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.

On tippy toes, dancing with the Devil; the tipsy ballerina – tattooed
her dreams underneath a piece of Silk. And there's a lace upon my
window eyes, to see through her pain; she seems so brainwashed,
and in such a daze – as rain fell on her hair.

Her skin was once so fair, nowadays it seems to be paying a fare, for
all those potholes up the road to her smile. I splashed in the puddles
of a few wet kisses – speaking less, but hearing a lot of, “all men are
just the same,” as for me, society’s standard of beauty all looks, and
tastes the same.

I held you, kissed you – lending out a lens, to blind my eyes from
seeing your ugly friends. Those you hate in secret; telling me how
MUCH you hate them, and my hate for them, must ALSO be good
at playing pretend.

As you pout your mouth – talking about how much I should bank
on your heart – is that the reason you keep an account on all the
things I've done wrong, to make me lose interest in our love?

Love can feel like it’s around the corner; too busy playing on these
streets, in the present tense – hoping to receive our gifts. But when
love has run its course, it’s a static image of joy; the two are just GIFs.

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

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

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

my girlfriend would wear baggy jeans – being my solitude, as a
faithful lover. it’s just the darkness she has in her genes. sometimes
I cut her fingernails, to stop her from biting them – she starts to bite
me instead. my sad stories are all reflected in her tears; she tried to
cut my hair, and cut right deep into my thoughts – I’m always
thinking out loud.

she sits on my lap, just to have a window seat; her hair is like a
forest, that the comb loses it’s teeth. still my fingers run through
the woods; dark as a night, where my eyes become her moon.

and she’s the wettest dream – a real sensual thing; being like a
water Queen. she knows I can't water down my words, or kiss her
less without our spit. “kiss me before we go” – even if we’re just
going to the corner store.

but that’s just the thing; I’m in the market for finding hope in
my dreams – for this person only exists in my dreams. sigh!

Too many to count on my hands,
too many to have, too many to make
me happy, mad or sad.
Too many girls in the land, I don't
always understand.

But what's the world without them,
what's a nine out of ten; if this world isn't
truly complete without them?
Some as friends, not too many as lovers.
But so many who taught me how to be a
good hugger.

They give me fatigue,
they stick to my side like the flesh to my flesh,
bone to bone of those potentials to my Eve.
The sharpest memory, of when I do them wrong,
who had, to have me falling in love with them,
and a corny love song.

What's the world without them;
driving me crazy. But we also go crazy
for them.

Give me a couple years...
I'll be living as a king;
but right now, I'm working it all out
so hard as a slave.

Give me a couple years...
to be the boss of my own;
that once worked for bosses.

Give me a couple years...
to drink to all my successes;
filled with a cup of the tears.

Give me a couple years...
for cheers of praise of my name;
made from the whispers of disbelief.

Give me a couple years...
to enjoy the hatching of all my gold;
from the eggs I didn't count before they hatched.

Give me a couple years...
to have put smiles on my family's face,
from the times it looked at me with worry.

Give me a couple years...
to not boast of what I made;
but appreciate all that I earned.

In a couple years...
I'll be every dream I always had,
living them all wide awake.

                   I only need a couple years...

bury me alive, and let's just pretend it wasn't suicide
oh, you don't like me, well so do I — there's this ugly version
of myself that I can't deny, so to every girl I date, I always
pray you'll find a better guy

still, I fell in love with the rhythm of your eyes,
cos you always seem to view me as a better guy. to my
surprise, you give me reason to stay alive

but I always tell you not to read too deeply
on some of the things I say. darling I'm only human —
sometimes I make spelling errors, still was it a spell that
you fell in love with me?

      your purpose is love,
                 and I'll protect it with my life.

Fallen winds are scheming, as the biting cold was teething –
and in season, you could never forget the warmth of love,
when you’ve had that first feeling. But as your eyes start
to look like home, they gave me a welcome by the mat
at your door – where every kiss you, felt sunk deep
into your pores.

The result of a heart, is keeping score of how many times
it broke apart – criminals do fall in love, as they were
the ones who stole your heart. Warm in their innocence
as they court you with a smile; but when that love faces
a trial, don’t we start to judge our place in this love?

Your lips in their warmish water, now boils the joy out
of my smile – I’m a bit steamed when you bring your ex
around.

But I must have loved you as a vowel; even when
you became my X, I still love the pieces of U. And I
sometimes think about you more than I should; for
when we still love someone who doesn’t love you
back, don't we wonder sometimes Y?

Days drift toward oblivion, as existence bears down upon the cosmos,
consuming us whole— we are a titan sculpted from the remnants of
lost souls, thriving in a vineyard of despair. These obsidian cherry
desires, weeping with the rain, and these lips, forged from the same
flesh, cry out in fervent prayers. “Lord, give us this day,” we plead,
yearning for the sustenance of daily bread. In the shadow of poverty,
joy fades into silence; in sorrow, we hear the haunting echoes of our
shared lament among the trees. In the pools of our sorrow, we gaze
upon untainted skin, the glimmering droplets mirrored in the water.

A miracle bestowed is akin to the sweetness of a first kiss; delicate
and fleeting — as we love holding our breath in anticipation of
another, yet failing to voice our true needs. Yet, life wears us down,
gathering us like discarded clothes— material smiles; we have
devoured the richness of our cherry desires, leaving only a handful
of barren stems in our wake—had you not sought instead this Daily
bread?

But what does daily bread signify for you – the clinking of coins, the
allure of wealth, the visage of another, their utterances, or the depths
of their emotions? Could it be that what you seek is not the bread that
nourishes your soul?

You deserve more of
what you get,
Little glances at you
more than enough to make any fall
Tis be like a season of love
long before the spring of roses on Valentine's.

Though I'm still not the biggest
fan of the time
You've blown into my thoughts,
controlling my hearts AC
Forced to adapt

But if I cross my eyes
before you cross my mind as always.
You might see the X right
on my heart.

So you could treasure my
love, cherish it for the worth
Gladden me babe
to gladly be in love with you.

A prideful person looks
Into a mirror without glass —
Because pride won’t let you see
The truth staring back.

God fears no man – creator of existence, in the composition that
spoke life and oxygen to all you creatures. Some pray their prayers
as Christian, few times aloud as a victim – walking on surface of
earth, we crowd it with pollution for the nectar of wealth, spreading
seeds for what is made from personal growth – the birds and the
bees.

Pollinating the stigma to our young, that they have all the time to
be dumb. Hatching all of your fears to your son you call chum;
fishing the picture of plenty fish in the sea – did you at least
teach him how to swim. Figuratively!

Though quite literally; the bait of addiction is the idea that everyone
does it as a passage of growth. The world finds success in us
following a uniform message, their wickedness to clothe…

Us, against the world, though parts of the world believe they’re
greater than God.

Holes in my shoes; I did trod:
I feel so worn out of the distance,
In this journey of life so long:

Often I laugh at once,
Cry myself to sleep twice in a day:
As tears are a language-
Speaking it in signs;
But only a few can understand:

My soul erodes,
From all that I have to bare;
Still from God, I got my equal share.

Eyes that would word a painter' creation. All the beauty
upon the ends of Earth. Framed; hanging on invisible
wires of worlds.

He has glazed my eyes, hanging still in life' chaos.
Looking to all that was done, through a window view of insight.
His words made planets, stars, moon, and sun. So delight
deep of his reverence.
            
Of a cunning hand of artistic art. Set apart to it's part.

The product of love, is it's desire for multiplication,
as the time we have together, subracts the more we kiss
And in addition to one day having kids; the idea of how to raise
them could cause division

Still to love as equals, as despite the position of the head
non could be greater than the head of us above

            ...the perfect mathematician is and will always be God

The burden of life weighed heavily upon me while I was young;
a constant whisper in my ear that I lacked real sweetness, using
tablespoons of sugar to fill my cup. I once held the naive belief that
I would depart this world with a smile, if I ever died too young.
I found myself swearing that my life would plan out better; feeling
as though I would have things figured out – but I tend to swear
mostly under pressure, to a life feeling more like I ****** up.

In a place where the slightest act of indulgence is met with scorn—
where reaching for a bit more water from the *** is seen
as a sacrilege, as if I might taint the very essence of life itself—
yet everyone so is quick to drink out of same big cup. The human
eyes is so oblivious to their own hypocrisy.

My youthful hands, were once so eager to grasp the reins of
responsibility, but trembled with the fear that I could never bear the
weight of what was expected of me, especially to those who nurtured
me with such care, longing to return their kindness with open palms.

Life, it seems, is merely a calculation— a game of figures; whether
you figure it best to navigate it as a devout follower of faith, or as be
a seeker in the chaotic realm where success is only measured by the
right figures.

Ah, what a life it is… go figure!

Working long hours to pay for a job on an empty road,
Can barely think straight or in one direction, for my thoughts are too abroad.
I told myself yesterday, you cannot touch what you cannot see,
You can't really **** if all the guns are not free ,
And if you don't have cash you cannot go on some crazy shopping spree.
Plus you can't really hate me if you don't fully know me.

That yesterday turned into two weeks ago,
A couple hours back to that I knew where those words were going to, I  knew where to put my words to go.

Now I'm finally here, whatever this place could be,
In empty nothingness taking a lot of space, now I'm feeling so golden free.
But I'm a person trying to fit in puzzle places when I'm a solid block,
Turn around to that, I'm a Golden Key for this empty lock.

Now here I am,
In this open space, feeling like the golden man.
I want to dive into a empty pool when I still cannot swim,
Drown away all my pains and regrets and cut it down, not just a trim.

But that was just a golden rule I told myself,
For this is my worth building up and this all my wealth.

Do I know all that one
      could know?

          (No!)

I'm only by the bye;
  of saying my goodbyes.

To raise myself on high;
   to wave a welcome to fate.

            (Hi!)

So to myself... my trade of
        thought is split-
     I am surely in two.

For what is fate;
   for how many times has it
determined a choice in my life?

           (Four!)

Like two words that sound the same;
             but like me-
The two sides of me are so different,
     that defines who I am.

I  am the good, but also the bad.

Seasonal changes always come
to be,
As for every start there's an end
to it too.

All open doors are soon to be closed,
as we too close over the year.
Saying goodbye to all good, and bad it's brought,
whether to some, the bad was more
We still remember such times, if we're
ever willing to move forward.

Goodbye 2020,
to another year gone.
Like old winds blown away,
new ones come in newer seasons.
To be a different season,
despite us aware of what new winds bring our way.

Still like yesterday,
we've learnt to live more in today,
Always keeping our eyes onto tomorrow.
So our goodbyes to now,
becomes our hellos to what new follows.

“Goodbye,”
is a lengthier term than the simple “Hie,”
Yet the act of saying goodbye feels short-lived –
at least that’s my wish each time I must part
ways with you.
For in that brief moment of saying goodbye,
I always hold onto the hope that we’ll soon
exchange a cheerful “Hie” once more.

I can’t bear the thought of you leaving, because
I can already picture how this tale unfolds.
You’ll be off touring the world –
I’ll be the devoted fan, chasing you from one
destination to the very next.

Waiting in all of your memories, but you won’t
notice me at any of the bus stops along the way.
It seems we both have to find a way to let go.

A guise into your eyes, — knowing what you’re thinking,
In your silence; they must hear what your heart means;
For love at times, makes you feel so awkward,
A mirage of smiles, feeling foreign on a gritty beard.
Also love at times, feels like two kids in love,
With not much time to kid around.

While the eyes of your mirror,
Reflect just a small piece of another,
Time loves to dance around in your eyes;
As maturity starkly chases after you,
Before you place your first foot
On that familiar battleground.

It was beauty alone, putting a heart on lock
At odds; putting out all of their fires,
Still a piece of them enjoyed the spark.
And they must have worked up every thought,
Each one of them, thinking about you,
Still maybe I, enjoyed that too
— Of your presence’s work of art.

Yet,

It would remain best to appreciate you as a friend,
Then despise you later on as someone
I claimed to have once loved.

self absorbing,
***** talking tastes of erosion
don't want to spoil the mood
but i soiled myself in a bust of tears
i don't cry as much, not much time
to cry about anything as a man on a constant move,
and i don't have  much of the moves, to move
back into your heart,-

let's vacate quickly before i'm occupied by time
opting out of the options at hand,
not so handy being left out when you're left handed
as i see your yawn like applauds;
forcing everyone else to chip in

we've become bored of our love, as the writing is
stuck on the wall in white; a chalkboard
as if i forgot to dot down the notes,
taking note of an aid to memory
it's too late now; the classes have ended
and I've been schooled by someone
else who could love you better.

You lived twice; living out a life for two,
In the spring; you sprung out your sprouting love,
But it all falls; woodlands descending echoes into madness,
For she wasn't as mad over you.

So you deferred away from despair,—
Love being an icy glass cutting your teeth,
Despondency circling round her running in your mind,
Seems no other love to compare.

Bare you a kiss; sweet as it's lamentable finale,
On top of a hill, by the bend and red eyes,
Crying as if; the ocean's waters ran away from it's place,
You said, "goodbye my sweet Sally"

I’ve got diamond eyes, but don’t see myself so clear,
All the excited boys make the most noise,
Yet depression only needs to whisper in an ear.

Words are prison bars; speaking highly of yourself
the danger of being handed a lengthy sentence–
Booked in the library of time; days sitting on a shelf.

… waiting to be read

Let me stay shelved a little longer— reading up,
leading up, dreaming of a story still becoming
Between the lines; silent – even good stories gather dust
These tales of triumph still tarnish and rust…

Don't judge by how loud or how fast it all looks—
even the best stories get forgotten in books…
misunderstood!

Go on airing out people's-
***** laundry;
Could expose your yellow sheets:
Only gets worse when the mattress comes out.
                 You won't sleep.

Treading upon the fragile shards of time;
moments cascade into oblivion, as the echoes
of my bones resonate with the agony of existence.
I seldom boast of my worth, yet my lips dared to speak
with courage. I sought my place among the stars, wandering
the glassy avenues where the imprint of your steps lingers
upon the meticulously laid path.

My mind, burdened by the weight of stony tears,
contemplates the thoughtless utterances that birthed
yet another futile verse. At times, I find myself gasping beneath
the suffocating pillow of my own uncertainties, surviving on
the fragile threads of hope, faith, and fleeting joy that last but
a week; still, I feel like an intruder in my own sanctuary.

Dreams drown in the merciless shadows;
the dawn's light offers them a glimmer of hope – a sanctuary
for the spirit among the awakened. I drift in a half-sleep,
daydreaming amidst a throng of fellow dreamers, our youthful
skins too tender to fade, a heart yearning to be filled with cherished
memories.

These sins bind humanity in shackles,
desperately seeking an escape from the labyrinth of their minds.
Oh, is existence truly madness? Yet, in spite of the suffering,
we pray to live another day. And so this fragment of life is
my grace, a testament to the fact that I have yet to meet the grave.

…don't give an F to the world, as it will only play you out so flat. it's a
place where young men are taught from a tender age to think with a
D, as if that's the major key to success – we desperately need some
minor adjustments in all our mindset's metronome

life:

the stark black and white hues, like the keys on a piano, as
everyone tries to ascend their scale of freedom. so often, I find myself
pondering what melodies, the piano man in the sky composes as he
watches over us, his fingers dancing effortlessly across the celestial
keys – harmonies to echo through the universe

our heart’s compositions reflect a symphony of your own human
emotions, those blending notes of joy, sorrow, love, and hope – a
beautiful crescendo of one’s life journey. but we live as a fleeting
chord in the vast symphony of the cosmos, hoping to play each note
with delicate precision and purpose

the music within and around you, could guide you through the
harmonies and dissonances of life. fighting the silent chaos in your
head – or being the distracting sound of chaos from all your worries
                             this grand life piano.

Gravity becomes increasingly
envious of everyone: who've put me
down, kept me down - to let me down.

My greatest poem—in every letter, creation
of new words and those profound sentences.
Line breaks of the metered stanzas, patterns of
end rhymes, All those wanting to be messages
in cryptic form. A wordsmith written in stone.
—I'm still searching.

In similes alike, metaphors based on everyday
pictures of life. Food for thought; in second helpings
of a secondary meaning. Allegory, an axillary joint
of alliteration. The alluring allusion of a shoulder
none present; I refer to being a connection. In all
other pieces written before, written in corresponding.
—I'm still searching.

In these continuing words—a couplet, in the irony
of a leading conclusion not intentionally lead.
But what is once read; is best to be read again....
a repetition. What is once read; is best to be read
again, what is once read; is best to be read again.
—I'm still searching.

In the deepest parts of a piece; the meat is on
the bone. To describe what's at stake, to be words
thrown at your face. A reminder the second time
of when we'll meet again. In puns of patting myself
on my back—these a self praises of being an ode.
—I'm still searching.

             And will I find my greatest poem,
                             ...Rhetorical question

Mmmm....

The oak is strong; as it must be from cutting words,
Tough skin and brave,
Calm handed and determined,
Bright smile and focused,
Wise eyes and ownership; life does require this.

You are strong—but not like gods,
You are strong—but not like machines,
You are strong—but not like currencies,
You are stronger when you choose to...

Grow in the winds, rooted in time,
And fruitful of a cooling love under shade.

I am a Great oak.

We rise, we fall
We fight for many just to lose it all.
I hold my gun for it's the only thing closest to me.
Seen so much blood that it's so hard to dream.
I'm going down, I caught a grenade.

We march, we follow
We fight these wars on courage we borrow.
I chew on bullets just to keep my strength.
My nose has gone dull from the smell of stench.
I'm going down, I caught a grenade.

We shoot, we ****,
They told us all winning the war would be thrill.
My eyes are shut upon darkness,
My soul dark and cold that it can't bloom flowers.
I'm going down, I caught a grenade.

We ducked for cover,
But the enemies found us and shot my brother.
We tried to fight back, but it was all for waste,
The grenade they threw blew half my face.
I'm going down, I caught a grenade.

We won the war,
But the victory cut through me like a saw.
Was once a man,
But only now the half of him.
I was going down, I caught a grenade.

Going down, I caught a grenade.

Our youth-
seemed to be all careless
So age finds and grows a child.

Peer pressured by our habits;
living in them like a habitat.
Stuck in a hole of teen depression;
as it looks to be a grey rabbit.

i heard of a shadow,
in an empty room
full of intentions,
still they're like a rainy day
still deciding how grey it wants to be.

i picked the corner of a world,
where my square ideas were vaguely
valued; a child who thinks out of the box
i stored a piece of myself in the closet
of my parent's skeletons;
ancestry artifacts burdened by a
generational chain,- the attire of a uniform
conversation; pretending i had a
good day at school today.

"no i didn't cry as much in class,
as i usually do, dearest mother
i did try to make a pass on math on being
calculative, on how i spent my day,
busiest father."

"as i bullied a bully before he could
make me his next victim
cutting him short a few generations
when i kicked him in his *****."

and i only cried, not out of guilt,
but to guilt everyone else, as to make it
seem as if it wasn't entirely my fault.

still even if it had not rain that day,
i'd still ask myself why my tears
felt so grey that day

An evaporating breath,
trying to photosynthesize with you
and make every kiss sweet like sugar
But I couldn't say that I loved you from
the very start,- still looking for that root word

                 ****, how you've grown on me.

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!

growing pains
—these deep roots of hurt
cut off the past, water the present
and let the future grow

              ...life is all about growth

You have outgrown a handful of lovers and a multitude of friends—
separating your solid pains from a liquid of your tears;
But you were caught in the strain, for as you grow and change;
those you’ve known will grow away to be a change of friends

Through every fence we ***** between ourselves, some remain
on the side where you cultivate your life, while others are
relegated to the opposite side, merely spectators from afar

Maturity is a bittersweet taste:
the sweetness of realizing your growth,
akin to savouring a fine wine, - contrasted by the bitterness
of knowing you will part ways with a few friends
Cos as you feel alone; you’re not the only one in this
world to find growth

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.

I feel so alone in a world that loves to **** itself,
As I need a gun, to truly feel like I belong;- filling
Up its cold chamber holes, in this revolving world
Six monumental shots, ready to **** myself…

Bullet 1: the war on drugs, is just a war with ourselves

Bullet 2: the war for land, is just a war with the world

Bullet 3: the war for peace, is a war in which death
   will only be the truest peace we’ll know

Bullet 4: the war for survival, is a war of stealing
   and killing, for that desperate dollar

Bullet 5: the war of the flesh, is a war between sanctifying
   the temple, or satisfying myself in lust’s power

Bullet 6: the war of identity, is a war of fighting against
   all the alleged titles- in order to find my true self

letting all the guns sing;
society and our bodies Already know the chorus
someone dying by the gun isn't just a tragedy, but just Another Story
dying in a blaze of fury,— Innocent deaths, going out without any glory

... circles, circles, and circles; it's just how the cyle goes

and there's no water under the bridge;
while we're all Drowning in those bullets
raining tears, and smoke
better grab your umbrellas, under Another day of Bullet Storms

... circles, circles, and circles when will the cycle
          end?

Slippery conversation, just to slide into their DM's;
it's like tiptoeing on a seesaw, balancing the desire to initiate
a flirtatious exchange while maintaining a careful distance.
And yet, there's an itch of curiosity in our fingertips, wondering
if their summer eyes hold the warmth that can melt away our
winter hearts. It's that morning look they give, an invitation to
dance in the sun-kissed moments that follow the sunrise.

Calling me like I owe you something, as if the world were a
collection of IOUs waiting to be redeemed. It's as if you're calling
in favors in an attempt to earn love, unaware that love cannot be
bought or borrowed. Love is a delicate, genuine connection that
isn't measured by material debts, but by the authenticity of
emotions shared.

There's a certain beauty in the sight of lovers holding onto each
other till the end, their love intertwining like the perfect fit of a glove.
It's in those moments of subtle touches and gentle caresses that we witness the power of love's embrace. It's a symbol of unity
and tenderness, reminding us that love, at its core, is about
supporting and cherishing one another.

To truly embrace life and love, we must find our groove, our
own unique rhythm that resonates with our soul. It's in this
harmony that we experience the true essence of being free, like
the wind blowing through our hair with untamed bliss.
Time, like an ephemeral gust, sweeps past us, reminding us that it
treats us all equally. So let us seize the precious moments,
cherishing every second as a gift to be treasured.

Blaring sun
pieces of skin left in the grass
-an aggressive game of soccer

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.

To awkwardly smile,
being called handsome
Didn't have a lot of riches,
but at luckiest days I had some
Could you spare a little handy advice,
to a still growing child and hand some
To calculate the formula to success,
how best in it's beforehand sum

                        to be handsomely paid—perhaps

Ugh..hanging body
hanging on threads;
tied around feeling tired
My eyes feel like a fire, trapped
in a package of my baggy eyes

Ugh...I paid extra tips for the
night before. Woke up feeling tipsy
The night before felt a little too risky
dealing with the heavy whispers of someone
saying they want to kiss me

Ugh...the day tastes ugly
and I really feel funny
Thankfully I was in good company
enjoying the good old days for a younger me
But now the daylight is chewing me up
and the loud sounds of day swallows me up

Ugh...Sunday hangover
Monday feels so close to the touch,
and I'm hoping for that day of work
I don't wake up feeling rough

A human experience,
a pocket full of options
-a tune for my room
Airpods, a moody playlist;
alone to dance without a point to prove
Current location: My happy place

pit, pat...
tip, tap...
tiny steps of children's play.

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

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