Today is the day
I have not been waiting for
A chance to begin.

i always have
the urge to run.

but what is it like
to be a tree?

to be confident enough
to root yourself
and grow with
wild abandonment,
being unapologetically
you?

i'm still running,
but i wish i knew.

He doesn't burn photographs
He doesn't join therapy sessions
He doesn't smoke too many cigarettes
Nor he drown himself into alcohol
He scratches his wounds daily
And never let them heal
He doesn't try to get rid of the pain
Instead he let it grow on him
He waters the seed of sorrow with his tears
He feeds it with the manure of old memories
He takes it to sleep with him
And nurtures it in himself
Till the moment when every single drop of his blood gets replaced by this pain
Until his fragile heart can bear no more
And his soul starts overflowing with emotions
That's when he dip his pen into this pain
And empty his heart on a piece of paper
He bares his soul for us to feel
He creates poetry that the world would cherish for centuries to come

I want to find your bed
right next to mine tonight
no oceans
in between
just one time
I'd let you roll over
into my world
and never leave.

What an odd tradition,
Ripping the living from everything they’ve known,
To be agonizingly used,
Carved and cut and shaped to fit,
Until there’s nothing left.

What an odd tradition,
The pain of one thing
Brings joy to another,
How it must feel,
To be suffering inside but appearing with a smile.

What an odd tradition,
Why are we drawn to pain and torment,
Why must we paint on a face that isn’t meant to be,
Why do we slice masks of smiles on faces aching with sorrow

Maybe it’s not such an odd tradition.