I got an empty canvas
And I need your hands of glass
To dye me in different shades
Of life; of joy; of pain—of your taste.

I'm writing to you, the only way I know how to,
entirely bare, naked, in the entirety of my soul,
attempting to sing, where no words or touch may reach you,
to be like a moonlight that with its glance can kiss,
and cover, your eyes and lips, and make even your clothes
sensitive to bliss,

To call you darling, is to say you are dear,
but if between our eyes it's so early, if we have yet to even begin,
how can I paint you the future I surmise,
past it being a simple painting, one among the hundreds
other fingers have colored, I want to have your heart panting,
I want you to feel the dark breaking,

Make no mistake, this is not about saving,
you are not a weak thing but a powerful one,
you are not seen, rather, I devour you entirely,
every inch and ounce, all that you are,
even if it kills me,

I take us as mark, a marker with which to draw,
to a slow stuttering drawl, the hours full of stark
meaningless pain, that the beauty of life has sworn to seal,
away forever, with just playing,
smile, because love is a truth, and from life's kind eyes
it is vibrating.

You are the emanation of a knife finally tucked away,
to give you my life, would be holding back,
all that I will give, was never mine to give back.

I reach for water in the desert,
a mirage shimmering in the heat.
My lips are cracked with longing,
my heart, a vessel, pleading to be filled.

But when I kneel to drink,
I taste only sand—
grains that cut, not quench,
dust that dries the soul.

I'm

Falling apart and rotting away
Insecure, lost, with nowhere to stay
Nothing worth loving, an echo to ****
Endlessly crying on my window sill

The days move on,
but my heart stays still—
stuck in the moment
you slipped beyond my reach.

I search the silence
for the sound of your laugh,
trace the shadows
for a glimpse of your light.

Every sunrise feels empty
without you to greet it,
every night falls heavier
without your voice to guide me home.

I carry your memory
like a fragile flame,
shielding it from the winds
of time and forgetting.

I’m missing you deeply—
in the quiet, in the noise,
in the space between heartbeats
where you once lived.

And until I see you again,
I’ll keep loving you
across this impossible distance,
hoping somehow, you feel it still.

Beneath the veil of endless night,
The stars are born in quiet light.
Dust of galaxies, scattered far,
A cosmic dance, a distant star.

In the dark, the North Star gleams,
A beacon bright, the keeper of dreams.
Guiding souls through wind and tide,
A steadfast light that won’t subside.

The ocean hums in endless blue,
A rhythm old, a pulse so true.
It mirrors skies, both deep and vast,
Where stardust falls, and hearts beat fast.

The waves caress the shore with grace,
As if the sea, in endless chase,
Would capture stars and carry them,
To light the night, to guide again.

So in the whispers of the sea,
And in the stars that call to me,
I find a truth that's pure and near—
That we are stardust, crystal-clear.

Bound by tides and shining bright,
Like stars above in endless flight.
We drift, we rise, we find our way,
By stardust trails and ocean spray.

I did not know it then
how much of my life I spent
in pursuit of people
who stood behind curtains,
who spoke in half-gestures,
who never saw me at all.
And I
I mistook their silence for grace,
their distance for depth,
wasted hours praising shadows,
thinking they were saints.

Age crept in like a quiet thief
while I argued with the wind,
burning every bridge behind me
not for revenge,
but for honesty
because I couldn’t keep pretending
the path was paved with purpose
when all I saw were stones
and no clear road ahead.

I wandered through philosophies
like a drunk through alleys,
looking for the one window
still lit at 3 a.m.
some voice to say:
you were right to doubt,
you were right to bleed.
But every answer I found
sounded too rehearsed,
too clean,
like the kind of lie
taught in churches and schools
by those who never questioned
the god they worshipped.

I used to think there was something
waiting on the other side of pain
a reward, a reckoning,
a soft hand or a white gate
but the more I lived,
the more I saw how many men
broke themselves
waiting for something
that never came.

What if this is it?
What if all we ever had
was the breath between two silences,
the taste of wine on a Sunday night,
the brief flicker of touch
before sleep swallows us whole?

The world has always belonged
to those who claimed certainty.
They built empires on our questions,
wrote sacred texts from our fear,
used our doubt
as currency
to buy power,
to sell guilt.

And we—we folded our hands,
pretended to be holy,
afraid to ask:
what if no one is watching?
what if no one ever was?

Still, I don't mind now.
Whether the end is fire,
or dust,
or just a deep forgetting,
I find peace in knowing
that my suffering
was not for applause,
that no angel tallied my failures,
no devil stoked the furnace
for my crimes.

I live now
not because I believe,
but because I breathe.
I wake not with purpose,
but with hunger
to feel, to see, to ruin, to rise.

Let the priests whisper,
let the mystics dream.
I will walk this road barefoot,
****** if I must,
toward the same silence
that swallows kings and beggars alike.

Because in the end,
there is only one truth worth knowing
that none of us knows
and that this
is the only freedom
we were ever given.