Millions of rhymes
Going round
Inside my head
Some about the
Living
Some about the
Dead but
Mostly
from
The
words
I’ve read.
I am tired
Going to draw
The line
This is Guinness
Number nine.
**** I haven’t
Fed the cat
Never mind.
Because Thats
Just that.

Quite ugly, aren’t they?
The words that aren’t yours,
but still spill from your pen -
that roll off your tongue,
yet feel stolen again.
A symphony turned to pandemonium,
a melody that doesn’t impress -
This poem isn’t mine,
but I’m writing it nonetheless.

The birds singing in the morning,
The sun shining brightly,
Yet there's cloudy sky I see,
There's no you beside me,

The moonlight shines quarter to two,
In those beautiful view,
For thy absence,
All I see is blue,

For there's no thy laughs I hear,
The world were silence,
For there's no thy smile I see,
The world were ugly

Wannabe Love Poem
By a poet who's never been in love
Never found the one
To hold under the night sky
And smile while the world is ending
Because they're in their loved ones arms

Wannabe Love Poem
By a poet who's never loved
Who's never been kissed
or told
"I love you"

Once glory is at my front
It vanishes
Faster than gale wind
Doesn't care of
Consistency, hard work, persistence
Merciless
Doesn't care if your shattered
Whether you smiled today
It doesn't
When I come to glory...
It disappears

How is it at the peak ?
Tears need answers
Grasping to the last inch
Battling with rage
Pursued glory countless
At the doorstep, it disappears

Envy luck and blessing

At the foyer
Curled in agony
In a ray of sunlight
In silence

Shall it be a mystery ?

I'm not a poet
Don't speak the language

Death follows (a lantern-lit, moss-draped carriage)
Offers me a ride (so kind)
But it's not my time (for—for;
give me,
get me)

I'm not a tortured soul
Just trying to be understood

Please? Won't someone save me?
(Where—
oh
where—
am... I?)

I'm just writing on this journey to the end

Some people crash into your life
like waves in a storm
while others slip in
with the rising tide.  
Some leave
like water slowly receding
stealing the sand under your feet
and some
are just suddenly gone
like the ground beneath you
when you step off the ocean ledge
into the abyss
where no light penetrates
and there is no direction,
where the pressure of your grief
is unending
and drowning
is what you are doing
every second
and those seconds are all you know.

Everything’s burning down around me
As I walk through this path on fire
I meet at the end a mirror
Only to find myself holding the torch
The heat feels great
The bridges finally burned
My mind at ease
For this I yearned

I fell for him, not in whispers or sighs,
But in crescendos, in rhythms, in skies
Painted with notes that danced in the air,
Each song a thread of the love we’d share.

He wasn’t just music—he was the sound,
The hum of the earth, the pulse underground.
A genre, a chord, a tune soft and true,
Would echo his soul, would carry his hue.

But now he is gone, and silence remains,
A hollow refrain, a ghost in the strains.
Yet when music plays, I’m drawn to the year,
I search for a sign he might have been near.

Did he hum this tune? Did he hear this beat?
Did it brush his soul? Was it his retreat?
The thought is a comfort, though bittersweet,
A harmony bridging where life and death meet.

For love like this does not fade away,
It lingers in songs, in chords that replay.
So I listen, I wonder, I dream him alive,
Through melodies where his spirit survives