The Brits, with their 'colour' and 'favour',  
Hold their spellings in high savour.  
But across the pond, Americans say,  
Why use a 'u' when it can be cast away?

'Organize' they cry, and 'realize' too,  
With 'zeds' replaced by 'zees' to make it all new.  
‘Catalogue’ trimmed to ‘catalog,’ for ease and for haste,  
While ‘theatre’ turns to ‘theater’ with no time to waste.

So here's to the quirks of the English tongue,  
Two ways to write, both right and wrong.  
Lazy or not, it’s diversity’s spice,  
Making our language a tad more precise.

Oh humble sock, I sing to thee,
Soft guardian of my feet so free.
With threads of cotton, wool, or silk,
You cradle toes in warm embrace, like quilt.

From dawn to dusk, you serve with grace,
In every step, in every place.
A buffer ‘gainst the world’s hard ground,
In you, my comfort has been found.

In winter’s chill and summer’s heat,
You brave the elements, no small feat.
Through rain and snow, through sun’s bright glare,
With steadfast loyalty, you’re always there.

You may be plain, you may be bright,
In colours bold or shy and light.
But in your simplicity, I find
A solace true, a peace of mind.

So here’s to you, my knitted friend,
Whose quiet care will never end.
Oh humble sock, I sing to thee,
Your simple warmth, my soul sets free.

When she appears, dawn hides in shame,
It folds it's light.
Her eyes, twin fawns by the stream,
Framed by lashes that haunt like a dream.
I lean toward her as the thirsty lean,
To water’s edge in lands unseen

The font in her eyes—verses untold,
Etched by masters whose pens drip gold.
Each line I trace is a map to her soul,
A script where longing has taken control.

Her voice—like water over stone,
Soft, yet strong, wholly my own.
I need no riches, no kingdom’s throne,
Her smile alone makes the world my home.

I am a seed,
a husk of what once was,
a soil for what will become.

In this earth, my dead body is fuel,
flesh dissolving into the dark,
feeding roots that thread like veins,
pulling life from my decay.

Even in the loneliest of places,
where no eyes have lingered,
the trees stand as witnesses,
their leaves brushing whispers of acknowledgment.
The earth cradles my weight,
the air drinks my last breath.
Each moment, however brief,
leaves echoes in nature's memory,
etched in the bark,
traced by the wind,
carried by the quiet pulse of soil.

We live not in the length of our time,
but in the ripples we leave—
in the bending of grass,
in the songs of birds,
in the memories that hold us close
long after we are gone.

I am the quiet surrender to the inevitable,
the silence that gives way to green whispers,
a sacrifice to the bloom of tomorrow.

I do not ask for forever,
I do not beg to remain.
That I am in the roots, the wind, the rain—
That is enough.

After All

We are human,
after all,
much in common,
after all.

A beating heart,
a fleeting breath,
the same sunrise,
the same death.

I’m tracing back to moments I’ve replayed a thousand times,

It’s just a confusing tone
Have the doubts and hatred grown too overblown
Has my perception been ruined on the lies we condone,
On the fleeting pleasure of a throne

Stop and wait a sec
When ten years from now, I look at myself, will I express regret
Do the failures of youth dictate the path we expect,
Or does a stumble define what’s next

An adult all alone,
With nothing to do, he spends his time scrolling through his phone,
With no one to call his own.

But being alone is no cause for shame
Sometimes the right person just never came
It’s not a failure or flaw it's not a crack in the frame,
Just a life unfolding at its own pace

Though frightened by the thought,
But what do you expect when you yourself have brought
A life where the cracks are easier to see than the whole
That if I’ve let myself be caught,
What if I grow into someone I no longer know
But perhaps the cracks bring light,
A fragile hope that cuts through nights

It seems like all the years are wasted, but who is there to blame
Hope is a thing that just makes me feel like ache
What is there to be hopeful of when all I see is pain
And I’d leave, if what was waiting for me wasn’t flames

And it’s all just in my chest
A disease that forbids me from going to rest
Lord, forgive me for where I’ve strayed,
If I’m still in your grace, let my soul not fade
You’re the only one who knows my path
I’m here by your will, not by chance or wrath
Just don’t take my eyes from my head too soon
Let me see the sun, even in this darkened room.

I just woke up and—
It’s cold, and I’m tired.
Standing at the bus stop with my neighbors,
my bag heavier than my body,
my head heavier than my bag.

The textbook in my hand lists my exams,
Kingdoms I can’t classify and processes I can’t explain.

The bus driver lives around the corner.
We hear his engine start,
the grumble of morning.
He pulls out,
backs up,
and rolls toward us.

We climb in.
Seats creak.
Heat hums, just barely.

I open the book,
but the letters won’t stay still.

I glance up—
and the sky hits me.

Pastel.
Not pink, not purple—something between.
And it’s almost as if you can smell it—
it smells like—

Like something good.
Not candy.
Not flowers.
Like air after rain, but sweeter—
cleaner.

The sky just exhaled
and the world paused
to breathe it in.

I stare.
Busmates probably think I’m twelve,
staring out the window like I’ve never seen clouds.

But that sky—

It knocks the tired out of my bones.
Cuts through the fog in my chest.
Wipes out the weight of what-ifs and what-nows.

It feels holy, almost.
Not church holy,
but the kind that sneaks up on you
when you don’t believe in much.

I keep looking,
like maybe if I stare long enough,
I’ll stay awake.

And for a moment,
I don’t care about the test,
or the clock,
or the day.

For a moment,
I believe that something out there
is still worth watching.