I wrote about her
not out of love,
but out of need.
Need to trap a flicker of warmth
before it burned through me.

She wasn’t a girl,
she was the hush between verses.
Her voice moved like water over stone
soft, inevitable
the kind that shaped you before you realized you were eroding.

Her eyes
I once called them twin fawns by the stream.
I meant it.
That wild, startled beauty.
The kind that makes you lean forward,
thirsty,
but too reverent to touch.

Her absence folded me like linen
creased into every room I entered,
every silence I mistook for peace.

I called her the dawn that made the stars ashamed.
I meant that, too.
Light wasn’t light until it touched her skin.
Every metaphor I wrote tasted like rosewater and musk,
and every breath steeped in jasmine.

She never read them.
Or if she did
she stayed silent,
like she always did.

I gave her gold in my lines,
wrote her smile into the constellations,
made her my always,
my only.
She gave me nothing.
Not cruelty, just... distance.
She became the shadow I mistook for presence.

I wrote her again and again,
called her scripture,
called her the sun,
called her the one the rivers learned to dance for.

She never turned to look.

So I traced her ghost through metaphors.
I painted her into gardens I could walk through,
dreams I could survive inside.

Because if I couldn’t hold her
I’d hold the version I’d written.
The one who brushed my hair in twilight.
The one who said I was beautiful, even when I wasn’t.

I turned her into a myth.
She became a dawn that stayed.
A whisper that answered.

And I am
Still writing.
Still chasing
a girl who only exists
in poems she’ll never read.

I wake up and—
I don’t know why I do.

The air is stale, the ceiling the same.
Light slips through the blinds,
thin and pale,
like it doesn’t want to be here either.

I sit up,
let the silence settle,
wait for something to pull me out of bed.
Nothing does.

But I move anyway.

The floor is cold.
The weight in my chest is heavier than me.
I make my way through the day,
not waiting for anything,
not expecting anything—
but somehow, still hoping.

I check my phone like I’ll find something new.
I step outside like the air will feel different.
I look at the sky like it’ll tell me something
it’s never told me before.

I know better.
I know the message won’t come,
the answer won’t appear,
the door won’t open.

And yet—

I glance at the empty road.
I watch headlights pass like maybe one will stop.
I stare at the horizon like it owes me a miracle.

Nothing happens.

Nothing ever happens.

And still

Somewhere in me,
a flicker, faint as a dying match.
A warmth too small to call real,
too stubborn to go out.

I sigh—
and for a fleeting moment, I feel weightless.

The breath slips from my lungs, taking something heavy with it,
like it could unmake me, erase me, make me forget I was ever here at all.

It washes through my chest, filling me with something close to pleasure—
A release so deep it feels obscene,
an ****** in the ribs,
a warmth that hugs my soul and melts into me like it belongs there.

But the moment is greedy
it takes more than it gives.

And after

it hollows me out.

Leaves an emptiness so sharp it feels like a wound.
Like my breath left and never came back.
Like I traded weight for vacancy,
and that’s worse.

It lingers in my chest
a ghost of something I can’t name.
It hurts.
It aches.
At the same time.

I should probably get up.
Do something.
Fix my life, I suppose.

…Yeah.

I’ll do that.

In a minute.

One step, one shot, one final breath.
I walk through war, I talk to death.
He never speaks, but I still know—
Not yet, not yet. There's more to go.

I have wounded mine own heart,
Yet naught but blood it yields.
Shall I forever dwell apart,
In failure's barren fields?

Must this scar, so crimson-red,
Proclaim me weak and frail?
Or doth my spirit rise instead,
And let my torment sail?

Shall thou remain a failure evermore?
Or rise, and claim the strength thou had before?

I'd rather die young than fade into grey,
A song left unfinished, unsung to this day.

God willed my fate, but I’ve bent to none,
The drink I’ve spilled, the damage is done.

A flicker of a spark from the stone,
Flickers into ashes—let it burn.

What a strange request
To beg the dawn to sleep once more,
To bid the tide retreat, forget
The footsteps swallowed on the shore.

Alright now then, what’s next?
The turning page, the ink that bleeds,
The tethered soul who dares reflect
A child’s dream lost in grown men’s deeds.

Mourn me the wonder in my eyes,
For in its place, a hollow gloom,
No star remains,
Only the shadow of a bloom.

Never thought I’d hold those days
Like yellowed scrolls in trembling hands,
Illiterate to youth’s own phrase,
Yet reading now what time demands.

How can it be? This ticking crime,
this slow betrayal dressed in time?
This slow betrayal robed in grace?
Let me vanish in their wake.

Her name lingers in ink-stained verses,
Yet her footsteps never trace my door.
I wrote her into a love eternal,
Only to find she read no more.

She was both the poet and the silence,
The muse who never turned my way.
Her absence carves my soul to ruin,
Her love—a grave where echoes stay.

So long as hearts can break, as time may grieve,
So long lives loss, and I shall never leave.

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.

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.

I want to write you a poem,
One as fragrant as a breeze after the first rain,
carrying the scent of jasmine,
twisting softly through your hair.

I want to tell you how even the flowers, with all their perfumes,
grow jealous of your presence,
their petals fade, knowing they cannot match your grace.

I want to weave words around you,
like a shawl steeped in rosewater and musk,
wrapping you in whispers
that linger long after I am gone.
Like the sun's gentle glow in a cold morning,
warming you everywhere.

Hold me as you once did,
With a love so fierce, it stilled the explosions of stars.

Wrap me in your arms,
Tighter than the universe binds its constellations.

Feel my heartbeat against yours,
A rhythm only we could share,
A connection that feels eternal.

You are my always, my only.
So please, just one more time,
Let me feel what we once were.

Green eyes, soft as moss in the rain,
Holding the kind of quiet that hums.
A flicker of gold when the light shifts—
A forest, a flame, something alive.

That Garden, That Garden
I see it in my sleep.
The rivers run green,
bright and alive,
a scene that holds me still.

The air is thick with a scent I cannot name,
unique, like nothing else.
The water flows with a sound
I would hold onto forever.

The flowers are soft,
their colors muted,
gentle against the eye.

In the lake, a bridge rises,
bright oak simple, steady.
And the tree stands alone,
its arms wide,
a mother watching over her children.

in a very large labyrinth
a lone walker wanders
once was a figure danced, bathed in light
now an echo fading into night

each step forward, under the moon
carries a whisper of a tune
a melody once sweets, bitter now it seems
for love shared by one, alive was at least in dreams

the hearts solace, memories fray
yet there’s relief in the unravelling
from the grasp of a love that never did spread.

In this gentle release, both sorrow and grace,
For a heart that loved alone, finds its own space.
No longer tethered by what could have been,
Embracing the stillness, of love unseen.

I ask for no love to linger, nor fade into blue,
But for memories to visit, as old friends often do.

unburdened now, but i miss the weight’s hold.
that gentle hold.

Whenever she opens her eyes, she writes poetry,
And with every breath, she pens dreams effortlessly.

Whenever she talks, the universe leans in to hear,
Whenever she thinks, she paints skies crystal clear.

Whenever she's near, my soul finds its beat,
Yet somehow, we're strangers, destined never to meet.

Winds carry whispers from afar
The moon drifts softly in its aura
Stars fall quietly where shadows lay
Memories linger, refusing to decay
Time slips past in the light of aurora
But still, your name remains unspoken.

In the tender embrace of a serene, ancient wood,
Two trees once soared, side by side they stood.
Roots entwined in the soil’s tender clasp,
Branches woven in a timeless grasp.

One tree, robust, with emerald might,
Its leaves a dance in the sun’s soft light.
But the other—oh, the other!—fades,
A slow decay in nature’s cruel parade.

Its bark now brittle, cracked like bone,
Once vibrant leaves to the earth are thrown,
Curling brown, a whispered plea,
As it withers, longing to be free.

Yet still the healthy tree leans near,
Its emerald boughs full of silent fear,
Reaching toward its dying kin,
As if love alone could pull it in.

The forest watches, breath held tight,
In twilight’s pale and ghostly light.
And still, the living one won’t release
Its fading lover from this endless peace.

For how can life persist, alone,
When heart and root together have grown?
In shared breaths of wind, in rain’s soft kiss—
How can one survive without the other’s bliss?

So they stand there, a tragic pair,
One green, one ghostly, beyond repair.
Yet the living tree refuses to sway,
As if to say: "I’ll hold you till I too decay"

I'm the lone star,
Fading in your sky,
I'm a shadow,
Lost in your bright light.

I am the rain
That just wants to touch your face,
I'm just a wave,
that crashed in your grace.

I’m the breeze,
That aches for your skin,
I’m the night,
Waiting for you to begin.

I’m the dawn,
Hoping for your light,
I'm the star,
Yearning for your sight.

I’m the river,
Flowing toward your shore,
I’m the heart,
That aches for more and more.

I reach for you
In a void that swallows all—
You're the last shadow,
You're the final fall.

It's all broken,
But it feels like fate

At seventeen, I walk this line,  
Between what's lost and what's mine.  
MATURE in ways they cannot see,  
While others dance in youthful glee.

I hide my gifts, I shrink from light,  
For fear they’ll claim what isn’t right.  
They flaunt their pride, so loud, so sure,  
Yet their certainties feel so impure.

I loathe the arrogance they wear,  
Yet hate myself for how I care.  
For in my heart, I see the truth,  
That self-awareness often wastes in youth.

I exist for no one else but me,  
My deeds unseen, a quiet plea.  
Misunderstood, they call me bold,  
But selfish? No, that’s not my mold.

I’ve wasted time, I’ve tried to please,  
To fit a mold that wasn’t me.  
But now I see it’s all in vain,  
A cycle of self-inflicted pain.

Some call me friend, but I can see,  
They’re only close when it suits their need.  
Their empty words and careless ways,  
They leave me hollow, lost in a haze.

They act as if they care so much,  
But their warmth is cold, a shallow touch.  
I laugh and smile, but it feels off,  
Like I’m just playing some tiring scoff.

I've seen a few, wise and kind,  
But they’re too far for me to find.  
Their presence feels a distant star,  
Too far to reach, too bright, too far.

end,,,,,,