A bridge no one crosses becomes a statue of solitude,
A reminder that a form is purposeless sans its essence.
Sudden waves come as a legion, a multitude,
Overwhelming you with matters that yet again seem to make no sense.

Perhaps it was the imagination of the crossing that ruined it,
Or might be the region where it was mistakenly built.
The structure is here now and waiting for its fate,
Will it be a picture of what could be or will it be a realized gate?

Time will pass and it will certainly grow old,
We can maintain it or let rust reach its core.
Whatever happens, stories will be told,
If the thing was a bridge, speculating what it was for.

Not feeling myself these couple of yesterdays,
As if I don't puzzle in well in my own mold.
Looking for the blur that once was of praise,
Stuck in a form pretending to be wise and old.

I think I need what was for what will be,
Ah; the agony of existing between then and now.
Wondering if this mind will ever be free,
To actually relearn the whys and a few hows.

Why do I seem like a tragedy waiting to happen?
A fire that is continuously being put out?
Half the universe of ideas the mind did sharpen,
Are those of tiny voices shut when want to shout.

"It's all in my head, it's all in my head,"
As I try to breathe and attempt to calm myself up.
Close my eyes and go to the familiarity of the bed,
Just to wake up anticipating that one big drop.

We are aware of time, we are aware of our youth,
But why is it still hard to see some hope?
This is bothersome, that's the truth,
Have you seen us? Improvising life to cope?!

We let minutes pass by knowing it's wasted,
Had a thought, had a plan, but held up,
By that which keeps anxiety sedated,
More, higher, stronger -- never enough.

Getting through the day, impostor,
Beaming both sappy smirks and so-so smiles,
Noting, jotting, moving from door-to-door,
Mixing memories and imagination of miles!

Light shines, light enters, lights, eyes,
The day commences and you convince yourself,
Whether have a breakfast of lies,
Or try, and give onself some good help.

Could it be problem sleeping
When sleeping is the problem?
What if the actual dozing
Is the source of the whole mayhem?

After nighttime, sunrises,
Lights up yet fails to beam up one's day,
Instead, probes your supposed places,
A fertile loam where anxiety can play.

I don't know what I'm waiting for,
Still I wait for it anyway.
May I find ways towards humor,
Maybe life and I can meet halfway.

Is this what ought to be,
Are these the sights I wanna see?
Is this how I wanna feel,
Each day the sunrise turns real?

This was dreamland of yesteryears,
Now a solid ground for hope and fears.
Young and stupid or old and wise?
Breathe; and tell yourself what applies.

Live; and remember these days,
This surely is a way how a story plays.
Gravitate towards your center,
There are new places we're about to enter.

And the thought arrived and it demanded to be written,
As if it was some nation’s citizen deserving of life and liberty,
Still we see our fingers working, our thoughts spreading,
Thus we succumb, thus we surrender, thus we write.

The ideal is known as sitting under a tree, running through forest,
Grasping for air yet losing it all on undying laughter,
Was it something I said or is it because this is my first time?
Convincing myself I have stopped thinking about it yet here we are.

These pillows have lived in parallel universes and realities,
Looking far wondering, “Is this how they see us? How they feel?”
With lofi beats as soundtrack of this rainy  and chilly afternoon,
We were reminded yet again of whom we’ve been.

And so thoughts will keep on demanding, will keep on arriving,
It’s for us to stitch them to a larger narrative — not snippets but cores,
This way we will know who we will be because of them good old days,
When you find yourself sitting on a different, yet emotionally familiar place.

Thank you society for ******* me — us — hard
Indeed, no one dies a ****** with you around
Thank you for the cornucopia of insecurity
For the endless seeds of doubts magnified
For the fragility we have chosen not to guard
Pitting us alikes ‘til you have curated your sound
Pulling us deeper and chains us in self-pity
Knowing that we’ll never be surely makes you satisfied
Then alas you get to blame us for our own shards
Managing to scar us despite being on ground
Turned us into strangers in our own city
Leaving us with nothing — not even being dignified