A man who has never fallen,
Has no lessons to teach.

For without bruises,
there are no memories
Of what could have been learnt.

Yet one who has fallen,
Will not teach you anything
But the dignity to rise again.

As lessons are only learnt from
The mistakes of past bruises.

I just had an epiphany—
I can never love another
and still love myself.
The two split me like fault lines,
pulling in opposite truths.

It’s either I let one go—
or lose the other.

The way I do things
gets knotted in translation.
My colours shift like a chameleon,
but in my mirror,
it’s just plain grey.

I’m human, I think—
but meticulous,
a mirror to your flame.
I give what I get,
nothing less.

You are not utensil,
or tool.
I’ll only use you
if you gave me no choice.

Still,
I’d rather melt my ice
than let it burn you.

Aloneness?
That's no stranger.
It’s the oldest room in my soul,
quiet, bare—
but safe.

Bland isn't always bad.
Sometimes, it's peace.
Sometimes, it's me.

The poor can bleed while the rich do feed, upon the wars and that they hang around there necks. skulks of the fallen collected never buried but trophy’s of the greed that fed the blood soaked bills that passed from hand to hand. Like bullets passing through flesh, only the poor die, while the rich say more to fed the machine of greed that is never fulfilled until the last drop is cleaved with a bomb or bullet. And the poor due alone and hungry not able to buy a bullet to end there suffering, but enough to end another in a war that all had forgotten.

When the sky dons its robes of indigo,
I slip into a tranquil reverie where
shadows lengthen and soften,
and mirrors hold whispers of ancient stories.
A gentle breeze dances through the forest like secrets.
It’s a lullaby for a weary soul.
A gentle reminder than even in stillness,
there is movement, a world in transition.
As I stand on the threshold of day and night,
I think about all the fleeting moments
from my past self and embrace the twilight.

Whispered words and stolen glances,
gloved hands clasp, fingers laced.
Hidden lines and hopeful chances -

In dim-lit parlors, a warm embrace.
Out of the shadows -
A flame.

Dark matter aids with the construction of collectives
While dark energy pushes them apart
Well that's what they reckon
They don't really know
It's the point
Where science becomes art.

Morphine's album
YES!
Has a place in my heart
That's is smothered in pride
Listened to it constantly
In 96 in Glasgow
When hard work
Was along for the ride

Ripping the guts
Out of a IT company
Partition walls and ceilings
Fell before my sledgehammer
Right in front o me

Chewing hash
And snorting scotch
Were  the orders of the day
Once the dust had settled
And we'd drawn all our pay

I'd never seen so many places
To sentimentally sing
Chemically altered karaoke
Is one hell of a thing.

I’m not always the most creative,
But I’ve always been a little naive,
Choosing easier routes to healing,
Ones that kept me feeling unseen.

But I think I’m done with hiding now,
Done accepting life’s just pain,
So I’ll start drafting love from everything mundane,
Romanticizing quiet mornings and loud summer rain.

I’ll find poetry in coffee steam,
In the way the trees sway and sigh,
In cracked sidewalks blooming weeds,
And cotton candied evening skies.

Maybe, just maybe,
If I love each gentle, ordinary thing again,
I’ll find the pieces of myself I thought I’d lost,
And fall back in love with life,
Or at least treat it like a friend

i would like to rise;
high above the alcove;
towards the swirling blue sky;
beyond the clouds and mist;

i want to touch the moon;
and taste the stars;
live in constellations;
and sleep beneath galaxies;

who shall I share this dark abyss with?