I was once curiously asked:
"Why write poetry?
Does it pay the bills?"

I replied with a smile:
"It does far more than that -
it heals."

A lonely heart,
in a lonely world,
is always in search of
an oasis of love.

If we choose to be
we can be:

the voice of the voiceless,
the strength of the weakest,
a glimmer of hope for the hopeless,
a ray of light in darkness.

I wonder—why do my eyes always find you?
Was it that day I caught you staring, just once, on a sunny winter afternoon?
Or is it the way we always seem to cross paths, as if by fate?
I don’t know what this feeling is—
But whatever it is, I’m certain it’s one-sided.
And I know I must let it go.
Because seeing you, and saying nothing… is torturous.

I often ask myself :

"Why is it so easy to die
for someone you love ,
and yet so hard to live on
for someone who cares?"

When the glass shattered that day,
all I could think was—please stop.
Later, it became—I hope the pieces fit back together.
And now, it’s—I pray they don’t break further.
The pain, you ask?
It’s still there.
Only now, the numbness is manageable.

Why do we become blind,
When we love someone so?
And blind again with hate,
When we let it grow?

We see no flaw in one,
And only flaws in some.
Why do our hearts so easily
Make our minds its gun?

I have known you as far as my memory goes.
I have observed you, watched you grow—
As I did too.

But I wonder why we never talked,
’Cause we never talked before,
Was all I could think back then.

And even now,
I think it’s still the same—
’Cause we never talked before,
And maybe… we never will.

It isn’t easy to walk, gravity weighs.
The biosuits lock the mind
in a narrow space.

An interpretive blow is crucial:
Does being on the other side of the mirror
truly want it, or only think it does?

A thumb drives into the right temple.
The heart pumps hectoliters of warm liquid.
Colours, sounds, tensions in the eternal swirl.

Delay in processing—eighty milliseconds
it isn’t a flaw.
It takes that long for all the cogs to turn.

Everything I do now is already in the past.
Decisions made long ago spit me out
into this reality with some name.

I am the last, but not least,
in the collective dream and blink of time.

Minds sway like golden grain, ready to be cut.
I can stand up or lie on the ground.

I walk—
toward the next stumble,
the next wound, and maybe healing.

Insights glow like yellow lanterns,
giving me some light.

No justification, no understanding.
My self-awareness is not a cozy couch.

One day,
I will stop existing, and I accept that.
I’m just afraid to leave those who still love me.