Living Poetry isn’t just the pulse
it’s the shiver in the silence,
the breath that bends ever so slightly between chaos and clarity,
It's where rhythm forgets the rules
and emotion takes its own path through the wreck-stained longing.
It’s the shape of every buried cry,
and the stillness after that scream.

It doesn’t wear banners or declare itself aloud,
but spills from the wound unbandaged,
seeping quietly as whispers, warm as breath,
born screaming from every sinew wound scar you swore you'd never show,
when your entire body trembles beneath beauty’s weight,
scars and longing, those thoughts
and still, you write.

Originality isn’t invention you know but return
to the place in you no one else has lived,
no one else has felt,
no one knows
it's the place
where memory blooms like orchids in May or roses in June,
and each word steps soft into its own quiet ruin.
The page is no mere sanctuary,
only a looking glass,
reflecting the you inside the you,
and even that with light’s refraction distorts under truth.

You follow a resonance, not linear, but alive,
it breathes
woven through old hurts and the flash of joy, love, or pain
a rhythm that forgets its tempo just to feel.
Sometimes it bleeds.
Sometimes it sings.
Sometimes it does both in the same breath,
sometimes it’s a storm in your chest
or a lullaby no one else can hear.

Here, in this space
the poem doesn’t ask to be liked,
doesn’t need to be loved,
it doesn't even need to be read
it just asks to be real,
to come from where it's real
no matter if it's filled with butterflies
or a wreckage-drenched kiss,
To stand unguarded in the room, alive in essence
to hum beneath the colossal static of the world,
the fluttering of black ravens and white dove,
and remind you: this is not just art
it’s the aftermath of being human.
It’s what binds you back to the raw nerve of now,
It’s the filament that flickers when no one is watching.

Sharp while caring, always real
Like every morning sun
and first star in the evening sky
that sings truth to the moon.

The eyes sculpt out your beauty,
The tongue yearns for your sweet.
The ears cry your symphóny.
You are my mind's plead.
The heart beats to your lovely,
The nose could breath you in,
But the skin, you left lonely,
To the soul, a sin.

Have you ever just wanted to eat sugar straight from the bag?
To open your mouth wide and pour?
Not stopping for air.
But gasping for more --

Sometimes I have these cravings,
galore --

twist of muscle
twist of fate

a road to travel
travelling light

each oasis
something learned

each step
muscled memory

surrender in the deeps
and deeper still

depths yet unfathomed
to enter in

sweet spiral surrender
to loves bidding

Not just someone to hold my hand,
but to walk with me through marbled halls—
past paintings that whisper centuries,
beneath chandeliers humming old opera songs.

To sit beside me in velvet-red seats,
when the curtains rise on tragedy and jazz.
Who claps when the classical music swells to its peak
even if he doesn’t understand the raga,
just because I’m moved.

To take Polaroids of me mid-laugh,
to frame the soft, un-posed pieces
I often forget I have.
To bring me lilies and baby’s breath,
not because it’s Valentine’s,
but because he listened when I said,
“These are my favourites.”

To come to church,
not for the sermon,
but for me.
To sit in the quiet stained-glass stillness,
not believing the same things,
but believing in us.

To be patient when I unspool,
when my feelings tangle like old film reels.
To hike with me, sleep under stars,
smell like firewood and freedom.

To cook, even messily—
pasta overdone, toast a little burnt,
but with a smile made of effort.

To plant something and keep it alive.
To find joy in roots and green things.

To let vinyls fill our evenings,
crackling jazz and soft acoustics,
swaying barefoot in the kitchen.

To read my poems—really read them—
not just skim the metaphors,
but feel the ache beneath each line.
To hum the songs I play on my guitar,
even off-key,
just to harmonise with my heart.

To let me talk about emperors and wars,
ancient cities and revolutions,
and not just nod—
but ask,
“But why did that matter?”
So I can light up with the answer.

This is the kind of love I want.
Not flashy, not loud.
But curious.
Present.
Rooted like a garden,
melodic like jazz,
and sacred like Sunday.

Hope migrates to
sunny island shores.
There is no sorrow,
roses always bloom,
and the birds of paradise
fly forever free.
The salty ocean
cleanses the rot
from the skin
and the heart.

~
I'm an exit wound
I'm a numinous obstacle
I'm about to make landfall
I'm about to break free

I'm a nerve ender
A fascinator
A purifier
A world populator
And I'm about to break through

I'm the push and pull
I'm a counter argument
I'm dissonance resistance
I'm viral replication
I'm about to break out

I'm a singularity
I'm a spark
I'm the perfect detonator
To mind and heart
And I'm about to break up

I'm a simulacra
I'm an oscillation
Made of breath only
I'm a living, moving imprint
Of what no longer is
Yet somehow seems to be
~

she knows
that she needs
to disconnect
to be able to make
new connections
but sadly she lacks
courage to act