The caricatures of our soul,
Trapped within white walls,
Sinking into the slumber of morning.
Trees, of which we are the mothers,
Or perhaps wild nature’s offspring.
When we place our hands on the table,
Awaiting food,
We see our grown children through the window.
The tip of the pen leaves lines on the paper,
Trapped within white walls,
Sinking into the slumber of morning.
Deaf concrete houses
Disrupt the echo of stillness
Oh, the emptiness.
Bresson’s films,
Breaking into us,
Like the diary of a country priest,
Written on black pages
In white correction fluid.

In mariana trench
a singing blue whale,
my river of thoughts
flows over my mother's lap.
The sun has lost its warmth
against the backdrop of winter's cold,
when you cry,
and embrace someone,
it’s a great relief.
Tell me the story of Scheherazade,
I will fall asleep on your arm.
Forgive me my foot,
for the wound I caused you with an axe in my childhood,
wild pigs devour
the fruit of mulberry trees.

She crossed oceans of time for his love, yet he couldn’t spare a moment for her heart.
She waited, not for grand gestures, but for the simplest gift of his time—a gift that never came.
Distance didn’t break her,
She believed love could endure any distance, but it was his lack of presence that truly kept them apart.
In her long wait, she realized that -love isn’t measured by miles
but by moments shared.
She dreamed of him making time for her, but all she got were dreams filled with endless waiting.

The greatest distance wasn’t the miles between them—it was his failure to meet her halfway.

I guess

I’ve made myself into the woman
I thought I would never have to be

I don’t push people away.
I don’t forget people from yesterday.
I just wish I had more to say.
Not so interesting
I’m very mundane.
So don’t get angry and tell me
I pushed you away.
I’m just a human being.
Caught in the times.
It’s always too late.
And history won’t have me written in a page.
I’m not to blame.
I’m only human.
A victim of the insane.