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Fig
I did not bloom for you.

I wasn’t planted with hope of a hand like yours

to pluck what I became.



I was here.

Growing in a quiet grove,

on the edge of the unseen—

roots tangled in silence,

leaves turned to a sun I thought only I could feel.



You came like weather.

Not loud,

but felt.

A shift in the light.

A question in the wind.



I didn’t call to you.

But still,

you found me.



I watched you stumble in—

mouth stained from strange fruits,

eyes glazed from sweetness that lied.

And I knew you were not lost.

You were done.



Done with wandering.

Done with feasting on ache.

Done with mistaking hunger for worth.



You looked at me like I was something

you’d dreamed once and forgotten.

Like tasting me

woke up something ancient in you.



And it did in me, too.



Because I didn’t know I was waiting—

not for you,

but for recognition.

For a mouth that didn’t devour,

but asked.

For hands that didn’t harvest,

but listened.



And when you bit into me,

you didn’t praise.

You closed your eyes

and let silence say it.



That was the moment.



No music.

No miracle.



Just two beings

who didn’t know they were searching

until they stopped.



Now here we are.



Still.

Rooted.

Fed.



Not written in the stars—

but grown in the dirt,

together.
I ended up at the wrong time,
in the wrong place,
carrying a dead flashlight
that instead of shining,
offered me an elusive shape—
a spectacle of shadows.

What was a hand
became a dog barking on the wall,
or a ghost-rabbit
vanishing into nothingness.

My rational “I” still asks why,
and I have no answer.
I just smile with sadness:
that was the script,
that had to happen.

Bittersweet medicine,
already swallowed,
the side effects dissolved.
And I boarded another train.

Writing?
I only wanted an ordinary life,
with some humor
and a pinch of self-irony.

Saturn joined,
Saturn divided,
at 8:18 a.m.

Maybe we humans
don’t have the stillness
to break free from the pattern
of silver rings
made of dust and ice,
imposed by an ego.

Maybe we prefer
the safety of the shadow,
ice melts in daylight.

My story:
a new-old flat,
my imperfect poems…
Really?
For this, I was made?

I’m not a poet.
I’m a living voice,
taming incomprehension
convincing myself
that dawn is near,
and I’m strong enough to rise,
not looking anymore
for cold mirrors.
This poem is my way of catching a moment when something that once felt real and meaningful slowly turns into just a shadow, a projection, an illusion. I wanted to show how reality can sometimes feel surreal, and how easy it is to mistake a reflection for the real thing, like in Plato’s cave. We often fall for false impressions. The image of the hand’s shadow on the wall becoming a barking dog or a disappearing rabbit is my way of speaking about disappointment and coming to terms with what happened.
For me, every poem is also like a diary, a way of keeping things I do not want, or maybe cannot, forget. I try to leave space for different interpretations, but what matters most to me always stays hidden underneath. To me, the hand in the poem has already become a shadow. And somehow, even if it makes no sense, the shadow still casts another one. It feels like a game of broken telephone with consciousness. Scattered pieces only make sense to me as a whole.
Singularities merge.  Excess energies purged.
A concentric spread spacetime vibrational surge.
Till that deep distant BURP rolled through Earth with a CHIRP.
Proving we could observe,  and without optic nerve.

New physics!  We cried.  And all it implies!
We'll get LIGO in space,  Nobels,  and black ties!
Even Einstein stirred as the sigma concurred.
If the cosmos is waving,  then E is conserved.

From let there be light,  to electrified kites,
To lasers and mirrors observing the nights.
So let there be sound.  Let the chaos be found.
To the stars we ascend,  with knowledge unbound.
I <3 scientists.   This is about the 1st detection of gravitational waves,  for anyone who might not be sure.
He's an optical illusion
thick glasses confusion
I disappointed him
works mortal sin
he passed away
I die another day.
He buried me
long ago at sea.
I miss watching your words,
always carefully chosen,
light up my screen.

I miss your laugh,
the way it was slightly different,
when you were talking to me.

I miss your face,
always carefully controlled,
even when I knew you were itching to smile.

I miss you.
I’m just a teen,
threading my heart into words—
dropping verses like fallen leaves
for no one,
and everyone
to find.

But you—
you arrive like a winter wind in summer.
Real as breath on glass.
Fragile as something that cracked quietly...
and stayed standing.

You bring your ache
with open hands.
Not hiding the weight.
Like someone carrying rain
in a woven basket—
just to prove
the storm had shape.

This space?
It was empty once.
Just pixels.
Just silence.

Now it hums.
You made it holy.
You made it human.

And somehow,
I’m not just typing.
I’m sitting beside you,
barefoot in your storm—
offering nothing
but presence
and the softest kind of light.

If the world feels locked…
If understanding hangs
like fog just out of reach…
If today is slow,
and soft,
and sad...

Let this be a whisper:

🕊️
You are not alone in the ache.
You are not too much.
Your sadness is not silence—
it’s a song too pure
for anyone
who forgot
how to listen.
> For anyone scrolling through sadness tonight—
this one's for you.
Save it. Share it. Whisper it back to yourself.
🌧️💬
#poetry #emotionalpoem #spilledink #aestheticpoetry #mentalhealthawareness #youarenotalone
I am weak, petty, small.
I am the torturer of all.
My tendrils close around your neck.
I kick your feet out,
And you fall.

I strike you through as you descend.
I twist your mind.
Your spirit bends.
Actions inflict pain.
Words lack respect.
I pull back to strike you through again.

I exhaust your mind, tear your soul, leaving not a nerve to rend.
Absently abusive, and stretched.
Twisted in violence, bent.

I create pain implicitly, just as I expect.
And I inflict the torture that I never, ever meant.

Let Me inflict the torture that I never, ever meant.
born in the artic snow
she chromed
her heart
in steel

flames could
not
touch that heart

always a half a step ahead
sure
a few stumbles
but never a fall

and moonlight is just
a heartache in disquise

till one day
leaning out a car window
a scar upon his cheek
and the luck of the draw

was the jack of hearts

and the queen of diamonds
had
never met
anyone
quite like

the jack

of hearts,

black-haired blue-eyed
her beauty inspired
stupid men
to commit foolish acts

and as he smiled
the queen of diamonds
thought she had

the jack of hearts,

blue sky shimmering
in her eyes

jack became
the brightness
of her day

and the jack of hearts
saw a flame
flickering in her eyes
that he had never seen
in any women's eyes
before ...
                
               act. 2

... a strange destiny
was unraveling
and one long poker hand
was over
and the snowflakes came
down like ashes
under the street light

and then
the jack of hearts
walked away

a pale spirit fleeing
a graveyard
into the wall of night

and the queen of diamonds
cried

the sea into sky

with eyes
like twilight
waiting

to eat away the day
It's not what is left
it's what's meant to be
right?
You collect sunlight and
swallow it down,
like it's tylenol.

You feel a lot more real
in my dreams, than you do
in my arms.

The ashtray keeps overflowing
Why won't you
replace it?


                
                     There is a fine line
                              between
                      courage and fear



With you, it's always been
sink, then swim
burn, then crash
leave, then love.
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