breaking:
a poet's try at uncovering the depths of conveying,
will they be able to—
or die and turn missing?


they've messed up what the actual book looked like,
now it's become 101 ways to show and disguise.
it's methodological,
not worth following,
yet they've become walking fools,
need people to guide them.

it starts like the flicker you feel
before a moment that begins,
opening up to a new feeling,
like before starting a book you don't know yet—
will it heal, hurt, or stay with you
as a memory or the haunting truth?

one whose ending isn't so clear.
i haven't read the summary,
or the genre,
or what people might think of it.
i still hold it dear.

the unpredictables are exciting.
i walk through chapters,
pausing on the torn pages,
moving on hoping it'd make sense,
stitching my own words during the lost stages.

what is this blurb of my story meant to look like?
i wouldn't write my own prologue,
if you handed me the choice.

keeping egos aside,
only if they'd talked to listen,
it wouldn't have seemed so childish,
couldn't have ended as a lost forbidden.

i'll start ignoring the truths
the moment it becomes one among psychology.
finding reasons, of all the felonies we commit,
it only spoils it—
whatever does seem to exist.

and not to mention,
reasoning tires me out.
i could save your name,
only you've promised to drain me out.


trend o' one:

the language over screen
is hard to be read unless you think like me.
so i say and regret,
knowing it isn't seen through.

the irony of being looked at the surface,
and never tried hard enough to find depth into.
it's comical, how we tend to give up—
half written, still typing, just deleted,
the unsent parts carrying all the weight
that eyes can't seem to convey or confess.

we'll just profess an undying nature of this bond
over stories and over chats.
it's messy, it's disguised.
turns out it's fake,
only for the time.

trend o' two:

"hold me close"
but i let go.
the grip slips,
my hands between yours.
our palms are sweaty,
i stare at you
as you look behind me,
and i know this is how it has turned out to be.

i'll look over your shoulder,
you'll give me a glance.
suddenly it's detachment fighting
the whatevers that kept us attached,
slowly you let go, and i can't seem to mend.

sweaty, slipping, holding, missing—
if there were only hands that existed,
would you convey through the grip,
or the phantom of drawing?
touch, absence, pull, drop—
is it a game,
a give and take,
or something worth yet despised?

trend o' three:

i sleep most nights alone,
often feeling you slip right behind me,
holding me close,
from isolating all i am,
all that i want,
and all i can be.
you leave behind breadcrumbs—
half spoken text,
misspelt jokes,
questions i ought to answer to.
words that are never meant to seek
so suddenly you fade,
then you return.
the messages are spammed,
the glances double up.

you look at me
and i know you're trouble.
from being sole to being bombed,
your love seems more like a time ticking machine,
and less of something i truly want.

i speak in fragments,
leaving behind unresolved tension.
and it doubles up,
accompanies you and i everywhere we go.

cut-off speakings,
you don't let me continue.
you need the attention,
i deny letting yours deter,
wanting it on me whole.

i hide the truth,
give away half-baked details,
keep what would help me feel understood.

for i know it doesn't stay.
heard from one ear,
you push it away,
keeping close whatever could help you.

might make you make me steer closer.
you ought to learn close,
if you wish to hear
what i don't speak of.

trend o' four:

halfway met conditions
and broken promises,
ones never spoken out loud,
but i'd kept them,
for they'd existed in the silence
and in the meanings.

turns out,
we're dolls hooked to puppet strings,
being controlled, our every whim.
the decision is theirs,
as the society directs and clears
whatever pathways you and i ought to take and wear.

it wasn't ever love,
a broken, chosen, inevitable belief
that simply had to come true.
this is a stage play.
we're dressed up,
the puppeteer is you, me, society, family—
or mere glitch of time
and faint suicidal memories?






every belief over up
hid a secret,
an unspoken acrostic,
reading it backwards,
ones that didn't match the tone.

it's rightly unsaid,
meant to say,
i said so.

i'll reframe it for the ones reading cosmic.
we orbit, they eclipse,
the satellites mispronounced,
the black hole is ridden in misspelled.

the coordinates almost always missed,
make it seem bigger than just reading—
a piece so intellectual, so pronounced,
it feels like leaving.

i'll anchor it down.
what's your love language?
is it pronounced?
convert them to the seven sins—
would you relate,
dare to point them out?

i've got the comfort book,
the dictionary of dreams,
a brief history of time,
and the tale of the grimms.

none of them hold anything close
to what i write.

there's five proven languages,
and i put forward them parallel to the seven sins—
warped, distorted, weaponized.
this isn't my doing,
but of the one who said
it ought to be humanized.

love o' sin
pride, envy, gluttony, greed, lust, sloth, and wrath
and so i take them on, put them to map.


i.
affirming what's meant
to make you feel better,
compliments dipped in honey,
serving echoes of how you didn't wish
to let it tether.

then why does it feel more like a chain
and less of a bind?
not so delicate either,
why do you force me out of this mind?

like there's pride in owning,
every you're mine,
isn't loving.



ii.
i'll do this for you
acts of service
seems to be fantasized.
but would you—
why it seems almost like masking, neglecting.

saying you care and you would,
i see you avoid and distance.
and when you can, so you do.
a way to not show up in emotions.

you seem vacated, distance,
almost like a sloth, speaking ******.



iii.
and perhaps giving and receiving—
thought of you, bought this.
is it the opposite?
bought you, thought of this.

equating all that i feel with possessions,
not having to describe,
oh i'm left with devotion.

the tokens feel like proofs,
but to whom?
the world doesn't care,
yet you demand i hold.

is it greed, pride combined even more?
where feelings could have spoken,
you exchanged presents as bespoken.



iv.
and then i skip to spending—
anchoring  time's quality, the clocks,
all of them stopping at the same pointed dots.

jealous of the hours
spent so further apart,
yet when it's together—
why does it feel forced,
suffocated, you and i?

we hold despite the minds,
as if it's envy,
from those who find it easy.

wanting every second of yours,
possession tying inescapable knots.



v.
and what of touch—
hold, grip, grasp, bite,
until it bleeds,
and suddenly it's a good night.

reducing it to hunger,
like gluttony—
but i know yet another.

there's connection, there's the threads,
the white ones turning red.
it has become consumption.

i need to breathe you in,
lust devours affection.


vi.
shall i add another two?
silence, existing without having to show,
or to prove—
not performing but you stay.

except it's withdrawal,
and the need of wanting it sole,
like the perfect doll.

greed, pride,and unmistakable wrath,
detachment has become a weapon,
punishment you give through absence.



vii.
attending to me over the notch,
consuming it all, in excess,
and watching it get lost.

the meanings, everything fast forwarding,
love-bombing—too much, too fast, too hollow.

living in the extremes,
gluttony—does it ever feel too narrow
of a path to take?


it ends like a flicker you feel
after a moment that has reached its ending,
closing into the final moments of the beginner’s feeling,

like after ending a book,
one where you realised just where it stood
and it hurt, it healed, it definitely stayed—

both as a memory,
and a haunting truth.


zooming back out on you,
a little cynical,
little fragile,
little clinical.

i'm merely dissecting the trends online,
you term it the seven sins of love.

a matter of hours multiplied with days.
what's promised to hold shouldn't disappear,
yet it leaves like a ghost,
of all the phantoms that promised to reappear.

so i get night terrors
of finding it incomplete.
and it hasn't gone along as i hoped.

where did it go?
honest is the best policy.
have i poured it in,
a little lethal?

would you go as far
as to call me illegal?

you make it seem so seasonal,
as if it's meant to come and go.

but affection has always been
one that ought to be pursued—
only if you find it enough to build a home.

and it gives into a lot,
a lot more messy.
they term it love,
it's just situations encompassing.

a cherished another,
your seemingly only forever.
so why give in to the trends,
when you could hum it over the radios,
find it in the stars,
and preach it to the gods,
making sacrifices
to make it and them, solely yours.

breaking:
flash mob,
house with no mirrors
and a broken door.

it has been proven time and along,
trends of affection as they are,
for the time being, a rotten core.

so the poet sits and smiles
as they follow and play—
make believe.
hoping they'd stop the disguise,
marking, copying
and simply agree.

The dimensions are folding,
Mold in the basement, my breathing hasn’t been golden.
Though tragic the story, I forgot to write the ending
Of a sick little kid, who’s gotten rather good at pretending.
Mention not - here’s a token:
The more revolting your thoughts, the more glorious your potion.
Everything I say contains a tint of that poison.

Hello my lifeline.

I hope the suffering is manageable.  If you don’t see the light, just breathe and wait.  You’ll see it eventually.

In my experience, I always saw life through a microscope.  Dissecting - every path, every decision - to the densest part of its core.  For what? For personal satisfaction.  For peace of ego.  I am sorry to disappoint you, but the part of you that wants to know every answer will never have enough.  

As I write this to you (a bit prematurely, I might add), I think about what has truly mattered to me in my life thus far.  Laughter. Sunlight. Deep embraces, especially with women.  But just as important have been the tensions and the moments of immense pressure.  Good is only relative to how well you can endure the bad, my son. To be honest, I am not able to cry as much as I wish I could.  Sometimes, I think my feelings don’t work as good as others.  

I tell you all this to arrive at the greatest defeat of my life.  The time I let my ego make the ruling, and my soul beared the eternal consequence.  I had a father quite similar to yours.  He was stubborn.  That’s what I remember most about him.  One difference between him and I was that we didn’t trust each other.  But you and I, we do.  I hope.  At some point in our journey, I had the choice to choose love, choose God towards my father.  To be a kind man to a battered one.  I decided against it.  I pitied myself.  I was bitter.  It was the wrong decision.  

Now, I realize how an intelligent man like yourself might interpret this message as extortion.  Your old man wants to insure his son will listen to him when I’m old.  This is not the case.  This message is just an opportunity to say I love you and I’m human.  You are healing me, simply by being.  I wish my father could have said this to me.


With Love,
Dad

I write poetry
born from a feeling, an emotion—
I’m not even sure what.

Almost like a kind of rapture,
the words come,
and I pour them onto paper
or into my notes app.

I wonder if one day
the poems will come with nothing—
existing just to exist.

Will this feeling, emotion,
or whatever it is,
ever arrive
separate from the poetry?

If a heart can tremble,
mine is trembling now.

That thing about the law of attraction—
well,
I imagined my divorce,
imagined myself radiant,
dancing wildly,
happy,
without you.

Look at us —
everything’s falling apart now.

We don’t talk anymore.
We’ve become roommates.
Apartment 403,
welcome.

He works,
I stay home —
that’s the dynamic.

I asked what would become of us,
what you wanted me to do,
and I found myself longing
for you to actually tell me what to do.

If you said, die,
I would die.
Just please —
not in a painful way.