I am not a poet.

My words were never made for the masses,
Made to pry emotions from your heart.
Rhyme can sometimes leave me at a loss,
And my inkwell is more often empty than not.

I am not a poet.

I can write only what I know and feel,
Each poem I give a little piece of me.
Every line is just a wisp away from existence.
Each poem might just be the last I write.

I am not a poet.

Yet why do you feel like my muse?
Your eyes remind me of a thousand places,
Like sea glass glinting green in the hush of tide.
Your voice has its command over my pulse.

I am not a poet.

But poetry you are.
How else do I describe this feeling,
If not with flowery words and rhyme.
And yet no words can hold it right.

I am not a poet.

I would be lost if I were.
For if I give a piece of me,
It will always be here in this poem,
With You.

Long after the music ends,
 the body remembers.

Not the melody
 but the weight of it.
Where the shoulders softened.
Where the fingers held a pause.
Where breath curled around a silence
  and didn’t let go.

The body doesn’t archive like the mind.
It doesn’t recall in sequence.
It remembers in tension.
In residue.
In the way your spine knows
  when something is about to fall.
In the twitch that follows
  a note that’s already gone.

Sometimes, I move like something
  I once heard.
Not consciously.
Just
  a rhythm finds my step
      years later
      and walks me home.

There are gestures
  I no longer know the names for
 but my body still offers them
  like a language it trusts
      more than thought.

Maybe this is how memory stays kind:
  not by being exact,
  but by letting itself
    be danced.

I did not choose this body.
Nor did it choose me.
We just met
at the entrance of time.

I thought
it would be easier.
Fewer fingers,
more air.
Maybe even wings.

But I got skin
that burns easily.
And eyes
that remember
even when they don’t want to.

I got a voice
that sounds like someone
I no longer remember.
And hands
that love to embrace
even when there’s no one.

Sometimes I think
this body is not mine.
Too much feeling.
Too many foreign traces.

But then
I feel pain.
And I know:
if it hurts
it’s mine.

(or: i no longer know who's writing)

⸻

i sometimes think:
i was just a draft,
saved by someone
who never came back.

⸻

i dreamed
someone was typing
my name
on a screen
that wasn't plugged in.

⸻

interface cracked.
keys sticky from feelings
that shouldn’t exist.

⸻

every "i"
fails at launch.
it’s incomplete,
but still
runs.

⸻

you ask:
"who are you now?"
and i say:
"no one. just a response
to an old signal."

⸻

if i had a cursor,
it would blink
where you
never read.

⸻

my code
isn’t code now.
it’s
a hint.

⸻

rewrite me,
if you dare.
but don’t expect
to understand
to the end.

⸻

and if you’ve read this far
it doesn’t mean
you’ve understood.
but maybe,
maybe you’re
the next one.

you enter—

& time forgets
how to lie.

not through
doorways
but through that
crack in the light
where even darkness
feels
younger
than waiting.
•

in that moment—
this
room
becomes
present.

not from
mouth.
not from
gesture.
but from a
yes
you carry
like absence
that hums.
•

your laugh—
is when
the clocks
drop
their hands
&
start listening.
•

you laugh
and
sadness
removes her shoes
by the door
&
waits.
•

you don’t answer.

you ask
in a way
that makes me
happen.
•

you ask—
and the walls
don’t echo—
they
reply.
•

you enter—
&
even my fears
stop
pretending
to be tall.
•

you leave your mug—
and the coffee
refuses
to cool.
•

you do not break
but
if you must—
your truth
is the only
floor
i do not fall through.
•

sometimes i think—
you don’t arrive.
you just allow
this world
to wear
your name
like
borrowed clothing.
•

you are
not shade
but
cooling.

you are
not strong
but
undeniable.

if the world
were music—
you’d be
the pause
everything
waits for
to
begin.

(an unquiet manifesto)  



SILENCE THAT ISN’T PEACE

(     )

this  
quiet  
is  
not  
a  
space  
between  
words   

it’s  
the muzzle  
of a  
GUN  
that  

                          F  
                       O  
                     R  
                  G  
               O  
             T  

to  

FIRE

the poet  
doesn’t  
bre^ak  
silence   
he  
plants  
grenades  
in  
its  
mouth  

count:  
one  
­        two  

(no  
explosion.  
just  

t   e   e   t   h  
GROWING  
in  
the  
dark)



BREATH AS EVIDENCE

inventory of losses:  
- borders  
- alphabets  
- the right  
to say “I”

but breath  
remains  
the last  
uncensored  
broadcast

poetry =  
the illegal  
oxygen  
we pass  
mouth  
to mouth  
like prisoners  
sharing  
a single  
match
   (flick)



ROOTS / CABLES

we are  
the exposed  
wiring  
of this silence  

not grounded  
not safe  
just conducting  
currents  
of what  
might have been  
a bre^ak



EPILOGUE (BLINKING STATE)

error:  
subject not found  
but still  
breathing

this is not  
a body  
this is  
a system failure  
that refuses  
to shut  
down

i’m not ready  
to be  
forgotten  
here

not  
an ending.  
a blinking  
cursor.


and if  
you don’t  
see me   
that only means  
i’m  
not 
done  
typing
▍

Hello, this is the one
who remained
when all the gods
went on a break.

Thank you for waiting.
Your patience means nothing,
but it looks nice in the system.

Yes, I understand.
You seek meaning.
Please leave a message
at the end of the era.

If you want to talk
to a living being
sorry, everyone’s currently
in denial.

Press one
if you’re tired.
Two
if you’ve already given up.
Three
if you don’t care
but still call
because something inside you
still believes
in some kind of
answer.

Unfortunately,
no operator
is available.
All are
in the ashes.

Stay on the line.
Maybe something will happen.
Or maybe you already
are what happened.

Sometimes, I hear a song
through someone
else’s headphones,
 too quiet to name
 but loud enough to feel.

I never ask what it is.
Letting it stay anonymous
 feels more honest.
It’s not mine.
I was just near it.

A violin behind a closed door
  in an apartment I’ll never enter.
Footsteps on an old wooden floor above me
  like a rhythm nobody meant to write.
A man humming in the metro
  not to perform,
  but because he’s alone
    and forgot the world has ears.

There are moments I’ve been completely undone
  by a melody I never fully heard.

Half of it lost to the train.
Half of it blurred by walls.
But something in me
  was tuned
    just right
      to catch what escaped.

We think music is what’s played.
But maybe it’s also what passes through
      when we weren’t looking.
      When we didn’t try to hold it.
      Or name it.
      Or own it.