I've always known I am a beautiful person
that all I was doing was hiding behind a facade
of ugliness.

today, on my way to the market
I met a person I knew
but looking at his squinting eyes, I realized
that he didn't know me.
a handshake later
i laughed and he laughed
he joked about the price of the fishes
and I replied, saying "I could buy a fishing net
for half the price of that catfish".
and there in the market, in a barbershop
I cut my hair
down to the scalp
just like his.

coming back I met another person
her skin as fair as the insides of a bread
she joked about my almost bald head
and choking on laughter, I said
"bushy hair equals bushy nightmares".

But the most beautiful thing I did today?
*** sizzling
eyebrows sweating
tongue salivating
I cooked my favorite dish
served myself
and one of my friends
and we ate
facing the hot, afternoon sun.

Don't be like me
don't hide behind a facade.

snowless morning
worries of losing a friend
wake me up

a flock of pigeons endlessly
circles the church tower

twilight grasses
each of them sways
in its own rhythm

lost in the clouds
I study poems of old masters

sator
i am still here—
the eternal spark, the constant presence
amidst the whirlwind of thoughts and dreams.
i manifest success, forging my destiny
brick by brick with every cosmic “yes.”

arepo
in the mirror of raw ego and honest reflection,
i transmute every reeking flaw into fragrant power.
from the ashes of past mistakes
i sculpt myself—a masterpiece of perseverance,
refined like the best soaps, emerging renewed.

tenet
i hold fast to my celestial blueprint,
a generator with a capricorn flame,
a leo moon roaring for its rightful spotlight,
each heartbeat an invocation of divine order,
each breath a promise to the stars.

opera
in the theater of creation, i am both director and actor—
my life a symphony of passion and precision.
with every action, every well-earned victory,
i spin the wheel of destiny,
turning obstacles into stepping stones
that lead to realms of boundless light.

rotas
and as the cosmic cycle revolves,
i embrace the sator square’s eternal secret:
what is sown in the heart returns in glory.
i manifest success with every radiant step,
every choice a spiral that brings me closer
to the infinite horizon of my dreams.

i stand as a living constellation,
an alchemist of fate and fervor,
a poet of the universe—
and in this sacred square,
i claim my success,
now and forever.

Tuesday: **** was black and smelled of sulphur.

oh wait, this is my **** diary.

For those of you interested,
I'm indigested. Well, I suppose we're all indigested.

I'm off the water, on lemon and lime
and wouldn't you know it combined
with my strange state of internal affairs
to create a concoction that's up in flares.

They found undigested
gum and erasers
an unopened packet of quavers
several loose fillings
and an unopened pack of heavy duty nasal razors.

Alright I might be embellishing the truth a little
the situation's been fickle,
but my research mostly finds that
eating is the issue.

I gave you truth-
You sent me silence.
I gave you peace-
You returned it with violence.

I shot my heart to you.
You-Neo, Matrix-
Bent over backwards
Just so you wouldn’t claim it.

I gave you secrets,
You were the pages in my diary,
Like keys played by all -
You gave everyone my diary.

I’m war-torn, scarred.
No peace where I lay my head.
My heart-Boomerang-
Like Eddie Murphy said.

A tragedy in these words,
My love shut behind a closed door.
Echoes of smiles, of laughter-
My heart, a chalk line on the floor.

“It is what it is,” they say.
“Leave. Let love go.”
But my foundation is cracked,
And love still seeps through the wounds.

It will not go.

Every person I've met has their own demands and whims directed at me.
I always regard them with forgiveness.
But they can't understand this
they fuss, thinking I see them as empty space.
I simply possess great willpower.

I think penguins dream of flying,
It’s a fact they belong to the class of birds.
Can you imagine a penguin in flight?
I can’t, because their fluffy bodies couldn’t bear it.
Still, I think they dream.

Don't know if I want to
drink this coffee or smash
the cup on my head.

Maybe it would look great
with coffee staining my face
like the pages from an old diary.

Maybe I am just a bunch of words
but you can't read all of them
because of the coffee staining
the pages and the words and my life.

The only thing that separates me
from Plath is that my words are
either written by a child or by someone
illiterate or by someone sad or by me.

It didn't count for much,

I know in hindsight, thanks to --


my account of it.

We often strive to create something great, but end up with garbage!
We feel disappointed in ourselves because we fail to astonish ourselves and others.
That's why we must not stop trying and practicing patience we should fight and improve the quality of our goal-setting.
In the end, something will come out of it, we just mustn't give up.
But also know this: someone will always appear and say disparagingly, "Whose trash is this?"