"are you contemplating? did you observe enough?  
have you surveyed them all?  
have you scanned me, inspected my wounds, and scrutinized me whole?  
did you see—view the noisy entities that lie around me?  
thanks and regards, i hope i helped you with your study."


would you go ahead and just cry, baby?
i told you before—i've been poisoned a lot.

snakes, ghosts, waning moon in the shadows—
breathing slow, i gasp for more.
someone plays on the drums; the night feels alive.
my skin thrums—there's something under it tonight.

i've traced paths, points on a corkboard,
placed tags along as i go,
walking in the direction that leads back to the very center.
traps—traps—oh, so many.
they’ve set me up too many times—
i wonder if even they found it uncanny.

like a spider's web—intricate, yet messy—
it knows what it’s doing,
yet sometimes makes unsolicited errors
in the repeated counting,
as does the world around me.

long in motion, trapped, all of it a lie—
a plot, so humongously tried.
something about the way they speak,
how the smile almost always means the same thing,
how it reaches the eyes that carry a darkness so queer.

truth has always been one breath away—
i took that one—gasped, coughed, choked it out,
watched the mask slip.
they didn’t fall—i did.

viewers from the third eye, melancholic stillness in their sight,
piece by piece, watched me crash.
saw me bury the upturned corpses of all that i’d had,
crestfallen under the weight of secrets—
too many, too layered, too loud to ignore.
never meant to carry, never meant to become
merely the pawn, the bug stuck in the web—
yet desolated, they stained it mad.

there’s blood on me—
not theirs, but my own.
as i rasp out to repeat:
withered flowers still had the same old thorns,
as if sharpened by hand—like a dagger against stone.

you don’t realize how much it *****
when you have to pretend the lie doesn’t hurt.
and when the lie is you—all of you—
it’s like smiling a wisp away from the hug of death.
perchance, if anything’s left,
add it here. leave it be.
the texts, the calls, the hidden clues play on—
you dare cheat?

leering through the red trees,
the sparks of the stars that once whispered memories—
it’s so cold in this place, like being stuck in a maze.
every turn, a version of you exists,
one that i didn’t know how to name.
i’ve met enough to barely remember how to count—
or which number i’d reached.

no escape clauses here, just sounds of glass shattering.
trust is what lies on the ground beneath your feet.
i’ve seen the graveyard where all my hope lies,
sleeping since forever—
it’s been quite a while.
maybe the betrayal isn’t always the worst part—
maybe it’s the quiet.
the silence of watching the lies be watered,
brought up into flowers.
ones with thorns—
the thorns that ***** the same hand which had sown
the seeds—
it always comes back in a loop.
and i promise it’ll come back to hit you.

i’ve been poisoned enough to know
when it’s mere liquor,
or when it’s laced with sweeter wine—
the one that carries all the enzymes
needed to make me curl up,
squeeze the inside of my guts,
choke out my heart,
watch it be torn through
by hands that resemble claws.

you’re like an eagle—
beady-eyed and grinning.

they’ve said love comes with a price,
that bonds need no ice.
this setup, alas, was stitched with rot.
i walked into it willingly.
though i wasn’t the only pawn—
unknowingly so.

check the board again, my love—
who all stand? who made the rules?
i store it in a vessel—
the tragedy i have become.
you didn’t follow all the runes.
all you need to know,
even as you watch my corpse fall:
poison has come to know its own.
and despite all—you were all that i needed as an antidote,
to stop the black that visibly spreads through my veins.
you and i watch it reach up to my eyes—
one last glance.
the board shall remember:
i'll take your name.
you.

i remember
a memory —
it isn't mine.
someone else's.

being the kid we used to be
(yes, i'm writing it in their pov)
we drank lemonade under the summer sun,
watched the bulb in the sky brighten,
heard the promises of forever
where no voice resonated.

echoes of my woes
learned to yearn within these walls.

it's a contrast: sweet, distant, aching.
have you ever heard of feeling nothing —
like the silence after chaos,
a void so deep,
there seems to be nothing it's composed of at all?
an absence that has screamed louder since its presence.

i listen to skyfall as i write,
and no, the sky hasn't fallen —
but it seems it would have felt better if it did.
a way to express what i feel deep inside,
since the breaking.

there are regrets.
like a flower blooms under the sun,
my regret bloomed under the skin of love,
whispered between lines,
composed of all the maybes it could have been —
the ideas, the fantasies,
versions of you that never came to just be.

perhaps i'd dreamt different —
not of someone,
but of how things seemed to me.

but it's nighttime, and i sit,
and like a building collapsing, i think —
stars falling, heavens opening, illusions crashing,
my heart strengthening.
it rubs painfully against the chest — or so.
i wish it hurt just a little bit more,
for i feel it tends to lack intensity.

how you simply waved a goodbye —
i felt it like waves in the sea.
yours was late, brief —
mine drowned, delivered me to the ending.

i have my window open.
i'll try to describe the night sky.
it still seems impossible,
like it did that night.

the stars — they watched me silently.
maybe they witnessed the fall as well.
and then i wondered —
did i even know it all that well?

maybe they were the lovers who never made it home.
maybe they were the parallels to what was meant to be alone.
i kinda hoped it'd be one way —
either you'd become a star, or me, or us together.
and whoever remained would have watched it
as we grew old together.

alas, what remains of it now?
the memories, the hauntings —
are they simply the nothings in between the heavier things?

wave after wave,
they take me with them,
bring me back
to where i began.

we were kids once,
with lemonade hearts —
not the sugary kind,
but the one filled with zest and a spark.

the sky remembers all that i've forgotten.
the same track on repeat —
i wish i'd heard it the night that brought me to hit rock bottom.

i want to write and write and write
and let it devour you and me
and all the eyes that ponder over these words whole.

for that nothing
felt like everything for a moment.

and i can't believe
you missed out
on becoming the lovers —
the ones i dreamt for us to be.



that was indeed just the end, then.

like the sounds of tires on gravel
when the track twists just right —
hold—wait—stop—
i need to catch up to my memories.
but what of all the ones you left with?
bled into them: the last gaze, the lasting wounds.
oh, look — it crumbled.

had you promised to stay
and followed it through,
i'd have torn the sky apart
with bare hands,
set ablaze all those who came in our path.
but alas, easy way out —
i saw nothing (that was enough then),
never saw beyond you
(but now i see all of you).

and i shall wash away,
off the shore, at the edge of the boat.
i shall let go and watch.
you've slipped from my hands
like dust in between fingers.
the sandglass broke,
so did the beats at which my heart spoke.
i wish you the best.
i shall hope you find rest
in places that aren't filled with me.

it's a closure,
it's my closure —
turns out,
that's all i've ever seeked.

hereby i announce the signs
the tell-tale of how i met the monsters one random night
and no, i don't remember when exactly
hello! they didn’t appreciate me

i saw them in people first
shadowed creatures looking over their shoulders
creeping inside from the back
i watched them take place in their head
and in their eyes—every time i saw myself
what if—what if—what if—

they know who you are!
they know what you hide!
they will see through you, you need to disguise!
hide! mask! they'll come in the night
despise—despite everything—you need to run and find cover
you can't be bare—not in front of this world
they'll hurt more—seeing the scars you carry
blame it all on you, for the past—when you weren't so merry
they'll see through the false hope and the desires to live
they'll make you hate life more, you need to perish

then they entered my head
from people, to me—within deep—etched to the core
they haunted all my memories
they stared and made me feel obnoxious

i don't even know—why, when or how
or any of the other questions you could ask around

i have a head full of monsters and i killed them one by one
alas, only if i'd known—they replicated, gave birth to new ones

and so i live
with a demon on my shoulder
a mix of all those who brought me up altogether
and it reminds, and reminds and reminds and screams
it hollows me out, every bit from within

and sometimes i hope i'll find a way to silence it or even a simple meaning
but then i look into the eyes of others, see the mirth—the silent sly creatures—the humans that walk on this earth
and i lend my ear to the demon, let it whisper, let it carry me forward
for who am i, if i can't be scheming

and it wasn't to hurt
but to protect
no one did it for me
i learnt and played myself

never to be just a pawn in their games
the monsters ruled me out, splashed me with blood
as i walked and cut across every other piece on the board
they cheered, screamed and haunted me with all the gore
and i never laughed, only cried
all my tears, my eyes dried

i'd tell you to beware, wish you never see any
for they hold over and ensnare
everyone who's watching, they've had their own
we weren't born with monsters
but now we're the ones that are shown
bright in the light, not simply in the nights
we walk during the day—
i hate my brain.

it sneers, you know?
every time someone tries to get too close
it mocks—my reflection, i see it gripping my nerves
watch it sipping on my blood
and every moment i'm told, i’m here for you
the demon sips on my feelings
drains the word, they’re left with no meaning
and every chance i get to feel the warmth—opposite to the usual cold
it leers, peeks over, curses and takes over
it's not me if i push you away, i'd want you to know and understand and for you to stay
please get rid of him for me, for i lose strength day by day
i do not know how longer i can carry
i've got a demon on my shoulder, and it rose from all the ones i walked across
it is cross with the word, an angel at first—it just wouldn't let me be merry.

i knew it — something was here
within me, beside me, around me.
being woken up by fire isn't so surreal.

stepped down on the floor, felt it through my bare feet,
watched the skin glisten, brighten,
turn red and burn with such an intensity.

the heat was unbearable, so were the surroundings,
and yet — yet i found myself going down the lane of memories.

the pathway, a tunnel — almost like a water slide,
bleeding with my tears.
i fell and fell,
found it impossible to reconcile

with everything and the no-longer-supposed-to-matter things of my past.
felt watched, looked around,
remembered the concept of “nazar” in the background —
someone’s always watching, always picking, always hoping
for me to fall, to go down, to enter the lows and never get back up.

i hate the color orange. it just messes me up,
reminds me of all the times i hoped it wouldn’t come true.
i stand amidst the burning flames, watch their color blaze,
see it in my own eyes, stand tall watching myself smile.

am i sleeping? why do i sense no meaning?

the embers rising from the hearth could melt gold — make it blood.
i feel it through my veins and my bones, my muscles and my soles.
the lines are blurry — so is my vision.

i intended to wake myself up, but i can't stop sleeping.
i watch her — and him — and myself — and my dreams.

the final line loops back to the same question:
was i ever awake, or was this fire the irony to hire?
was i up at stake, all this while?
i did truly forget how to smile.

but then i inhabited,
held it close, hugged it.
tiny little sparks emerged from the cacophonies.
i dreamt with meaning, slept with a feeling.
the fire was an old friend —
the memory lane one lost, but remembered quite a lot.

i found a water jug at my side table.
the floor didn’t burn or sear.
they still watched,
but i had the evil eye pressed up close —
sleeping and dreaming of lying with my only 'gold'.
it sparkled, it shimmered, it brightened, and my heart glimmered.

perhaps i was never awake.
it wasn’t no nightmare.
i’m happy where i am.
wouldn’t want to bargain —
not here or anywhere.

i drew a few hearts on my bedding
when it was bare without any sheets
perhaps i shouldn't have — it's bad manners,
what you're taught as a toddler to preach in.
but then i wondered —
who would ever notice?
i'd like to mention, the art of noticing.

i went to fetch some groceries.
while returning, without my headphones,
i took notice — and the world seemed to hold me in.
a woman was talking to her husband,
chatting about how the war drills cancelled.
two brothers were playing cricket —
i passed them by and heard the younger say,
i'll learn to throw well in time if i grew bolder, yeah?
the older one smiled —
a smile i've done many times — and chuckled.

it's not always the best place to be,
the world i mean — when you wish to fit in.
i'm almost always with my earphones — wired or the other ones,
trying to fade it out: the noise, the surreality, almost all of it.
because it's just so hard to seek the peace i intend to live with.
but then, on a few random days where i feel like the chosen,
everything feels a bit better —
like it's not that bad to be broken?

they function, yes they do —
but i notice the way they lag,
and sometimes choose just not to
show who they are.
so they wear masks:
ones that hide, ones they despise,
and sometimes don’t even realize
until it’s too late — and the mask melts into their skin.

i feel bad sometimes —
this empathy just carries my soul,
brings it to absorb every ounce of pain i can
from the one beside, and the ones i cross.

but on other days like tonight,
i walk, almost free.
there’s good winds, myself carefree.
there’s a lot of work pending —
i won’t deny i’m procrastinating.
but for once i smile,
and i smile at the thought of myself smiling —
for no cause, probably seeming delusional
to the one in passing.

but how do i tell them the moon’s following,
and there’s the hint of wet mud after the evening shower —
the sensation filling up my blood —
and it’s nice for once, easy to exist,
almost easier to fit in.

my thoughts are like string lights,
almost always entangled together.
not one single shines bright —
but sometimes they glow,
like when i'm hit with a current of emotions.
they glow bright, almost enchanting —
and on nights i'm able to sort,
sort through the flickering ones,
the ones that died, and the ones that hold the right light,
i pour them out, let the candle-like wax from my brain transcribe
words and feelings into the right imagery,
hoping it'll make sense by the time i'm done with it.
and this right here is quite one of the examples
of same cord of fairy lights
(i'm to believe i might be magical in all my might).

but then i look around
and see the way they look in return —
and even though i stand out,
stand out in a way the odd one does
in the system of evens —
it’s not the best thing, not the flashiest.

but i continue to walk
with a silent acceptance.
maybe the world is like this.
sometimes i notice the good,
often the bad,
mostly the in-between.

and the greys are a nice position to be in
when the extremes have taken you and thrown you.
for not all magnets hold together —
the like ones just never really go well together.

we're all simply misfits —
and yet the word holds the fits.
so i guess in the end,
we all really do miss the irony of it.

a random way to start a poem.
this was the prompt i'd given to my head.
i re-read it,
realized it works as it was—
and i didn’t need another instead.

this might be more of a digital zine.
i read it once, and more—
had it unravel my soul.
there's a lot that goes in here.
free verses are simply rare.

i've got a mind
trying to make sense of the chaos
through rhythm and fragments,
a heart
trying, staying far away from the shallow ends.

this is a journal between them both—
a memoir,
monologue,
memory,
moment—
perhaps double of all.

there's contradiction,
there's numbness,
and a yearning.
i ain't always living
in the classic sweet little nothings.

listening to the wrong playlist.
well, it’s just that particular one.
special moments, special feeling,
kinda thing?
the kind where the memories are kept and treasured.
but in the long run,
i’m afraid they’ll get weathered.

there’s a lot, quite literally.
today’s another time i write about—
well, being picked up and left.
not in the wrong way,
as a choice—perhaps?

slept only for three hours or so last night.
it was the last day—
ending of a year in a place
that ought to have been littered with memories,
and yet i felt—
a lot of nothings
things do that to you eventually, i guess.

they say when you keep lying to yourself,
pretending it doesn’t exist,
you hear screaming one day
and all you ask
is if the world exists.

numb.
that’s all i’ve been—
for most part, at least.
still am when it comes to talking
’bout things i should speak
about and of—
but they’re hard to put in words.

and so once again,
like a fool unknown to use of language,
here i am—
hoping you’d understand.

three hours of sleep.
two of writing my final.
another of waiting.
another two of failing at
achieving what had been planned
before it had to end.

a call—
my phone is ringing.
is it them?
yes—oh yes! i’m worried.
should i answer—
play pretend sleeping?
heart’s weak since the 21st of may,
i think i just will.

and so i did.
and so i found them
at quite literally my doorstep.
and next second we were out and talking.

have you seen petals bloom?
or sunflowers turning towards the sun—
slowly, gradually living and soaking it up?
i believe we’re that way.

it starts slow—
words and gestures,
nods and silly little eye contacts.
and then one speaks—
the other carries—
the third continues—
the loop persists.

(i wish the loop did exist this once.
a loop that would let me do whatever,
except each day would end on a different note—
in a different setting,
with the same people—
and the same old feelings.)

balloons.
ice creams.
ice pops—
they melted.
grape flavored. all three.

movie—kind of boring.
laughing—yes. loads.
walks on the footpath.
one continued to trot,
the other just headed for the road.

wished i’d been a ghost—
to stay,
to follow,
to breathe the same air,
not obsessively—
to protect,
to handle,
and to show the care that i felt—


memento? wanted.
find? never did.
left with—
memories.
hopes.
thoughts.
a lot more contraries.

still no pictures (well i have one! of them)
multiple in my head.
words and feelings—
all the downturned,
less spoken of meanings,
shared all at once—
"here’s what happened with me—"
"you need to tell me about yours—"
"we’re listening."

"the ones who know you the most,
are actually the ones who become the perfect ghosts."
meant nothing—
spoken without thinking.

and oh—friends.
the ones who’re ours. ours. yours & mine.
they are the ones who truly get to leave.
rest are unknowns—
they’ll still be so.

i’m afraid of goodbyes.
and of forgetting.
and of missing out—
living in the moment,
hoping to store it all in—
and watching it fade out.

of distancing.
of walking away.
of pretending it wasn’t real.

’cause it was.
and it has always been.
there’s just too many masks
and too many vulnerabilities underneath.

and irony to say—
remove the mask and show the real you.
the real is layered like an onion—
never saw light of the day after that one point in time.

forgot to laugh even—

i’ve been laughing and smiling a lot recently.
should i be worried?

asked,
are you going to pretend none of this happened and move on?
and this sounded like an ex’s question to their former lover.
but this one came true—
from the bottom—
deepest betrayed—
often starved,
often overruled layer.
the original.

will you fade out too? was the meaning.
heard no symphonies,
no heeding.
so it seemed.

i wouldn’t mention the replies or the comments.
perhaps i should.
i’ll hide them in words,
like i should have hidden the fragile
before i let it take over.

but sometimes it shows,
peeks out like an observing, curious,
scared little child
seeing a new person for the first time.

(curiosity killed the cat—
sometimes i was killed too.)

e-rickshaw rides. (a blue balloon.)
empty roads—
away from the city life and the highways.
barren land—
a flower shop.

a pink rose.
a blue balloon once more?
a red one to the one who helped cash in.
a pink chrysanthemum too—
unless i’m wrong, beauty nonetheless.

smiles.
smiles all along.
the security.
rose to him.
chatted along.
teamwork? surely.

cab driver.
music!
oh, can you play darling?
yellow balloon for his child.

child reminds me—
all the kids in the mall!
playstores and areas—
eating,
screaming,
crying,
laughing,
filled with glee.

and families.
blood is thicker than water.
not being related by blood—
i wouldn’t compare the densities.

(purple. pink. orange. blue. red.
the colors of balloons that i have.)

couldn’t share hugs—
too awkward,
i know i’m that.

(kinda mad, chaotic—
and sly.)

i do see it all,
but how do i say i’m afraid of it being a lie?
can’t confirm,
so i try to get it out in words.
from the others, of course—
can never admit i understand.
what if i understand it all wrong?
i’ve done—multiple times—
mostly bad—
compared to the rare good.

back home, in the shower—
hit me hard and soft playing.
a new kind of love followed,
settled in the dark.
took out my laptop
and turned it on—
cigarettes after *** songs that feel like drowning
and here i’m writing.

sleep.
i should.
but first, i’ll admit something—
only in words i could.

i’ve been smiling.
a lot, recently—
plotting, perhaps—maybe?
not to hurt,
to be aware.
to beware—
to protect.

i don’t want to be betrayed.
no tears,
heart feels heavy.

writing didn’t help much,
i didn’t know what to really say.
i speak slower at first—
at a tone only i can hear.
first to recognize,
that it’s how i sound.
second to make sure—
if this is really what i want to go around?
but then louder,
to express—
i’m left with several ways—
a couple handshakes—
a few signatures.
and that’s all i am—
boring, awkward,
a ghost of the third pov.

but that’s not how it feels—
at most times, at least.
feels like i exist—
hi, i’m here.
will you let me breathe?

they do.

how will you describe me?
& us! they asked so—

i'd read something a while ago.
the negatives could be killed by the positive—
but no, that wasn't the entire truth.
in the long run,
that is what you could grow into.
negatives were easy to fall back in—
the positives had to be given birth.
and for that,
the seed,
for the bud to grow—
warmth.

i termed them as warmth.

my hands are slowing down.
eyes shutting even faster.
i’m going to sleep,
kinda hungry,
but i won't be eating.

going to sleep—
a long, long sleep tonight—
hopefully it’ll be without dreams.

i’ve left pieces of myself once again—
bigger, rarer,
truer ones
that can be termed as fossils
from how long they’d been buried.

but i don’t seem to regret it.

i shall trust you—
it’ll be your choice to hold.

my heart kinda hurts.
i’ll come back later?
(you’ll be back, later, yeah?)

(a cut that always bleeds—
mine do a lot more than just that.)

afraid it’ll be long gone—
never to repeat—
that it wouldn’t be the same—
i’m afraid of destiny.
afraid of fate—
of everything turning out wrong.
(he had said something- it slipped from my memory)

and it hits
because i know a distance
and a time period that’s to come—
it just is so long.
the day ended.
smiles.
in all smiles.

i’ve been smiling a lot.
but then why is my heart so heavy?
is it nostalgia?
or is this the feeling i carry?
i wish i could be read—
as easily as reading a book with chapters titled and left—
bookmarked.
oh, it would help!

there's no tone—
nowhere the end to which this ought to go.
but it doesn't have to end, does it?
i'll keep it open—
not shallow—
not broken.

now, a couple things that i ought to add.
these are random, but they're the warmth they left.
the clock ticked the same way before,
why do i notice a few numbers—specific times—
the angles, a lot more?

i got my form of warmth from the people,
and i think i'll accept it now—
i've always wanted for it to be real.
bonds and bonds and bonds and families—
did i repeat? you'll see the meaning.

i got a sad soul with a happy personality.
see the paradoxes a lot more—
should rather be focusing on my memory.

the rules the society set—
work, earn, repeat—forget the rest.
i think i'll pass on that.

i still believe in mbti's and words that describe you—
knowing humans are more than that—
beyond feelings and beyond the divided distinctions.

like why start a maze from the beginning to end—
start from the ending you know—
maybe you'll go around the right way to the front.
lay down the path
for the ones who needed help to follow.
i often start from the centre of a puzzle
instead of finding all the pieces and placing out the corners.
boundaries are there—rarely taken down—
but walls need not be broken,
you could build a door!

and windows—
i've got a couple to my own self.
just knock the right way—
and i'll hand you the keys you'll need.


we had desserts!
a lot—
sweets—
oh, i love when i get to hear them talk.
it's nice having people.
nice having the ones you can love
without having to leave,
without having to prove.

but then—

you throw pebbles in the water—
watching the ripples they make.
this probably has a meaning—
but i think more of the stones in the stomach—
at the base of the meek.
is that why i too feel so heavy?
is it being anchored,
or set up for a fall that's called drowning?

the edit: (here to once again)

dreamt this once.
i woke up—had an epiphany.
a zeitgeist?

i saw a rope—
actually two.
are they here to pull me out
or simply leave me battling through?

i gasped, grasped so hard—
watched it go taut—i pulled so hard.
fragments punctured the palms of my hands,
the knots on the rope resembling a tug—
every chapter i ought to be pulled up.

the rope was warm—glowing even,
connected to the figures who stood at the end.
they were blowing—bubbles on land.
i didn't have to see their faces—
not as of then.
except, despite not capturing the moment,
they still remain engraved.

please don't let go—
i'd voiced it out.
they couldn't hear it through the water
that surrounded me all around.
please don't let go—
i screamed.

water filled up my mouth—
the rope burnt through my skin.
there were chains at my ankles,
something holding me down,
pulling at my shins.

i looked at the scars left behind by the other ropes—
the ones before.
other tries at saving.
rare as they'd been,
they remained,
and i felt my grip weakening.

something within yet again called out—
forced me to keep going.
to squeeze at the knots,
hold it tight,
pull myself up—
and then what?

could i swim?
perhaps i never learnt.
who would have thought i'd be drowning?

halfway up, or so it seemed,
i looked down—
the deep was and is unmeasured.
i've been here?
how long have i lived?

visible just enough,
the knots swarmed around me.
the rope fell and fell—
i pulled it harder and harder,
like the hands of a boat weaving through water.

i was so close to the top—
am i finally going to be better?

felt a grip at my wrists,
up my arms—
i felt the lethargy.
i lost the rope from my hands.

i didn't let go first—
or maybe i did.

all i remember from that night is:
there was a knot that had formed—
that locked me up—
tied itself around me,
making this mass a dead weight.

and i'd drowned once again
to a new rot—
to a new never.
a deep i didn't know existed.

they were molten hot this once—
my skin burnt.
the cold, numbing cold of the water
did nothing but provide a sensation—
like adding salt to the wounds.

i watched the figures,
who ought to have held the other end
for a little while longer.
they were human.
they perhaps got tired.
i'd watched them walk away.

read it somewhere,
thought i'd write my own
with the same meaning.

if poetry were to cover up my bleeding scars—
shouldn't there be bandages
instead of hollowed-up wounds
that were left for me to shower—
with care and in pain,
with love and in ache.

hi!
i'm here,
and i'll stay.




need not—shouldn't have ended this
the way i brought it to a close.
but i'll admit another once:
i loved it—loved being in their company,
and i shall hope and wonder
if it'll repeat, or if i'll reap
all that i've sown. i don't think there's much to begin with—
no clue, no ideas, nowhere to go.
loved it, loved what came out of it,
loved them, loved life, a bit more than i did the last time.

it's hard to begin, even harder to end.
i'm talking about poetry, not human bondings.
they mend, need stitches, new careful considerations—
specially in the patterns you plan to weave.
i never knew how to embroider,
but i think i did learn a bit on how to hit repeat.

tonight. the night repeats.
i've put the tape in my head, of all the memories.
my eyes cross, my vision swims,
and i shall go to sleep with a sigh—
one that cleanses my soul, gets rid of all that's stuck.
and i hope i'll dream of another time,
the first or the second.
there hasn't been a third—
perhaps i should end this with a yet or maybe.

maybe it is. maybe it will be.
maybe i'll love to live, and live to love—
someday, perhaps, maybe.

i don't consider myself much of an author
though you could call me a poet
i have a book, turns out
i guess i've been living under its illusion
but today, after three months of it being public
i held it in my hands and went through the pages

i'm not super proud, i'll admit
it's not perfect, barely anything
if i were to compare my current writing with that of the book
i'd call myself childish when i thought it could look
poetic or pass off as poetry
i'm no professional, barely perfection
but the title does say perhaps we could be anything

so here i was, reading through, found a good few
but most seemed to lack the fervor that i thought
when i penned down that thought
and once again i wondered, am i supposed to be proud of this thing?
thing, huh. really low of me to put it that way
when i started writing and it was a beginner's sake
no plans, thoroughly unrequired

i know many creators
ones who are artists, and they almost always mention
“i'm not really proud of that one” —
the particular one that marked their beginning
but i guess the beginnings are the time capsules
that lead to more such evenings
when you finalize a draft, finalize a piece,
put it out there wondering maybe it still lacks it
but the heartbeat — of that moment when it's passed on and upon —
maybe not everyone would critique
are we ever really proud of all that we do?
do we really accept it?

then this particular vision erupted in my head
i held the book, held it in my hands
and it was out there, and anyone could peek into my head
it escalated — vibrant imagery indeed
i was left to accept that if anyone wanted,
they could have had parts of me
the specific ones inside the book
and the ones in the title
and in the words
and in the emotions that led it on

and even though it wasn't everything, not as i'd desired
maybe someone could find a piece they loved in there?

perhaps it wasn't that bad of a choice
not super proud again — but hey, i'm a poet!
i've been writing more, learning better, and listening loads
i think i might be onto something
like let it enfold you by charles bukowski
god, i don't know the man
not his works or of any other plans
but i do know that words stick
the meaning they carry does too

and if i say i love the book (yet to like it)
will you read it for me too?