Am I a poet or a writer
Am I a wise man or a fool
The answer is all of the above
Yes it feels good to be popular
But what glory is there in hiding
The vastness of our other mindsets
I feel more than empathy
I feel pain, anger, resentment
I am happiness and sadness
Wrapped in one mind and so much more
My writings are different parts of who I am
My legacy of writings
Beautiful, messy, vague
****** up or strangely weird
As they seem
Are parts
Of the whole me
The real me...

with hope and light
beneath enchanted magical trees
turned heavy white
on a river side
of sandy beige
a happy face of golden egg-less yolk
shining in the sky of cyan

to have a sunny day of orange
in the winter of grey
blue sky warming my heart of red
on a cold day
rainbow birds chirping songs of love
silver breeze flowing cold and steady
unable to consume the warmth from my brown eyes

as I go blind
with the light of your pale face
so perfectly encompassed between
the curls of inky black and maroon lace
and your pink smile
adding colour to the blank canvas of my mind
you're so beautiful!

what I see is a wonderful artistry of nature
that is skilfully crafted with perfection
colours and words find difficult to give it expression
how your precious pearls of sapphire
placed gently inside the seashells
that draws me in
& I can't resist to dive within

so all I want is to drown
and be lost in their depths
while I keep looking at you
until the azure ether wraps itself
in a mahogany hue
and the day drapes a coat
of starry dust in coal

Never mind
the boy
who's got his
head
in the clouds.

Just...
wrap up his
remains
and
bury him
in
shrouds.

He hopes
to be
missed
by
more than
just
a
few.

More
importantly
he'd like
to be
missed...
Just
by
you.