, and I'll face them all.




On painted pictures, and sketches of dreams,
a broken pencil tip, as a dream has gone blunt.
Turn your heads forward to see ahead, be at your best front.

You old ****,
how dare you turn back to your childish ways.
Your false judgments, and hopes. The old crokes, with the crude jokes.
Stuck in your younger days.

With no care for the world,
selling pieces of it, and all of your soul.
How dare you question how you've lost your glow.

I tore through your secrets,
peeped at your deeds, fell sick at their stench.
And I could bet, beneath your shadowy hearts there's a light of regret.

But with it carries a stench upon your breath,
as your swimming in sin above your depths.


Hide your eyes, for we've seen too much of your pride,
Your demons inside, your misdeeds behind, and the many more things I refuse to find.

I'll send an attack upon your men,
I'll make of you an enemy by then.


Come at me if you will,
Arm your arms, holding closely for we're all out to ****.

Some **** their father's wise words,
others their mother's gentle touch.
Her sisters love, and his brothers guidance.

But still not enough.

Some **** the hand that aids, the hand that holds.
An eye that watches, a mouth that speaks,
a nose that has no sense to perfume.

Truly something stinks.

**** the thanks of many,
the hopes of others.
The sons of leading fathers, daughters of caring mothers.

Tell me, who is your enemy.


For mine is myself,
the holder of things. A killer of dreams.
A spoiler of health.

Health and money, two things I can't have as both.
Better health for more of my money, more money for my health, but losing my worth.

So over my head, seems a lot goes over me for my shortness.
Worthless, I say when I'm comparing myself to others,
why so, the answer uncertain.

But the feeling so unnerving, so much hurting.


I wish I was perfect, rather not this mental defect.
A broken upon vessel, grabbing onto cracks.
My insecurities my greatest weapon upon myself,

I give them many thanks.

For letting me realise of perfection being the silent evil of man wishing to be God,
Stone upon stones piling on the tower to try reach to the title.
Cast your own stones away for thinking you not a sinner of none.

Pray yearly to who gives your wake,
for sleep wishes to keep you her's, for she's a cousin to death.
Let that perfection fall off your heads for Heaven's Sake.


For the Heavens I know are crying as I constantly go back into my ways,
a continuous pattern of sinning I've spread out across my days.

Such tears fall upon my head, drowning me in guilt,
Filth is upon me from the hand of sin I've used to wipe my face.
Filth it is, the Heavens know too.

O' but you, so young and dumb,
Doing the many to yourself of self harm in the pursuit of fun.
Soon your life will be done.

And when you're asked what good you did with a life given onto you, how do you answer?
Lovers may say they'll die for each, but none can vouch one into heaven for each other.

For the Heaven's surely do cry for me, as do I.
But the Heaven's still forbid me to cry.

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

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

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

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

But I play two sides, hiding the darker part cause I'm scared what you'll find.

Still in the light I know a bit of dark,
darker sides of me festering in my heart.
I would explain what it is, but I myself am trying to figure this darkness out.

See I learned monsters too need to eat,
my darker colours make me a beast out to feast.
Cause I feed sometimes on lightness till I'm all but darkness,
A cynic type of picture cause really I'm a cynic  type of artist.

And mixing the two colours completes the full picture, but I show one side in the light day.

Cause if I'm going to die tomorrow, let me live tonight,
If it's a cost for me let me spend this life.
But if the darker colours tend to peep through when I lose control,
you'd be wise not to tame such a thing if you value your soul.

My lightness would give me reason to cry, as the dark holds a lot in.
The dark enjoys nightmares, as the light is only a dream.

But oh well, I guess that's what you get for being kaleidoscope,
playing two sides is frankly draining and no joke.
For I know people fall attracted to the lightness,
but the dark gives a reason to run away,
But you feel a bit of commonality to my darkness,
cause our situation is kinda the same.

Kaleidoscope, dark and light,
brave or fright.
Good or bad, a changing perspective,
I lack a strong fibre in will, and the will for repentance.

But I don't regret this, I just expect this.

Mix a bit of dye inside your tired tears- perhaps you want
to dye that colour of the ugly world you see; doesn’t fear grip
my hands, their surfaces fragrant with the scent of decaying leaves;
Shape me into the very skins trampled beneath an indifferent
pair of feet  

If only I could be a speck of dust—  
oh, that fleeting taste of recognition; to possess a name
held in high esteem—suffering. Or perhaps it’s merely a mark,
like a hidden dialect I whisper to myself when no one is around.  

I exist like the foliage of a tree, leaves drifting around us,
crushed and scattered; observing them through the window.  
But who, in truth, is observing us?

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

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

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

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

All my words are like acoustic strings; all of their emotions
black & white like piano keys. It's love & pain intertwined
My passions all leak at a metronome pace—then suddenly,
it feels like a nosebleed. Being both beautiful & painful.
As I am an email for love, sent with all my attachments.
Like music, it gets all too tedious— as these aren’t poems,
not really— just signatures, kinships inked in flesh-toned
vaults, keen to sound like truth.

I'm vying in so many dry pastures, lost in this unsatisfied
fullness— an emptiness echoing into emptiness. Still, there’s
no shame in surrender; to put everything on the line—
hanging out in the sun. To dry, wrinkle, & fade.

As my pride wasn’t just another persona, somewhere on
the clothesline. I’ve been worn thin by time; knocked down
by life with a clothesline. But still I rise, with my neck back
on the line. Destined to shine, but to you, dearest child…
these things take time.

Something beneath the surface
is yearning to be heard.
The voice of the silence holds an echo.

But do you even listen?

Even in the silence
a voice is always heard.
But it's not one on it's own,
for there are many voices in your head.

Which one do you listen to?

Seems Good and Bad
are clear as Black and White.
It's only on fool's wisdom we
believe there's a grey line.
But there's no in betweens.

Which side of The Line are you on?

Tended by him,
a sherpard of my me.
My human nature asks for want,
but he rather gives me what I need.

An open field he places as lamb,
led through flowing chaos to still waters of the land.
For very much,
the restoration I know,
Will always be lesser than the one he has given my soul.

Righteousness is the path I've been led,
for with grace,
Comes with him for his name's sake,
I've been led.

And amongst my walk through the shadows of death,
evil I neither have fear.
My fear of only Him instead.
For as he is with me,
he points the ways of right.
I'm not left behind,
for he lights my direction as a staff of light.

Enemies wish to feast upon my flesh,
still I table before them,
Unaffraid, as anointing flows down my head.

My cup never runs to be dry,
oil overflowing past my very eyes.

Goodness and mercy does follow,
in all the nights and many days how then do I cower.
The walls of His house,
are a place of the Lord forever.
For like my words,
I ask of him to always hear my prayer.

"Lord. Hear me, the voice of child,
tamed by the ways of you.  
Once before a Wolf of the wild,
he has made me beloved,
One who cares of his own,
the hand that fed me, The starved.

I am as a babe in his arms,
embraced by love.

Upon the waterworks,
are the very tears tasting of worthlessness
A broken cry of the tears falling into the ocean
as her body curves, displaying these emotions

So what do they tell.

A question indeed,
for human nature yearns to ask the question with the answers we much need
And I'd need a step back from myself
a minor second to breathe
For holding back my tears means I've fallen not being able to forgive.
Surely it's not too good for my health

Still the very Lord I cry to,
hears the echoes of my tears

What do they tell.

How you see good in all your people,
in my tearing eyes I often see evil,
We pray so long till all these knees hurt,
the last bad I do always come first,
And I paid my dues now I need my reimburse

What do they tell.

How to fix all my pieces,
rich at heart but still no richness
the last bad I do always come first
And I love being my own witness

Still what are these tears telling.

How inch by inch I'm climbing my ego,
can't stand myself while I stand with your people
My proud voice only comes out feeble
And I don't know how to be good while I see evil
How do you see good in all your people

And what's the last they've told.

How I talk big talk with small words,
the last bad I do always come first.
I know that it's wrong, but feels right,
don't want to be left behind if you don't mind

I see all my bad, and act blind.

Have I then listened to my tear's story,
perhaps though, still my crying isn't at it's end

Dearly Lord I'd much prefer to be where you are.

Take me as a definition: a surface-level heart that drowns in
deep thought, quietly pondering love, quietly grieving loss.
Loss not just for someone; a loss for most words. Because
when you’ve been dealing with a lot, you stop explaining
and start enduring.

Take me, for example: yesterday I had a conversation with
myself, but it sounded like I was addressing the ugly stuff,
the versions of me I don’t post about. Getting a little older,
I now feel the subtraction of duration settling in my bones.
It’s not pain exactly. It’s more like time knocking without
waiting for permission.

Multiply that by multiple misfires, all the times I believed,
in my head, that I’d finally found the one. Now, I’m left
divided. Not between people, but between the stories I told
myself; the truths I keep avoiding. Insanely rich with poor
results — "wait, that doesn’t add up." As that’s the math of
memory: it never balances the way love promises it will.

Still I need a leg up, not just to raise the hopes of this tired
heart, but just to step out of my despairs. Because lately,
I’ve been third-wheeling the very idea of love; a tagalong
to a party I used to host. And when it comes to falling for
someone with a previously broken heart, you learn quick:
it doesn’t come with a spare.

I’ve realized love either helps you make strong memories
or leaves you with the memory of a sus stain. You can’t
always tell which until it’s already on you, and by then
you’re already trying to scrub out that which you hoped
to sustain.

The Arithmetic of Almost-Love.

Turn off the lights — I’m fighting myself in the dark.
My skin, a caressing sun; roses fall and kiss me
with lip-shaped petals, trying to open me wide.
But they’ll censor you — they’ll look away, so you
don’t shine as bright as you are.

And me? I pluck myself from a group of self-doubts.
At the pace of this age, I slow, though youth fast-feeds
through my hands, trying to unearth green shoots
of heaven’s cheer. A chosen emotion rises — as if my
heart readies itself for a rapture. Earthen hands *****
out dreams from soil. To be called a ***** — or to *****
others? What a question to be.

As I’m plotting in the potting shed, where we shared
hope like dew-struck grass. We watered our dreams
with tears, and have felt baptized in fear. Shaking daily
at the grip of then —as if winter left its bare bones in my
hands. But I’m not ready to net a coy smile, not when my
butterfly net carries extra holes.

As all my hopes lie on the ground, seeds waiting to be
buried in the dark —waiting to grow. The lights of faith
are shut. And must I wait for fireworks to explode across
my sky again, like next year’s celebrations? But I won’t
shut my eyes this time. Yet I’ll stay open, just in case
tomorrow decides to find me first.

You’ve got a toothpick smile — sharp enough to pick
the words from my lips as we kiss, my darling.
Two roadmaps curve across your eyes —you see
exactly where you’re headed, and still, I hope you
trace your way back to me. As there’s a picture on my
ceiling — a memory sketch of you that walls can't help
but echo. Even in silence, this house whispers your name.
We're paired like bus wires — tethered to our thoughts,
transporting the weight of our unspoken luggage.

You’re cruel with beauty, closed off like a bookshop on
a Sunday —but I still read your body language on the
spine of your sighs. While the anchor of this love dives
deep, and I hold fast — even if your tides pull me under.
Your face — inked in my mind like a permanent marker
refusing to fade.

Finally, you’re an orchid waiting in the sun, and I,
the patient gardener, learning to love each petal as it
unfolds; knowing that with each new bloom, we both
grow. So if I must wait — let it be beneath your seasons.
Let me turn with your weather, and stand still long
enough for you to call this heart your home.

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

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

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

And that’s okay.

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.

There’s a hollow kind of happiness
caught in the curve of an imperfect smile—
where soft lies rest gently on the tip
of a weary tongue.

To be truly happy is to risk the world
watching, waiting for your fall—
constantly crumbling on your knees,
like a prayer too faithful not to be heard.

Vows taste bittersweet, like knowing,
deep and quiet, that you’ll fail before you begin.
And still—you hold the hurt in your hands,
the same hurt that shaped you,
while denying how deeply it still aches.

But pain denied
denies you healing.

As you are still searching for yourself—
like an arrow already loosed, still chasing
its aim long after the bow has let go.

And maybe you won't land where you
thought—but you’ll find something solid
beneath your feet. And not every wound closes
clean, but even scars can trace a path for you
to follow.

Concrete coffee grounds — stapled receipts;
messages from exes you’re not ready to delete.
It’s quiet now, filled with dead conversations —
a well-kept cemetery.
Ceremonies in eyeballed crowds, proclaiming
falsehoods of love in soft languages.
Meets and greets, all speaking the lies we
feed ourselves; sandwich boards worn like identity.

Some days, bored with myself, as I draw away
from a good time like a thin sketchbook filled
with half-drawn, abandoned things.
Pulling my heart from my chest like a drawer.
An artist, talking to his shadows —learning from
my old self like it’s shadow.

Avoiding those who tease with wet mouths of lies,
but kiss with dry tongues. Parched —
but maybe just too thirsty for love.
Being caught in a drought: a crumb of eye crust,
tinted with dry grass.
Still, I’d set myself on fire just to be noticed —
willing to be her wild campfire.
But even those fires need feeding.
You can’t give it all until you’re ash —
and watch them move on to another flame.

Making you feel not wild enough.
Staring at the ugly person in the mirror —
and what’s left after the smoke clears?
It's no longer a game of smoke & mirrors

All the stars are falling down.
Make a wish —
maybe we’ll fall in love
before they hit the ground.
And if it fails, I guess we’re
just crashing down.

                                     To shot my shot, and try to be
                                     your shooting star —
                                     aimed so high,
                                     but I was falling too fast
                                     at the sight of your brown eyes,
                                     soft as cosmic dust.

I’m the dusk, you’re the sun —
and if we make love
to make a son,
will that light save us,
or are we still just crashing down?

                            Until then - hold me in the silence
                            between the boom and the burn —
                            where gravity forgets us,
                            and stars don’t return.

And if we’re meant to fall,
then let it be together —
two sparks in the dark,
pretending we’re forever.

                          Even if we burn out
                          before the dawn,
                          at least we lit the sky while
                          we were on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Glass tears dance on the lawn of dreams –
offered sweetness at hand; while the Beast
breathes fire over frost; black fur coiled in winter’s
chill, his warmth a lie dressed in comfort.

He offers blindness as a blessing, the bliss
of the thoughtless path. In the silence of white
winter, you take his claw, mistaking it for a hand.
“To die for”—a morbid metaphor— what is the gift
of a Beast meant for?

Around him, the dancing lich spins— leeches
birthed  from tombs of need. A cliff that clefts;
as a cleft lip cannot speak the truth, it only bleeds.
Closed eyes cannot paint the dark—
but they stay loyal  to its canvas.

Left bereft—travelers avoid certain subjects:
being sick of yourself, tasting your own *****.
But hush now— we’ll skip the topic. Change the
subject. And bury that scent.

As she was sent; and of all the objects she takes
from the Beast—he cures grief with a sugar-coated sting.
But bittersweet is still a shade of sweet, it rots your teeth,
and maybe he works with the tooth fairy to collect what
decay leaves behind.

But in the cold, no one heals— they run to the hills,
as their heels are clicking in panic of snow-bitten ground.
Perhaps this time, Little Red took the wrong road—
and the wolf she met, has grown hungrier from
feasting quietly on empty bones.

      ....there's no-one to save her at all.

Oh yes, I deserve to be touched like a song —
The kind that hums warm beneath your skin,
Truly the kind of verse that lingers after it's gone,
Feelings like lips chasing honey, aching to begin.
I'll be a hundred miles out of breath; no ease —
Not to drift through love like life’s just a breeze,
But to feel the weight of it, strong and long —
Not to breeze through kisses like they don’t belong.

Let me find the centre of her hive, even if it stings —
I’ll wear the wounds for the sweetness it brings.
And I'll give buckets of love — let her be my list,
Filling up her day as a bucket list; every joy I’ve missed.

☐ To check myself daily — am I still right for her?
☐ To write emotional cheques that mirror her worth
☐ To admire her skin like diamonds, her hair like dusk
☐ To breathe in her scent — warm myrrh, not just musk
☐ To love her as one who's fully unmasked and just,
☐ To rise beside her in creation; like Adam from the dust
☐ To speak smooth words not to convince, but soothe
☐ To be her steady stillness, to be her rhythm, her truth
☐ To warm her up like tea after long, many loud days
☐ Then to spill the tea of our day, in the softest ways
☐ To hold her close where she can safely freefall
☐ And to keep my arms armed, but never build up walls

‘Cause everyone’s quick to think love peaks with *** —
But true touch starts when the soul, and another connects.
Where her rivers rush not from the waist, but from her heart,
And your love leaves graffiti on her walls, becoming fine art.

As you don’t paint over passion — you trace, and extend,
As you learn and value all of her curves, love and her bends.
To be a market of marvels; variety with depth in store —
So she aches with wonder for what's in store.

She truly deserves more.

Not every people are your people —
but in that same breath, everybody needs you.
Going round the city, and round the clock,
where times are always hard, like the past
we keep wearing; all the ones we hang up.
As someone called me, and I answered
quickly, frequently, honestly; just to hang up.

Funny how that’s what we do with people too.

Fingers of strangers scrubbing their own
dishes, while dishing out cold remarks —
serving my character as tonight’s leftover dinner.
And still, I stay on their minds without an address,
resting in dreams without a mattress; in the scripts
they write, I’m some recurring actor or actress —
But I don’t have the stamina to be running through
someone else’s head for free; dressing for their occasion
while my self-worth turns into something old fashioned.

And the idea of pushing a lawnmower over grass
that’s not mine, just to keep the image they clipped
of me, cut and well-trimmed - cuts me short of worth.

I’m always cut short for time, by that very blade.
Could it be a blade of grass or time itself?
Either way, it leaves another scent in the air —
the smell of success I’m still chasing.

Not every people are your people —
there are some paths, you won’t walk.
And some eyes, you won’t meet.
And some connections? You just hang up.

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

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

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

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

Sigh! It comes like a train — an express line through
my thoughts, no stops, no warnings. Oh how
DEPRESSION clips at my heels, familiar as shadow,
unwelcome as memory. Defeated — like sunlight
pressed to branches too burdened to bloom. My heart
hangs in moss — heavy, strangled in the green silence
of old grief.

Tears lean like leafless trees, bowed in all directions,
yet rooted in a place with no direction — a forest dying
quietly, where even the familiar trails feel like ghost
roads I no longer recognize.

I feel short of worth — like coins counted in silence,
never enough to buy the currency of being loved.
I glow in daylight, but dusk takes its due —
and now I dim with every breath.

I try to speak, but end up forcing books down my throat,
pages crammed with words I never learned to say.
But you’ll never see me cry in public — I’m an island
left off every map, burying bottle messages even
I won’t recover.

I have so much hopeful words for others, but I’m
a stack of unread stories to myself; a pen that dries
before I can name the ache.

And somewhere inside —I find a red box with hidden
compartments, each one meant to hold something sacred.
But they echo when I open them — soft, hollow
reminders that even my soul has forgotten how
to fill its space.

Fee-fi-fo-fum— as we weighed love by
an empty ounce, and paid it all back by this
sore pound. They yell: “come now or begone,”
and if you can’t produce the sum for what’s
been done; flee to fine some… or find none.

An anguish in fornication, and a touch that speaks,
but means nothing at all. No real stimulation—
just hunger in the guise of heat, and shame where
love was meant to meet. As some feather-dust their
guilt, pretending to have clean intentions. But we’ve
only used each other to air out our frustrations.

These old recycled themes; ******* from peers,
spilling from worn-out jeans, and spreading
dreams like genes, without real meaning in between
the fabric of time.

But tell me, do you still not see the giant problem?
Or are you too big for yourself, to fully measure up
to your own faults?

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

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

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

Walking down the aisles of fear –
a thousand miles paved in soft-spoken panic,
a cart full of dreams, half on sale, half returned.
And on other days, I crash like a kart – cornered,
spinning, never quite finishing the lap.
Tell me: what's the missing piece to a scar?
The echo that completes the pain, or the piece
of you still aching to be whole?

Some days feel like broken piano strings –
and not every key fits success, as the minor
hopes can also become our major regrets.
And still, you stay – a melody trapped in place,
living to dream. Yet if that lullaby won’t rest
your mind, find another song to sing.
One that knows your name.

Grinding your smiles, stained with bitter coffee –
as brewed remarks sip back at you. You try to hold
a strong stance in the night, but don’t live for one-night
stands with your own worth. We are all skin and sand –
grains of the past clinging to the present, footsteps
washing away even as we walk forward.

I am lost — without a horizon. Tell me:
what is it like to live without a conscience?
Learning how to freefall in the golden patterns
of parachutes, each moment feels like sunrise
blooming in my eyes.

Dreams are like aged photographs, as we
live in their flat silence, posing in fragments,
dancing around opinions in wide, unguarded smiles.

But under a blasting sun, its rays hit like bullets
piercing ivy-orange through my chest — autumn-hued
wounds that hope to shimmer like the gleam of sunset.

So I gather what glows, from scattered light and broken
frames, trying to make warmth from splinters, and to name
it hope. Even in freefall, there’s beauty in how we land.

For that which I don’t know— built from
the bones of all the words I never spoke.
My life, if summarized, could be a quote:
a borrowed line, or a borrowed joke.
Either footnoted in memory, or discarded
as someone who misquoted hope
___________
Perhaps I’d trade in an error
for a single, shapeshifting era.
But funny how the past echoes loudest
in silence, and how legends live on not
in flesh, but in the offspring of their legacy.

Still— be careful not to jump to conclusions.
Don’t cut off your spring just because
you mistook the thaw for drowning.
And don’t become so quick to sip judgment
that you forget: a half-empty drink
can still quench the right thirst, depending
on who's pouring… and who's parched.
____________
Now there are those who offer their offending
speech like confetti; those whose presence is a
soft kind of peace; a balm, a breath, a quiet release.
Then there are others whose only offering is grief
once a week, wearing Sunday suits but speaking in leaks.

I have grown to value those who live
like arrows— honest, piercing, straightforward.
Not those who bend truth into shapes that fit
their spin, sending stories spinning on a tired wheel,
toward destinations they never meant to reach.
____________
Some speak on others' names with
the boldness of ownership, but it’s all
counterfeit— a forged will, a stamped conviction.

As for me? For that which I don’t know:
it remains a wonder, and I live in awe of it.
But as for some, with their tongue dipped
in certainty; your armour is made of knowing—
but you truly know nothing at all.

Time...

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

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

Love…

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

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

The brand of our skies lingers — soft kisses
drifting through the air, and I seem to lose every word
except for one whisper: “I love you.” As our love roars
like an anthem beneath a midnight sun, where my tears
have soaked the tired pillow of a heart that rests only
on the thought of you.

Each rhythm of speech stumbles into another pause
before a kiss, and like the taste of a wish granted, I find
my voice again, always to speak of you in reverent tones,
for you stand atop the mountain that houses my heart.

Your eyes; perhaps they’ve forgotten the worth of time.
There’s a watch not on your wrist, but bound to your leg,
always stepping over it.

And while the sun maps out your days, the moon is a pin
dropped at the final stop. Tomorrow isn’t promised —
no more than a compliment from a stranger. And just like
that stranger, it stays nameless until you dare ask its name
by dusk. Where the Sun Whispers, and the Moon Waits.

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

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

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

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

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.