The stress in success
Makes us feel oppressed
It makes us feel numb and tired, blank and distressed

But it's still part of the process
And we're still blessed

The night dips, crawls and falls at my feet
Hisses and rumbles as my attention it seek
I attempt to ignore it for I wish to behave
To uphold the morals my parents engrave
The night sprinkles white powder upon me
To try and wake me so with it I may flee
It casts a dark cloud just above my head
Tastes of whiskey and shame from which I was bred
Reminds me of the insatiable thirst I miss
Of flesh smoldering upon flesh with a kiss
The night tempts me to come out and play
But I want to be good so I elude it and stay

Love is for the poor,
and money for the rich
but wisdom is reserved
for those who caught the itch
of curiosity for the fact that they exist.


Those sparse few who dare
to put their faith into people
but expect not to see the eyes of god
inside of another man’s cathedral.
Knowing well that these lies and laws
could never guide us past the flaws
of good and evil.


Only believe in the dreamer
who refuses the role of a follower
and shuns the idea of a leader.
Be not deceived by status or acclaim
because it only makes you a disciple
of a product and a name.


Hold in high regard the tired hikers
born to the depths of the deepest valleys
and yet they rise before the light of dawn
like a striker to set ablaze the malaise
of these pedestrian days
that mock our souls
with monotonous toil.


This life is but an eternal recurrence
therefore every morn we are born anew
and that potential is a shot at transference
into something more eminent than you.
Become the bridge my friend
because there is no future
in being an end.

I want to be alone,
to sit between the
concave hollows of my bones,
nestle beneath folds of skin,
shut my eyes and
make the world go dim,
just me and a pulse,
a heartrate pumping blood
and when I open them
it's not the floodlit streets,
wars, fires or anger I see
but the trees and fields;
the peace i wear like a glove,
vowing not to take it off the
minute things get tough.

August, I start from one,
The door sounds against the tiles,
You start to leave your undenying presence
Stuck onto the frontlets of my thoughts.

Two, words were spoken few,
But a few human errors & one simple word
You correct my interpretation,
& now you start to interpretate my life.

Three, a fortnight has passed,
My heart embraces to your name,
But soon we will be set apart,
Now to cherish our last days.

Four, the end of August comes our end,
As the door sounds against the tiles again.
But now without you,
Without any interpretation or name.

Five, it's December now.
I'll be waiting & counting down to ten,
Until you come back,
& the door sounds once again.

From, the girl at the smallest corner of your memory.

In the silence of your breathing
My heart heals
My tears dry
My soul is at peace
In the purring of your slumber
My stress dissipates
My fears are quelled
My broken spirit fuses
In the comfort of your aura
I am who I am meant to be
I am someone I always dreamed of
I am... whole