We stood too close,
close enough to feel
the heat off her skin.

She didn’t step back.
Neither did I.

But the air between us
was full of things
we were too afraid to touch.

the world sounds like a train station at rush hour,
like voices layered thick as the steam that once rose from the engines,
all of them talking, talking—
parents, teachers, lovers, ghosts,
therapists with soft hands and tired eyes,
children with too much sugar and not enough sleep,
the man at the bus stop swearing at his shoelace,
the woman in the checkout line whispering to herself
about the price of milk and memory.

everything hums, everything aches.

i hear the couple in the apartment next door,
arguing in low, sharp murmurs,
then falling silent—
a different kind of violence.
i hear the late-night sirens slicing through sleep,
the way the city coughs up its trouble
and swallows it again before dawn.

somewhere, a student scratches answers onto a test,
a teacher sighs into her coffee,
a cashier forces a smile so rehearsed it has lost all meaning.
somewhere, a father tells his son to stop crying,
a girl laughs too loud so no one notices she is alone,
a poet stares at a blank page and calls it art.

the world is a choir of voices that don’t know they are singing,
a symphony of car horns and apologies,
of breakups and reconciliations,
of doors slamming and doors opening,
of someone’s grief sitting heavy in their chest,
and someone else’s joy spilling like sunlight across the floor.

i hear it all—
the hushed phone calls from hospital rooms,
the quiet sobs in bathroom stalls,
the unspoken things lodged in people’s throats.
but most of all, i hear their emptiness.

it is the hollow sound of footsteps in an empty house,
the silence between two people who used to be everything,
the way a person says “I’m fine” like they’re trying to convince themselves.
it is the spaces between words,
the long pauses where a confession should be,
the weight of days that feel like echoes of nothing.

but also—
the soft laughter of old friends at midnight,
the way a child’s voice lifts like a paper boat on a stream,
the sound of someone you love saying your name
like it’s a song they’ve always known.

the world sounds like everything,
all at once, all the time.
it is loud, it is relentless,
but listen long enough,
and sometimes—
it sounds like music.

i’m always tired but sleep won’t come—
a ****** paradox in the neon gloom.
i lie awake in this cold, honest bed,
clean for now, but who can trust that state?

the city moans its tired tune,
a chorus of broken dreams and whispered regrets.
they strut around, calling themselves proud,
but behind the smiles i see the cracks—
the lies, the masks, the slow decay
of all that’s left when reality bites.

i never sleep; my mind’s a relentless engine
rumbling toward another inevitable ****-up.
each morning is a promise of ruin,
each night a desperate bid for escape.
so why not get high, even just for a while,
to numb the ceaseless ticking of self-destruction,
to steal a few hours of peace
in this endless dance with the void?

i stumble through empty bars and midnight streets,
where cigarettes burn like small rebellions
against the weight of tomorrow.
i’m chasing that fleeting rest, a moment’s silence
amid the chaos, before the cycle snaps—
before i crash once more into the unforgiving light
of another **** day.

and so, with each lost second,
i float further into this bittersweet madness,
hoping, somehow, that tonight
i might just find the endlesss sleep
that always eludes my weary soul.

the night is running beside me,
dark limbs tangled in the rhythm—
a pulse, a promise, a threat.

the drums don’t ask for permission.
they pound like a lover’s demand,
like a fist through the ribs,
like a city about to riot.

there is no plan, no end—
just movement,
just the heat of breath against breath,
just the horns, loud and reckless,
kissing the air like they mean to tear it apart.

this is not a song,
it is a fever, a chase,
a lover with wild hands and a knife behind the grin.

there is no stopping now.
we run. we dance. we burn.

Where have the babies gone—
the fat-cheeked ones with wide eyes,
sticky fists clutching bits of sky,
where did they go,
those wild little kings,
with no shame in their bellies,
no clocks in their heads?

Did they fall somewhere
between unpaid rent
and half-empty bars,
lose themselves in offices
stacked with paper and regret,
forgetting how to howl
at the night?

I remember them,
barefoot prophets,
laughing at the madness
we now choke on.
I see them—
in flashes between smokes
and the clang of passing trains,
ghosts with soft curls
and toothless grins
lost in the grit of morning.

Where have the babies gone?
Did we drink them down
with cheap wine,
swallow their dreams whole
in silence and debt,
while they slipped
through cracks
we didn’t bother to fill?

Some nights
I hear their cries—
not loud,
not pleading,
but faint as the wind
through the tired streets.
They never went anywhere.
It was us.
We forgot
how to be them.

I’m tired of all the noise,
of the talkers who never shut up
about better days,
about how the sunrise
means something beautiful.

what sunrise?
I wake up to the stink of another wasted morning—
teeth aching from clenching too hard
against life.
I drink just enough to quiet the questions,
but never enough to stop asking.

people tell you to hold on
but they don’t tell you why.
they tell you there’s more out there,
but they never see you at 3 a.m.
pacing the same ******* floor,
with the same ******* thoughts.

there’s no great romance
in hanging on by a thread—
no one will write songs
for the ones who went quietly,
who stared into the void
and whispered, fine, you win.

I’m not looking for answers.
I’m not looking for heroes.
I’m looking for a way
to stop feeling like every breath
is another bad deal,
another moment borrowed
from something that’s already gone.

so, end me,
or don’t—
I’ll keep staggering along
the crooked line,
but let’s not pretend
it’s anything more than it is:
a slow crawl
toward
nothing at all.

It hits you in the strangest places—
at the gas station
when the guy in front of you
fumbles with his change,
cursing under his breath like a man
who’s been fighting a war
you’ll never know the name of.
Or in the supermarket,
when you catch a glimpse
of a tired woman
staring too long at the frozen peas
as if they hold
some secret answer
to whatever the hell is breaking her.

And suddenly,
you feel it:
the sheer weight
of their lives.
People, everywhere,
carrying things
you can’t see.
Silent burdens,
private heartbreaks,
tiny wars fought behind closed doors.
It’s like looking into a hundred windows
on a cold street at night,
each one glowing
with some story
you’ll never get to know.

You try not to think about it,
but it’s always there—
the quiet truth
that everyone
is dragging something behind them.
The man who cuts you off in traffic
isn’t just an *******;
he’s late for a job
he hates,
or maybe he just found out
his kid’s in trouble again.
The woman who snaps at the cashier
has been holding back tears all day,
and now,
for reasons she can’t even explain,
she’s breaking down
over a bag of groceries.

It makes you feel small,
like your own pain
is just another drop
in a sea that’s already drowning everyone.
But it also makes you feel something
you don’t want to admit—
a raw, aching tenderness
for this wreck of a world
where everyone is limping
through their own private hell
while trying to smile
through it all.

And here’s the kicker:
you’re one of them too.
You lie awake at night,
wondering if the people you hurt
still think about it,
if they’re staring at their ceilings
the same way you are,
asking themselves
why nothing ever seems
to fit right.
You tell yourself
you’ll be better,
you’ll try harder,
but deep down,
you know
you’re just another story
playing out behind some window
no one’s looking into.

It hurts, doesn’t it?
To know that everyone is real,
that their lives are just as tangled,
just as ****** and raw as yours.
To know that behind every glance,
every passing face,
there’s a whole world
of love and loss,
hope and ruin,
and you’ll never be able
to touch it,
to truly understand it.

Maybe that’s why
we keep going—
because we’re all stumbling
through the same darkness,
hoping,
praying
that somewhere along the way,
someone will see us
through the glass,
and maybe,
just maybe,
they’ll understand
that we were never
just passing faces.