I find it scary to write a poem,
because what if people don’t like it?
Or worse — what if they do,
and it means they’re broken too?

Does it mean they also can’t find
peace and treasure in their mind?
Does it mean they feel the same,
so my pain is not a claim?

The fear, the loss, the pain and everything
If its not mine does it leave me as nothing?

We all crave something,
But once it's in our hands,
The craving ,the longing,
The spark—it disappears,
Drifting away
Like a leaf upon the river.

Does it have to be heavy today?
Can I not carry
every memory,
every almost,
every ache—
just for today?

I've seen love burn like wildfires—
Born of passion, but doomed by desires.
Engulfed in flames of anger and darkness,
Consuming hearts to war and madness.

They spiral, trying to quench the pain,
Only to stoke the fumes again.
They kept burning, burning, and burning—
Until all that’s left were charred bones and yearning.