would starlight look better through smoke:
a silver fog of fazed romance?
would flames still burn in hearts of men
if tongues of flames refused to dance?

if glories had been ill-acquired,
would victors have the battle won?
or would they melt like villains do
beneath daylight of pious Sun?

had everything that ever was
been ghastly bones of old defeat,
would everything that is to be
be like the deathbed, on repeat?

you'll never know what's made for you,
we'll never see what we've become
and each sharp cry that ever was
rings blended in a fading hum

if life's a song, then death's the beat
the pulse that we mistake for living
and each advance and each retreat
is punishment that keeps on giving

the darkest wrong to taint the right
the brightest deed shrouded in grief
we never knew when we were here
that gone would grant us sweet relief

I’ve never quite lived up to the expectations
that bombard every millennial these days,
the ones knocking and gnawing at my skin
until they find their way in
and search through each crevice in my brain
until they find the right residence to lay their bed
and plant the insecurities that end up
destroying my self-confidence
and gifting me with the inability to succeed
until I have to scrape every piece of residue from the inside-out
just to get myself to a place where I can breathe again.

Yeah, I don’t let those in anymore.

I’ve always been a little bit of a question mark,
a strange child who danced to my own beat,
even when I tried to walk in time with those surrounding,
and there is a small piece of me that -
when a new life event of someone my age
visits my newsfeed -
wants the same, tired story for my own life...
and then I remember
I wasn’t made for this.

Sometimes
I’m not sure what I was made for anymore,
and I just keep waiting and waiting
until it’s my time to be on my own,
or catch my heart on fire,
or simply take a step forward,
and, yet, it
never
happens.

There are things I know about myself
that I will never explain,
and I shouldn’t have to.
I have a key-shaped hole in my soul
that aches to find its perfect fit,
but I’m not allowed to twist it yet,
though my fist has been ready for years,
and all I can do in the meantime
when someone asks me
why
is answer with one simple phrase
that stings each time it passes through my lips:

*It’s not my time yet.