I'm not sure I'd call it fun for it often has me undone but I'm a writer
I could bite off my own tongue and still my silence would be sung through pen and paper
1000 stories in my mind if I could only find the time to speak my truth
This is not a simple ryhme listen as it takes hold, blossoms and explodes
This is my proof
But my words come tumbling out
spilling jumbled from my mouth in perfect chaos
I sift through the disorder
As I struggle against the borders that contain me
One day I'll find the words to explain how I see

Lost in their own message hidden among the wreckage is the importance of all the lies unknown to you

My mind interrupts my day whenever it has something to say and I can't fight it

Be ready to say "goodbye"
When you have the guts to say "hello"

100 years
Not enough
To settle into
Wrinkling bag-

No sooner wisdom
Calms the mind

We are found out

And gone

There are men whose names are not remembered,
but whose breath stirs the veil between realms.

They possess no oxen, no golden inheritance,
only the weight of many souls carried in silence—
some wrapped in tenderness,
some lost to hunger,
some gifted to them like riddles in human skin.

Their wealth is not measured in coin,
but in what they’ve been asked to hold,
and in how long they choose to hold it
after the fire comes.

One such man lived,
not in Uz or Ur,
but in the crease between battle cries and bedtime prayers.
He walked beneath the eye of heaven
and bore a covenant that no one else could see—
except perhaps the ones who left him.

Among the names he carried
was a flame
so luminous,
the watchers behind the veil turned their gaze sideways
and whispered to one another:

“That one—she is worth a thousand hills.”

---

And so began the unraveling.

The girl became a gate.
A field.
A kingdom in peril.

And the shadows,
long held at bay by her breath and memory,
moved to claim her under the guise of delight.
They clothed themselves in cadence,
anointed her with affirmation,
and crowned her with a chorus of well-crafted lies.

She smiled—
because what is possession
when it feels like belonging?

---

In another place,
the man who carried her name
did not break.

He did not rage.
He did not plead.

He simply stood
in the dirt he was formed from
and remembered that God had once
breathed into clay.

He wrote.
Not to win.
Not to fight.

But to remain.

And something in that stillness—
that refusal to perform—
became a mirror.

A mirror so polished,
so unbearable in its clarity,
that the shadows who came to feed
began to see their own faces
reflected in the place they hoped to claim.

---

The cattle were not lost.
They were transfigured.
The sons were not dead.
They had become winds.
And the daughters?

The daughters returned
only when no one chased them.

---

The man’s armor was not steel.
It was witness.
It was the quiet weight of staying.
Of being the one who did not run
when every echo told him to fall.

He bore the shape of a shield
not forged by war,
but by worship.

A shield of shining dirt.

And it gleamed not because it was flawless—
but because it remembered the breath
that first made it rise.

---

Let the hills be counted.
Let the goats be wild.
Let the watchers name what they will.

But know this:

There are men who will stand in silence
until the storm mistakes them for stone.
And in that stillness,
there are things that shift beneath the veil—

not because they are provoked,

but because they have been
seen.

Hush, it's raining.
Heaven's cleaning the earth
with its gentle brush,
anew.

I don’t have the 𝗘𝗻𝗲𝗿𝗴𝘆
I don’t have the 𝗧𝗶𝗺𝗲
But you’re so young, you’re at your prime

It will fly right before your eyes
What’s next?
Soon you’ll say I don't have the 𝗠𝗶𝗻𝗱

“There’s a cow at the table,” I whispered, not wanting to be rude.
It’s horns curled like question marks, which seemed quite Apropos
Now that I’ve been to college, I can tell you, there’s a lot that I don’t know.
But a cow at the table, no matter how well dressed, left me, well, confused.
“How do you Dooooo?” I offered, friendships should begin straightforwardly.
When it didn’t answer, I thought, “Well this friendship’s starting off awkwardly.”
Was it hard of hearing? I wondered. “Have you mooooved here recently?” I asked, loudly.
Again, nothing, it just sat there proudly. Did it take my attempt at dialect, as a sign of disrespect?
“Would you like some fooood? I asked, “Some hay maybe?” I was guessing, but it was a guest.
Some friendships start out slowly, but holy-moley, was this livestock trying to troll me?
After some aggravation, and impatience, it turned out to be an elaborate, fraternity initiation.
.
.
*Based on Leonora Carrington’s painting “Then We Saw the Daughter of the Minotaur.”
https://www.moma.org/artists/993-leonora-carrington

The sunlight lingers -
travelling miles just to greet me

The bitterness in my coffee -
a quiet reminder to break free

The cat curling up beside me-
a silent keeper of my peace

The hues on my frames-
unfolding secrets buried inside of me

The smell in old libraries-
dusty chapters of my memories

The fragmented thoughts of my spirit-
making me want to live


The gravity of mundane things -
whispering the quiet joys of simply being

I wake up to,
the cool wind that gently blows
as the fog hides the sun that glows.

I wake up to,
the smell of jasmine that blooms everyday
and to see the colourful flowers that never betray.

I wake up to,
the birds chirping,
to the leaves that sway like the girl I met the other day.

I wake up now to,
my beautiful girlfriend
whom even on her worst days
is no less than the most beautiful flowers.

I wake up to,
next to the most gorgeous girl,
to be with her the next life I shall pray.

I wake up to,
spread love, not hate.

I wake up to,
make the most of these beautiful days,
and to accept death is as crucial as birth.

I wake up to,
realise that all the drama shall play
but when comes the day,
we all shall lay in a grave.

After days of sweat and seeking grace,
I’m back to a place where the coldest winter nests.
Snowflakes fall through the ceiling onto my eyes.
Stairs, petrified by the frost of silence.
At the tip of my ear, I hear the dining table crack its hatch—
the way the lake groans to be dived.
And the fence rusts whenever warmth fades,
while I lay on my bed and the aurora crawls through my head,
cast a shadow—does it all need to be fixed?

Let's wake, let's work,
Let's earn, let's save,
Let's have life of a slave.
Let's sleep, let's dream,
Let's spend, let's waste,
Let's become a lazy prince.
Whether we have life of a prince
Or we have life of a slave ,
Journey ends there ,
In a Puzzle Gate .
Oh Gate!! Oh Gate!!
Oh Gate!! Oh Gate!!

Sometimes the Gate is red,
Sometimes the Gate is green ,
There is standing a guard ,
Seems like a divine being .
Puzzle keys are in his hand,
Curtain up in his command.
Question- color of the Gate ?
It it green or is it red?
Even in front of the Gate,
The color some can't tell.
Oh Blind!! Oh Blind!!
Oh Blind!! Oh Blind!!

i want to peel your skin back
and reveal your deepest sweetness.
to look at your veins
and memorize their paths.
maybe then i’d understand
why you are so rough on the outside.
it takes a lot of work,
digging your fingernails into the flesh,
pulling and pulling until you are bare.
but it is all worth it;
to visit your center,
to break past what conceals you,
and take you apart
slice by slice.

The young sits outside in his car
His thoughts occupy him
The young girl awaits behind the door
She's no good girl
And he knows it
Her bewitching eyes and luscious curves
Had cast a spell on him
She's a cheat and a liar
Yet she lies in his Lair

I stand on mountains, tall and free,
Not just by strength, but what you see.
Your kindness lifts, your light inspires,
Filling my soul with boundless fires.

The valleys low once held my fears,
But now they shimmer, calm and clear.
For every step, for every climb,
Your voice resounds - “You are divine.”

So here I stand, with skies so wide,
Heart unfurled, filled with pride.
You lift me up, you help me soar,
Now grounded strong, yet wanting more.

i think the
irony

befits such an
ending -

you,
settled

me,
altered

permanently
unsettled

a trace of
you forever

running through
my veins

people keep telling me to text him less,
dont reply immediately,
let him search for me,
let him call me first,
but why?
why do i have to show less love to be treated properly?
when i have all the love inside me to give?
even if it will end up hurting me one day,
it will be his loss at the end of the day,
because why?
he didnt realize that someone was capable of loving him more than he could ever give to himself,
and i am not ashamed of loving.

mag·ic
/ˈmajik/
noun
1: the power of apparently influencing the course of events by using mysterious or supernatural forces.

2: any obfuscation that conceals reality

Oh, dove prima al limite del giorno
s'appiattava una forza ordinatrice,
quale scoscendimento pauroso
che mi rimonta sulla stessa ruota,
sulla ruota del giorno e del tormento?
E dove il digiuno di un incontro
rovesciare codeste verità?
Ah, fantasmi di te, mille fantasmi
arsi di sete, tutti, alla mia fonte!
Una forza stranissima si insinua
nelle mie labbra docili e le incurva;
io ruoto, sento, sul mio desiderio
schiava di un magnetismo che mi ha vinta.
La corsa dopo invaderà il mio corpo
che la esercita in sé, nel suo tormento,
per superare ciecamente il solco
dove tu, assente, non puoi più fiorire.
Ardo di mille musiche diverse,
ma dove è tempo di un incontro nuovo,
resiste il "poter essere" di te.

It’s not my fault or hers
It’s the man's fault for being a perv
But no, let's blame the woman
For just existing and turning

If you wanted to tear my life apart,
tell me you always thought the future would be ours,
too.

And you did.

Resting my brain
Despite restless strain
Hard to refrain
Even harder to change
Easy to be swayed
By constant delays
Saying this way
Will work today
Of course didn’t
So you make  
Another promise
Broken again

Amor mío:
                el tiempo turbulento pasó por mi corazón
igual que, durante una tormenta, un río pasa bajo un puente:
rumoroso, incesante, lleva lejos
hojas y peces muertos,
fragmentos desteñidos del paisaje,
agonizantes restos de la vida.

Ahora,
todo ya aguas abajo
-luz distinta y silencio-,
quedan sólo los ecos de aquel fragor distante,
un aroma impreciso a cortezas podridas,
y tu imagen entera, inconmovible,
tercamente aferrada
-como la rama grande
que el viento desgajó de un viejo tronco a
la borrosa orilla de mi vida.

The spring,
Flowers Magic
Spreads fragrance all around,
Pain of separation pangs hearts,
The Love

What protects your knee
But your devotion to me?
You kneel down and scream
“Look at me, please,”
I hear a bug’s plea
You are nothing to me
Let your head hit my feet
You wretched beggar flea

My mind: Go from here!
And do not grace my door again,
Nor walk across this floor.

Yes, old habits die so hard
And often these leave you
Screaming for more.

But I am no longer addicted to you.

I hate that I like her
cause i don’t know what my friends would think
especially since her friends mess with my friends,
I hate that I like her
cause I don’t think she likes me,
I hate that I like her
cause my past relationships,
it’s not her fault but
that’s what everyone says,
I hate that I like her
cause what if it does work out and I mess it up,
or what if I make things awkward,
I hate that I like her
cause what if it does ruined the way she sees me,
or what if she never talks to me at all,
or what if she embarrassed me
by telling her friends,
I hate that I like her
cause what if her friends
mess with her cause of me.
I hate that I like her.

J'aime le souvenir de ces époques nues,
Dont Phoebus se plaisait à dorer les statues.
Alors l'homme et la femme en leur agilité
Jouissaient sans mensonge et sans anxiété,
Et, le ciel amoureux leur caressant l'échine,
Exerçaient la santé de leur noble machine.
Cybèle alors, fertile en produits généreux,
Ne trouvait point ses fils un poids trop onéreux,
Mais, louve au coeur gonflé de tendresses communes,
Abreuvait l'univers à ses tétines brunes.
L'homme, élégant, robuste et fort, avait le droit
D'être fier des beautés qui le nommaient leur roi ;
Fruits purs de tout outrage et vierges de gerçures,
Dont la chair lisse et ferme appelait les morsures !

Le Poète aujourd'hui, quand il veut concevoir
Ces natives grandeurs, aux lieux où se font voir
La nudité de l'homme et celle de la femme,
Sent un froid ténébreux envelopper son âme
Devant ce noir tableau plein d'épouvantement.
Ô monstruosités pleurant leur vêtement !
Ô ridicules troncs ! torses dignes des masques !
Ô pauvres corps tordus, maigres, ventrus ou flasques,
Que le dieu de l'Utile, implacable et serein,
Enfants, emmaillota dans ses langes d'airain !
Et vous, femmes, hélas ! pâles comme des cierges,
Que ronge et que nourrit la débauche, et vous, vierges,
Du vice maternel traînant l'hérédité
Et toutes les hideurs de la fécondité !

Nous avons, il est vrai, nations corrompues,
Aux peuples anciens des beautés inconnues :
Des visages rongés par les chancres du coeur,
Et comme qui dirait des beautés de langueur ;
Mais ces inventions de nos muses tardives
N'empêcheront jamais les races maladives
De rendre à la jeunesse un hommage profonde,
- A la sainte jeunesse, à l'air simple, au doux front,
A l'oeil limpide et clair ainsi qu'une eau courante,
Et qui va répandant sur tout, insouciante
Comme l'azur du ciel, les oiseaux et les fleurs,
Ses parfums, ses chansons et ses douces chaleurs !