These words burn like acid
as I try to digest them
but they swallow me instead.

We have stopped talking.
He left,
and I broke down.

Children awake to sizzling butter and fresh eggs
Birds chirp and settle on their windowsills
Greeting them with the sound of nature.
How lovely it must be!

Childhood is all about the games and the play, they said.
Buttons are pressed,
Video games begin,
because violence is but a pixelated projection for them.

Two extremities of this earth are facing each other now.
Darkness lies on the opposite side.
What a shame!
Home now bleeds images of destruction.

Childhood is non-existent there.
Children awake to the nauseating scent of gunpowder,
Anxiety has filled their minds,
The future remains vague
Lives hanging on a thread
The drones set off missiles to cut it.

They are worth the entire world to their mothers
Young souls who are the lens from which their parents see happiness
but sadly,
survivors scrape the rubble off their ****** feet
scavenging for the roots they once tried to protect
wetting the ground with utter despair.

Home now bleeds destruction
and constant chaos.

The cigarette or the pen,
which will be more effective?

If only I had wings to take me

where my soul belongs

because hands can’t reach that far

And now my heart has been

crying out your name.

I have inhaled the air of countless cities
and left some of mine behind.

My distinct fingerprints are invisible
but they exist
in a place amidst many others
on tables and handles everywhere.

My voice had probably made someone turn
and wonder what type of a person I was.
Do I sound happy because I am
or is it a mere façade I have covered the truth with?
It will leave them pondering over the masks we wear.

Lipstick stains on coffee mugs
Kissing the worries goodbye
they flutter away into thin air
and become someone else's instead.

Eyes darting to the clouds above,
that water was once down here in the sea
but now it is above hovering over me.

Like snakes shed their skin,
and dead matter turns to trees
we leave a part of ourselves
on dusty shelves
for others to recover and use

the cycle goes on.

Words hit me like bricks
but i'll build a home
out of these poems

I will not allow myself to wilt
despite the darkness you put me through

Getting rid of dry petals is a better option
than pulling out all the roots

Shades of colors
Arrays of identities
a palette of diverse beings
that's what we are
united we are art

Yet some choose to narrow it down
to a mere silent black and white film
erasing identities of billions
muting their cries
stripping rights away from their children

A spectrum of humanity
that will never converge to a single line
of what you deem as worthy of respect.

Please tell me about your life
I don't mean everything in it
I just want to know
what makes your cheeks flush red?
I just want to know
what do you think of
that makes your mouth curve up with satisfaction?
I just want to know
what do you remember that lightens your chest
in times of stress?

Spill out these answers
Carve them with every ounce of passion
onto paper
so i could have imprints of them on my skin
as I hold them close to me.

Entropy is inevitable
We have made a mess of ourselves.

With each verse I try to write
I try to inhale bits of hope
i'm breathing heavily
as I gather my tears
so that they don't drown me
like my thoughts did.

"Use more symbolism in your works," they critiqued.
I replied, "I don't need to,"
because he, who i write about,
represents a far greater part of me
than they ever cared to comprehend.

My works are what I believe in,
and that is in writing about
what means most to me.

He is enough.

Give me back the breaths
you stole away from me.

Write back all the translucent words
I was too afraid to spill the first time.

Erase the bittersweet memories,
destroy the projections of us
for we are nothing now.

Teach your tongue to behave,
twist it in all ways
except for the curl it makes
when trying to say my name.

The paths we wanted to pave?
Dig up the bricks
you are not the way I want to live my life
we can never make homes out of people.

I want them back
but not you.

I'd rather sleep
than stay awake in a reality
where you're not mine.

We were on the same page
but you left me in the margin
a mere reference note
soon to be erased.

I write poems about you
that you will never read.

Appease your tired heart,
accept the love that you deserve.

Your whispers echoed
They whirled like howling winds
And have now become hurricanes
twisting the last words you said,
wrecking whatever was left of you
in my lone and broken heart.

A woman is reduced to the ***** of her curves

to the dimensions of her ****** features

but whoever dares calculate those

should be assigned a paper big enough,

a mind smart enough,

to help them figure out the boundless extent

of the vastness of the paradise that lies under her feet.

I would rather hold your hand
than see you leave.