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ryn Oct 2014
I hug the first,
Enamoured by her beauty.
Such kind eyes...
Peering carelessly back at me.

She reaches out,
To meet my embrace.
"You'll always be the first,
Who had my heart set in place."

I say to the second,
"You are my life.
One day you'd build,
The right castle for a wife."

"Remember me always,
For you this path I have paved.
I'd shower upon you,
All the love that I have saved."

Then finally to the third,
The last of all gifts.
Most adorable of sprites,
Source of my infinite lifts.

*"For you I haven't done much,
Only all that I could afford.
But insert me in your forever...
As the only you ever would've adored..."
For my troopers...
ryn Jun 2021
       +                                +        
        +     ­       +        +
+                                              ­              
      •      +
+          our                  
                 paths ma-    y    +          +
+       meander•in      m-          
  any a thousand    wa-    
ays•our feet may  yet  
find the paired other•
just as long as the
torches remain


ryn Nov 2014
these thoughts...
they are my own,
walled within the deepest recesses
of my
cerebral labyrinth.

sprouting out of vine covered walls,
are multicoloured blooms
brandishing thorned stems
thirsty stigmas,
dripping with

mind full of poison in
permissible amounts...
i am caught in a
web of restless stupor,
and regression...

these thoughts...
rationed out sparingly,
for they're not for unready ears
blooms of thought meticulously
triaged before
necessary expulsion.

hairline cracks between
and peace...
i tread precariously
the fine,
meandering line.

still clutching my flowers
in a tight obstinate grasp...
not letting go
for these tainted blossoms
ryn Sep 2014
These hands have clawed with blind eyes
Chipped nails on fingers working on knots and ties

Fingers that recklessly point to reproaches and blames
Never to self, righteousness through arrogant claims

Now aware, these palms have covered my face in contempt
For they've partook in activities; indulgent and unkempt

Rubbed skin raw on life's coarse sandpaper
Ever searching for the coming of the unanticipated saviour

Broken flesh hopeful for newly formed skin
Like tattered souls pleading for absolution of sin

Only skin deep but unfavourable experiences do fester
Expecting the proverbial infection to blow over

Here they are, held unclenched and riddled with pocks
Weathered and sore from time's infinite mocks

Maybe thereafter, will be awaited healing
Perhaps soon after, I will be forgiving

See now... Hands faced up, parted as halves
Asking not for alms but instead your acceptance as salve

Take into yours, these knackered, gnarled up palms
Let your porcelain-like touch relieve like life reforming balm
ryn Dec 2019
Might I fathom
the spaces between the seconds.

Might I plot
each mark on the map.

Might I track
the footsteps that I've left behind.

Might I absolve
the mind ensnared in a trap.
ryn Mar 2017
It's not about going back
to the start.

It should be about
and going back to a point
where things made sense.

It's about understanding
why they mattered then.

And think if they still do.

If acceptance is
securing personal victory
by conceding,

then I accept.
ryn Sep 2018
An ache that splinters.
Will it dull?

A cut unseen yet draws so much red.
Will it heal?

A bruise that screams untouched.
Will it subside?

A cluster of thoughts that debilitates.
Will they ****?
ryn Oct 2014
Accuracy of your acrostic arrows,
Ride the wind with utmost ease.
Claiming each bulleye with poetic precision,
Hands steady, unswayed by the errant breeze.
Endowed with talent, unsurpassed finesse,
R**egarded by peers as the wise-worded wiz.
First attempt at an acrostic! Harder than it looks!!!
Inspired by a friend.
ryn Feb 2019
This day is just a day.

A day that shines bright
outside my window.

I could see the unburdened footfalls
of passersby -
with their voiceless chattters,
and spring-loaded gait.

I could feel the warm breeze,
greeting my face as I stood
by the window, enjoying
its play round my hair and ears.

I could smell and taste
the crisp air - laden with chances
and opportunities.
Available, accessible and within reach.
Only if one so desires
to grab at them.

This is just a day.
One amongst many
that I had failed
to be a part of.
ryn Aug 2015
Time has no hold over these
currents that carry me.
Coursing over this seemingly
endless journey.
Caressed and nudged
by an invisible hand...
Perhaps my grave awaits below...
Where light is swallowed
and is too afraid to show.
The desolate demeanor
of the submerged tombless land.

Blind to what lays in store...
Oblivious to...
The faint whispers of a distant shore.
The mythical horizon is but a dream,
worthy only to the steadfast
and the resilient.
Not to those who'd fray at the seams.

Ripples amass and finally cresting.
Wake up... Waves are breaking.
The sand beckons bearing open arms
to home and sanctuary.
I glance back to
the calm of the watery plain.
My feet aren't ready to be received by
the grit and grain.
I'd like to linger here...
In the water, with the shore so near.
For I've longed and travelled far...
I'm still not yet ready...
ryn Jan 2015
People may tell you to not cry...
I won't because I know the difference.
They think they know when in fact they lie...
I say bury yourself in the deepest of detriments.

They may say that a new day will come...
They only spout what they can't comprehend.
They forget that you are ailing from a broken heart and that you're not dumb.
There's only you in your space, alone you stand...

Textbook responses are all they can offer...
They know not that it'll only make things worse...
There can be no replies so nice and proper.
To rid you of your life, your plight, your curse.

They may even share personal events that they think familiar.
Thinking what worked for them may work for you.
But no two situations are the same, albeit looking quite similar.
At the end of the day, you only owe it to yourself to pull yourself through.

I say feed your pain, grieve hard if you must
Wallow... Dwell... Drown yourself everyday.
Let your blood sear your insides, beneath your crumbling crust.
Let the world around you descend into destruction and decay.

What made me the expert...
To say these horrid, putrid things.
Because I am you and we both lay in the dirt.
Driven mad by the persistent echoes of our own misgivings.

I'm no expert... I am just a broken man.
Telling you to let yourself be caught in your own sad and angry song.
Be weak... Be as weak as you possibly can...
So you could rise from the ashes and emerge hale and strong.
A chat I had with a friend made me realise... "What doesn't **** you, makes you stronger..." And I know this to be true... So...

"Be very weak... So you could be strong..."
- ryn

Dedicated to all the broken hearts out there...
ryn Dec 2021
The irony of a life unshackled -
seemingly an advocate for freedom.

But only to find its beats forlorn,
as it serviced payments for past follies’

ryn Jan 2015





ryn Jul 2021
Like blood slowly
ballooning into a tiny orb
from a pin *****.

It simply swelled
and bulged…

As it clung precariously
upon the tip of my nib.

A slight tremble,
almost a hesitation -
seemingly afraid to take
the leap of faith.
Afraid to take the plunge,
only to wilfully break
the expanse of blank parchment.
Afraid to taint the whiteness
with the ruthlessness
of indelible black.
ryn Oct 2018
I wasn’t so afraid
of shadows that stalk.

Wish I wasn’t so afraid
of demons that talk.
ryn Aug 2016
My teacher once asked
a short simple question.
She had asked,
"What do you want to be?"
Raised arms answered her query.
Open palms each belonging to excitable children.

Wide little eyes looked up at her.
Hands began to flail in the air...
Ever so hopeful of being chosen.
So that they could voice their aspirations.
So that they could begin to share.

One by one,
they each was given the opportunity.
Turn by turn,
boastful were some
while others spoke quiet and shyly.

Then the teacher stopped short.
Not before expressing her delight.
She was in awe of such young minds...
Having had such great wings
to eventually take flight.

Then she explained...
What she had initially meant.
Confused looks all around including me.
She rephrased the question,
"What kind of person...
Do you want to be?"

There was silence.
No arms shot up to meet the subject.
I don't recall having raised mine,
but I remember telling the teacher...
An answer (I was confident), she wouldn't expect.

I stood at my desk,
proud and tall...
And told the teacher
that I wished to be a person...
Well loved by all.

She smiled and I did too.
I felt it was a good answer.
She nodded to signal for me to take my seat again.
She paused before speaking,
and not a moment later.

She said,
"That would be nice.
To be loved by all.
But that's close to impossible.
A big wish for someone so small."

I had heard her words clearly...
However I didn't understand.
My brows furrowed...
And I was deep in thought...
Still I couldn't comprehend.

28 years later...
Here I sit,
looking back to that time in the past.
How time flies...
It simply ticked away...
All too fast.

Till just then I was still that boy...
Who tried hard to please.
I wanted to prove that it wasn't impossible.
You can be loved by everyone,
and you can do it with ease.

But now I have learnt.
Now I have found meaning
and understanding in my teacher's wisdom.
It took me a while but...
I know now...
That wishes and reality don't work in tandem.

You can choose to care and love,
everyone you see.
But to expect everyone to love you the same...
Is sheer
You can't please everyone in life.
When you work around people, you're bound to step on some toes...
Whether intentionally or not.

Dedicated to my primary school teacher
and all the teachers out there. A tad early but...
Happy Teachers Day.
ryn Oct 2021
I took           
upon the moon  
to be my aide.    

As the stars.     
failed to show;    
by the raucousness
of city lights.    

ryn Nov 2015
here near,
you   exist
so far•fur-
ther    than
my   vision
could  ever
kilometres away is wh-
ere you are•faraway land on a distant beach•let
foreign winds drench my senses•let the offshore sand greet
my feet • let us come to a consensus....• that soon our gazes
would me-
might sur-
face by the
end of this
th the dawning of mo-
rrow's morn•grant me the wings
to take flight • put me on a plane

and render me airborne
ryn Nov 2015
quiet  sol-■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■­■■■■■
itude envelopes■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■
my space • deflecting■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■
all that is consequential•lea-■■■■■■■■■■■
ving voiceless  thoughts i cannot■■■■■■■■
trace • only ghost-like echoes vi-■■■■■■■■
sit;  faint  and subtle •nestling in■■■■■■■■
this void that i am in• comfort e-■■■■■■■■
mbraces warm like a  long lost fr-■■■■■■■■
iend•i melt as i sink deeper with-■■■■■■■■
in• slow tumble into an abyss w-■■■■■■■■
ith no end•relativity dissolves in-■■■■■■■■
to nothingness •everything seems■■■■■■■■
warped and incoherent•there is...■■■■■■■■
an odd strength about being wei-■■■■■■■■
ghtless • as the currents carry me■■■■■■■■
away from the days' detriments...■■■■■■■■
welcome, come've been■■■■■■■■
here before•do not's not■■■■■■■■
too far • just a few steps, beyond■■■■■■■■
the door•slip into my dark-          
   ness for i've left the
               gates to my

slightly ajar•
Concrete Poem 10 of 30

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ryn Feb 2015
He almost let out a sigh of dismay,
Knowing this stint would be short lived.
The common sense in his head seemed to say,
"No one could be this lucky, don't have yourself deceived".

His wheels wobbled and shook; squeaked and wailed,
Under the collective weight of the two.
Screaming threats from worn bearings that ailed,
He did not want to appear weak so his legs pummelled on through.

The ease of cycling was only temporary
He pedalled harder to gain more speed.
Then the ground began to ***** gently
His lungs felt like bursting as he pounded his iron steed.

The journey uphill had been more laborious than he had expected.
All the while, the beauty hadn't uttered a single word.
His mind had drifted off even though he was worn and ragged,
The thought of emerging as a couple seemed less than absurd.

The crest of the hill was a cool, long anticipated welcome.
He could finally ease up on the pedalling.
The view from there was nothing short of handsome,
The downhill would take charge and he could catch up on his breathing.

The wind met his face and whistled itself tuneless.
The bicycle rattled as it rolled down the uneven trail.
He felt a sense of flight, there was an air of calmness,
Almost had forgotten about the quiet guest on his tail.

At the bottom he thought he should check on his passenger,
He looked ahead as he addressed the lady.
When he had expected an almost immediate answer,
No response came, despite his calls for her repeatedly.

He pedalled with little effort as if there wasn't added weight
The bicycle slowed down to a clearing where it was dim.
Fatigue was setting in as the night stretched late
His curiosity won the battle and got the better of him.

He stopped his bicycle and maintained balance with his feet,
He twisted his torso so he could speak to his fare.
The moment he did so, his heart had almost ceased to beat,
To his horror, he found that the lady was no longer there...
Based on a story I heard
ryn Dec 2017
There's a streak of sadness
that lines the backdrop of my facade.

There is much discontent
that lurks sinisterly beneath.

Gone is the confidence
that these legs might see me
through the ribbon at the end.

Instead I’m all strung up,
all hung up
and all choked up
with misplaced guilt and grief.
ryn Jan 2018
When all else
has been
flogged by time,
beaten by uncertainty
and consumed
by the earth...

All that’s left...

Is the salt
disowned by
indulgent cascades.
ryn May 2017
I'm several
steps back

I'm watching
from afar

I'm trying
to make sense

But I'm just grabbing
at raindrops
with open palms
ryn Jan 2017
I read a story today.

Like any good story it was layered upon the premise of the love between two perfect strangers.

Like any good story it was about romance that blossomed... and then flourished as quick as it was fierce.

Like any good story it spun a far-reaching web of hope and longing whilst still holding on to the uncompromising nature of responsibility to one's dreams.

Like any good story, there was a spot of intimacy. The gradual build up of physical and psychological attraction that culminated in the merging of two, was nothing less than tasteful.

Like any good story there was conflict.
But it was not the cliched garnish that involved oppressive parenting styles nor glaring racial differences.
It did not rope in the overused notion of "we're so different, we're two parts of a whole".
It was... a beautiful conflict.
One that does not allow the audience to choose sides.
In fact, it encourages you to think inward and root for both parties - be them together or apart.
If anything at all, it boils down to the pursuit of each individual's happiness.

Like any good modern day story, it ended with a breath held in a gasp. You hold it there for the longest moment and you have to close that breath with a heavy sigh of loss.
It also leaves you with ample room to deliberate the "what if" factor.
Happy endings last a while but sad ones... they rip a hole in you that almost never closes...
and you cannot help but go back to read it over and over again in the hopes of finding the elusive right answer or the best alternate ending.

Like any good story it was tailored in my fit. Because I envisioned myself in it. I got consumed by it. Overwhelmed by it, enough to almost break the pipes.

And like any good story, it's worth keeping...
In heart and in mind.

So I read a story today. And I didn't want it to end.
ryn Jun 2016
In an alternate universe,
the light would be more friend than foe.
I need not entrench myself
in the sturdiest foxhole...
The deepest burrow.

In an alternate universe,
shadows would not goad me
into submitting to leverage.
Spotlight would be on,
and I would take centrestage.

In an alternate universe,
the world would perceive
with magnanimous eyes.
With no malicious intent,
with no obscure motives,
all twisted and bent.

In an alternate universe,*
I would readily reveal myself...
As an entity and not a martyr.
In my heart, there'll be no worry.
Because there'll be no fangs
amidst the jubilee.
Only smiles that would draw out
the best in each other.
ryn Nov 2014
The gentle reaches of the late afternoon sun
I'd bathe in this light abundant reverie
Swaying breeze... Caressing the web we've spun
In the warmth of this amber coloured spree...

Shades of gold, stretch beyond observable measure
My vision could only take me so far
Shining through between the green and azure
As if the window of heaven left slightly ajar.

Swathed in the glow... Laying on a bed of green
Eyes closed... Under the blue that spanned forever
Feast for my senses thus honed keen
Relishing the lingering touches of her radiating amber.

She's finally dipping, taking all of her light...
She'll sink behind the horizon, descending gracefully
I'd still remember all through my night
That amber...
                   *Amber is the colour of her energy.
Inspired by 311's Amber
ryn Oct 2017
Something is wrong,
something's amiss today.

Sun shines duller,
and everything seems so ill-fitting.

Walking in all directions,
failing to find the way.

It's beyond this fog...
I know but I'm just not seeing.

It's like a rope,
tied in a noose and knows no fray.

Something's amiss...
and I think I'm losing.
ryn Apr 2016
Every response received.
Every nuance perceived.

Every phrase heard and said.
Every word written and read.

Every thought conceived.
Every emotion bereaved.

Only gets quietly swept under...
Where they moil and fester.

Fought to suppress
I really have tried.
But anxiety has made plans
Anxiety attacks debilitate.
ryn Sep 2017
Hours lost...
But I feel like I've gained

I felt nothing...
No recollection of the world.
No worries.
No thoughts.
No questions.
No demons.

Felt like I was dead but...
I got a morbid sense of peace,
and reassurance.
I felt bliss.

Unshackled, untethered and unbound
in those hours,
I felt one with the disconnection
from my life.

Strange and worrisome...
But I long to be caught in those
lost hours again.
ryn Nov 2016
We can never
rewrite history
and the future
is impossible to pen.

When the present
bears only anarchy
in the darkened,
tainted hearts of men.
ryn Mar 2017
This anger...

Feels like a ball of uncontrollable energy that spins treacherously in the pit of my stomach.

It is unbound and reaches out forcefully in every axis. It is self-sustaining. And it consumes...
All of me...

It's doesn't want to be displaced, or swept under the rug for the umpteenth time. It doesn't want to be cajoled or calmed. It doesn't want to be coaxed into thinking that it does not need to rear its ugly head because I believe I have a handle on things; which I clearly do not.

It knows me too well and will not take it lying down.

It wants acknowledgement and it wants to speak.

It wants to speak in a low guttural voice for the sheer purpose of intimidation.
It wants grow in figurative size to assert its validation.
It wants to absorb every form of negativity and use it to fuel the fight.
It wants to take the faintest pin-***** or papercut to the most painful stab in the heart and use them...
Harness them and then...
Explode in a hundred-mile radius.

This anger is real...
And it has had enough of sitting on the bench.
Now it wants a piece of the action...

And this time I let it.
ryn Feb 2015
I wish me invisible
I want to disappear
I am but a damsel
Parading in knight's gear

I want to be the unknown
I need to be again a stranger
I wish my secrets not shown
Back to a time when it was clearer

I wish to be a zephyr
I want to be felt not seen
I need to be less of the liar
At least lesser than I have been

I crave the comfort of solitude
I long for the absence of physical contact
I miss the tears that once had ensued
Somehow then I was more intact

I want to be an undetermined star
I need to be unnamed in an uncharted galaxy
I wish to retreat behind my avatar
So you won't see the real me

I wish me invisible
I want to be protected by ambiguity
I need to disappear from this debacle
Into the welcoming arms of anonymity
ryn Jan 2015
A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It's the tears that trickle with radiance through words.
     It's a treasure trove that hides but longs to
     be found.
          It's a book shelved high that wants to
          be read.
               It's the freest of all birds caged but

A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It doesn't beat to the capable strokes of the artist.
     It doesn't pump in the most vibrant of
          It doesn't wield a paintbrush to
          translate its thoughts.
               But it can see through the eyes of

A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It doesn't conform to the conventional parameters of lyrics.
     It doesn't bind itself to the requirements
     of musical harmony.
          It doesn't follow the conventions of
               But it sings its voice loud without
               restrictions of melody...

A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It's an open secret, that whispers in metaphoric codes.
     It's an exploding universe, that merges
     back into galaxies.
          It's a sought after painting, that boasts
          of unfathomable beauty.
               It's an everlasting song, that echoes
               within the poet that embodies...
Dedicated to all of you...

If you're reading this...
This is for you...
ryn Apr 2021
painfully beautiful

is the symphony

of this bitter regress
ryn Apr 2021
Is he home?

Will he answer the door?

Will he take calls?

Does he even check his mail anymore?
ryn Oct 2018
Clutching an anvil
close to my chest
as I struggle
to tread the water.

I’m sinking...
ryn Aug 2021
We are the authors
of our own stories.

But we have yet
to figure out
how it’d all end.
ryn Nov 2015
•atop the mast billows
my wind-tossed rag•grinning skull embla-
zoned proud•the starkness of black upon my flag
•piercing the encroaching sea mist and shroud•her-
ald the sight of the jolly roger • instilling trepidation
in all who sail through my turf • fuelled by the thirst
to pillage and plunder•others before, have sunk into
graves beneath the surf•my salt encrusted timber
creaks                   a frightening low                growl•
my hull                       would pum-                     mel thro-
ugh the opposing waves•    my sails bloat full trapping
winds that howl•my       deck bears the screams
of a thousan-            d slaves•know
me, seafarers... i am no legend but
truth•avast! seafarers, i am the tale
that looms•believe me, seafarers for i
am ca-        pable         of all         things

•••                                                 ­        •••
  uncouth                                                 •fear me,
seafarers for                                            i am your
doom•you could                                 sail the seas with
the world's most                    skillful of crew•
you cannot deny the
heavy hand of fate•be-
cause once my vessel comes
within view                             •you would
know for certain                                that it's already
•••••••                                       •••••••
•••••                                               •••••

*too late•
Concrete Poem 17 of 30

Tap on the hashtag "30daysofconcrete" below to view more offerings in the series. :)
ryn Sep 2019
A vessel set sail.
In the early call of day.
She lurched and bobbed,
as she moved across the bay.

From bow to stern
acknowledged by the morning light.
Her dew stained deck
- proof of restful slumber in the night.

With the earth’s fresh breath,
its majestic sail bloated full.
Her mast spoke in creaks
as wind and current made its pull.

A lone seafarer stood motionless.
His eyes squinted in the sun.
Deft hands on the wheel
as they steer and run.

Just out of the cove,
she’s now far off and seemingly small.
A silhouette about to disappear,
I await its return, when the sun begins to fall.
ryn Jan 2018
I pine for,
     crescent moons
     and star-peppered skies.

I notice and hear,
     swaying silhouettes
     and whistling night breezes.

I anticipate,
     the expiring hours
     and dew-scented earth.

I only exist in,
     extended silences
     and shattered lenses.

ryn Jul 2018
Been away awhile...

Contemplating stars.
Counting moons and suns.
Painting skies.
Deciphering clouds.
Writing in sands.

And missing you.
ryn Apr 2016
Axiom does not lie upon the
plush bed of the words I've said.
It doesn't flourish under influence of the
flowery texts I've written.
Axiom does not fully exist behind the
actions I've deliberately displayed.

It is ingrained within the subtle folds,
inexplicable nuances
and playful innuendos.
It is present in the lull you find in between
fleeting memories and faltering heartbeats.
It is scored into the unlyricised songs,
sung when our breaths do meet.
It's in the unplanned gazes that
stray into nothingness
only to be caught by yours.
It's evident in the void... The silence we've shared
without ever feeling awkward.

Is the fall that you had anticipated
only after having taken the leap.
It's that feeling of not knowing where the bottom is
but yet still certain that you are safe.

Axiom is...
My unseen heart as it beats hard
for none other than you.
ryn Dec 2018
Do not fear the shifting sand

under the weight of your feet.

For you may not know balance,

without the test of instability.
ryn Nov 2015
•come with me on a
special trip•hop aboard my big ball-
oon • hot air from flame, the canvas would
sip•higher and higher, we won't be back too soon
•the clouds would gently kiss our cheeks • the sun
would bathe our skins with gold• mountains below
seem minute pointing up  with snow covered peaks
•turning oceans into lakes...the world seems to fold
•offering myriad picturesque views from up ab-
ove•from any angle none would lack•lastly
we'll drift...along the currents of air and
love•you could then finally say that
i've brought you on a memora-
ble trip to  the moon...
and safely back•
\         |         /
\       |       /


Concrete Poem 4 of 30

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ryn Jan 2016
Palms overhead sway,
nudged by the occasional breeze.
The chatter crescendoes
before dying down...
To make way for the call of prayer.

It called to its followers.
So calm...
So sincere...

People hunched over their tables.
Savouring delights that came on plates.
Wafting aromas,
mingle like the swirls on candy.
Drenching our senses...
As we immerse ourselves further
in such good company.

I looked at the eyes that surrounded me...
Only soft, kind gazes greeted back.

There are no shadows here...
No silhouettes...
Only faces I know
generous with their gift of glow.

A rising warmth
emanates from the pits within.

In this here circle,
no matter how motley,
I feel alive.
I'm drinking up to a stupor...
This lovely band of five.
ryn Mar 2017
This is my bargain.
Day for night
and night for day.

There isn't a time where I hadn't wished
that the day would end to make way for night.

Nights offer a bleak sense of comfort.
Almost as if they'd grant a temporary cloak which
you could huddle under and think or...
Overthink in the dark.

You could bargain shamelessly with tears running streams down your face and no one could see.
You could negotiate with reality for the slight perchance that things would turn out alright come daylight.
You could voice out your barter in hushed tones and still be somewhat assured that no one would know.
All of this...
In the cover of night.

Then when sleep eludes, you can't help but beg for day to come.
For with the light comes the day's responsibilities; all eager and raring to go.
Much like runners at the start line, anticipating the shot to be fired at the crack of dawn.
Shot fired and they'd come swooping down on you...
Sweeping you off your feet and carries you off to where you need to be, doing what you're paid to do for the next 8 to 10 hours.

That is your break from the dark.
That is your retreat from all the thinking.
That is your escape from... yourself.

And then...
4 hours into the day, you're wishing for night again.
ryn May 2016

*estrate the          
orc-                       opus           
ong•                                  of right        
     of s-                                            and wr-            
      gh power                                        ong•k-         ⚫️  
    tales throu-                                       eep me             
   tell me...                                           ground-      ⚫️
                                                 ­            ed throu-          
                                                         gh lyrics          
                                          embed  ­      
                                       solid b-        
    ­                   s that        
      me a-          
•                              *

The soundtrack to life deserves the most wicked of baselines.
ryn Mar 2016
He doesn't realise...
The weight of his actions and words that pummel her to the ground.
Beating her down for every time she rises up to undo his ropes with which she's bound.

He doesn't see...
Past the darkened lenses that she dons.
She wears them,
not to shield her pride that was wrongfully taken,
but to protect him from the repercussions that would come with accusatory speculations.

He doesn't know...
Of the soaked pillow that accompanied her.
The rivulets of tears...
She had quietly shed without a whimper.

He doesn't hear...
The silent altercation between the treasure that beats in her chest and the thing that thinks in her head.
The struggle that ensues when the mind tries to rescind what the heart had wholly given and carelessly said.

He doesn't care...
To think of the devastating waves that come.
Only to erode the last bastion of hope she nurtures...
This frail wall that she prays for nightly.
Just so that it would hold up through another day's endeavour.

He doesn't feel...
The need for empathy.
For he thinks that he's god with one devout follower.
He commands her loyalty with his deluded testaments
and his fists as sceptre.

She doesn't live...*
To see future suns.
For her day finally set when it all came down.
The wall she had feebly held together with her life...
Easily gave way when he came at her armed with a knife.
ryn May 2015

you are
|the lone guardian•|
||        ­                   ||
||           ><           ||
||                           ||

standing regal over-
looking the ocean •
as your light spears
far over the echoing
ripples•i must have
misread your beckon
-ing signals•they had
warned me of impen-
ding doom •  should i
come too near to where
deadly rocks loom• but
strangely enough, i find
myself drawn   so much
closer• like a siren's call
that  could not  sing any
sweeter•now it's too late
to even look back  •   i am
now before you under skies
of black•torn asunder by the
ravenous rocks hidden below
• still I'm mesmerised by your
enchanting glow  • waters here
have been the      grave of many
hulls and bows • but...these last
few moments it's just me and you
••••as my love, my beacon,••••
••••••••my lighthouse••••••••
ryn Feb 2018
Are twinkling freckles
pocked up above?

This ceiling of mine
all draped in black.

Looming clouds obscure
as they push and shove.

Just a glimpse...
As I find my way back.
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