How to see things when i can't even feel it
How do you feel when you're surrounded by the blood
How does that make you realise on things? How to even open your own eyes?
When the first thing every morning, you see them taking and stealing your rights
               your rights to live
                                    to breath
                                    to exist.

It's scary, it's deafening
Cause no matter how much tears and blood we're losing
They just... don't really care
They just... think it's another war
Another one that happened everywhere
                                                    anywhere in the world

It is sad. didn't say it's not
So what do we do now?
     how is it even possible?
     when things never changed
     where things were always stirred up
     maybe that's why we should never closed our eyes

While you are grieving your life,
Someone grieved their loved one, gone too soon.
While you are crying over your mere existence,
Someone is fighting death, waiting for a boon.

While you lament the things you did and the mistakes you made,
Someone is wishing to have the opportunities of messing up the way you do.
While you mourn what life could have been,
Someone is longing for more time to be true.

While you crib about the friendships and relationships lost,
Someone is waiting to hold their loved one in a hospital hall;
Against the cold and trembling wall,
They whisper silent prayers, giving their all.

As you sob over another day not lived well, questing your mere existence,
Know that someone, somewhere, wants to trade places with you this instance.

Wherever I go, I am a guest.
In the restless sea of my mind,
I find no peace, no rest,
No glowing light to guide me.
Where is my home, my heaven lost -
The one I was meant to find?

Whatever I think, I say it and mean it.
I wear my heart on the seams of my sleeve.
The coming wind holds my poems and their meanings,
Like smoke, I let it pass over me.

I follow every laughter, every melancholy feeling.
I tread every road that I ever see.
To be alive is to bear the searing
Fiery breath of what caused us to be.

I, that hold the cold of summer leaving,
Can only sense that I hold my poetry—
That which I hope has sailed with the weary,
That which I dread always follows me.

(    )

      > where drifts the self?

frore strath
  where stalkers
drip their sultry rest
  and our shoulders
thaw
  into
the moor of dumb ”Earth”;

  > where do the ARROWS lead?

   to the soft cortège of gut
  slunk in eve’s
inferring weave;
  often whit’s
threnode
  where bre^th ignores its end

       > what stirs now?

  wearing the guise of lack
   [...]
ego, and
a patch of moss in sombre ”snow”
  lurching
beyond limbs,
  beyond need

       > when loosens time?

  the night clasps
 thin as the sigh of origin
  and i
(and we)
  one sunken, shallow leaf;
  do not rise /
do not recall

       > none beside?

  only the dreary,
  detailed fatigue
  of being
  unmade, unmade...
  
       >  ▍

The Poem

"Life is the true poem"

July 18, 2025.

A gaze from the sixth sense,
to seek that poem, "The Poem."
That poem that is always there,
to dive into life searching.
Where life is the only poem,
that poem that holds everything.
Where everything is, to see,
to feel, that it unveils itself,
in pieces for life.
In pieces searching,
for that ideal poem.
Reflections of life,
that are just,
there in everything.
Unfurled,
pieces,
parts,
souls,
poet.
In that,
which is,
something,
more.
You,
and
...