love doesn't live here anymore...
        what I tell myself as I pick dead rose petals from the ground
              I keep them in a jar by my windowsill when it rains-
    because even the fallen deserve a view of angels crying

I told myself:

" I need to make this man a poem. "

So here I am, reminiscing an ordinary day. . .

I was one of those,
Who do not care:
University political parties, campaigns
And all the blabbers they make.
Scripted promises turned
Public speaking competitions,
And yeah, i t   i s   h e l l !
But that day I heard a voice so deep,
E  c  h  o  i  n g   in space,
pounding through my brain. .
One of the clearest voices
I've ever heard, there he is
Standing for campaign.
And my wrong, he's full of vision
and selfless cause, giving my belief
a  s p e c  i al   e x cl u si o n.

A year has passed, with ordinary days
Lurking by. .

He transferred in our block,
From there I thought:

" I would want to know
              this person more. ."

There was no love, I'm sure.
But there is a jolt of mystery
On his face I'd die to solve.
I exerted  n o   e f f o r t,
but my curiosity is pulling strings,
I got to know him better.

One of the most well-rounded person
I've ever known,
Oozing with confidence
In everything he do.
His  ph il o so p h i e s
deserves a trophy too!
He is someone that
I would want to be
If I were a man, that I am sure!

We competed in a class debate, I won.
And there I thought,
That my achievement is worth
a  no b e l   p r i c e
worth the sought.

There is no love, but there is
f or e v e r    ad m i ra t i on.
To the voice which is not
just a perfect tone,
But has the best echo that deserves
a   w o r l d   c a l l .

There is consistency,
There is substance. .
The only thing I hope for is
May his beliefs not eat him
Coz too much meaning,
Brings sadness on his face.
A face which looks like
He discovered a problem
O u t   o f    w a y s,
Like cancer on its very last stage.
His wits are too powerful,
I see it killing his happiness.

So I wish him the same things I wish for myself:

To think less of what others deem
as   n o n s e n s e .

Her hair may smell like sweet summer rain and her smile always settles weirdly in your stomach, but she is poison. She is a toxic cocktail garnished with cigarette smoke that reminds you of the night you came too close to kissing her. She is unattainable, she is right beside you and yet your fingertips cannot ever quiver hard enough to close the gap between you and her.

You crave her so desperately. You would be humbled to fall apart for her. At her feet, you’d make your bed, and there you would stay all alone through the night, dreaming of how she swore she’d come back for you. There you will stay while the dawn filters in through the drapes, while the sharp rays of early morning light are all that is there for you to blame for your tears. She will not come back because boys will be boys, with their tousled hair and heavy brows and all of their hard edges, and she will love them for that. No matter how hard she bleeds before he gives way for her, she will melt into him.

She wears your sorrows like a dress gown. You tell her past the knot in your throat that she looks gorgeous. Your palms itch; it takes everything in you to not smooth down the ripples in the fabric around her hips. Her night skin’s being shed by calloused hands within her first hour out at the bar. And in a few hours’ time, she’s battling her hangover with her head in your lap while you comb through the mess of her hair and tell her that she still deserves better. She says she knows that already.

What she doesn’t know is that you do, too.

You say I'm running from myself
I guess you're right
Maybe I am
All I know is that the reason
I hear my heartbeat so clearly
Is because my chest is hollow

I am made up of layers
Too many layers
As if my skin
Was preparing to survive
Out in dead winter at the South Pole

I'm annoying
  I'm distrustful

    I'm stubborn
       And I'm doubtful

           And secretive

Maybe downright manipulative

   But most of all I'm exhausted

Exhausted of the nothingness
   That I float around in
Exhausted of everything
  That comes and goes
    Ensuring chaos
Exhausted of everything and nothing
  And all things in between
         Exhausted of
                     **living

I was good at numbers
I was called to count dead
I was good at loom
I was asked to weave shrouds
I was good at tilling land
I was drafted to dig graves