To feel the hum of skin—
a rhythm under flesh,
bleeding ears of melodies
louder than memory.

Flaws fall, resting like
skipped notes on the floor
of silence. I said,
"I’m not a song, not a chorus,
not a chorus, nor the neat refrain
someone can replay.

Yet these songs in my ears—
they take me in, to teach me
how to belong.

I’m not a song, but maybe a lyric—
unfinished, still searching for the
right line. Perhaps in due time, to the
metronome of my heart.

silent suffering, voices in this room
ai-generated. please, algorithm,
feed me tears to cure this suffering.
silence stuck in my throat— i can’t
scream long enough, to become
the silent man in the silent crowd.
wiping my face feels like nosebleeds
but dismissed as nothing. an empty box
stuffed with matter, atoms and pieces
building me up only to crush me down.
what really matters in this silent suffering?

I saw a madman
walking in the middle of the road. At first, I thought
he was a stranger— a figure broken loose from the world.
But then I realized: it was only me, the reflection
of myself wandering in the middle of my thoughts.

Perhaps...

I was lost in the endless expanse of my nonbeing,
caught between the idea of living and the weight
of simply being. A human being, maybe only as a
reflection in the mirror, the real self— a madman
trying to repair his mind, patching every pothole
in the road with trembling hands, covering cracks
no one else can see.

And I wonder, which is worse:
the madness of walking alone in the street, or the
silence of pretending there was never a fracture
beneath my skin.

Tending fruit of what we leave behind,
roots break walls we build.
Hope grows heavy,
then it falls—
like Jericho.

Once there was glory,
then the world swallowed it whole.
I am not cursed,
but every apple I’ve bitten
tastes of the core.

Where there is money,
there is love—
and the root of all evil,
sweet poison.

I watch the lives of others,
dreams they wear like fine garments.
We chase illusions,
so gladly,
so foolishly—
to end up full on nothing.

Trust me, and know me whole:
I’ve floated on white lines,
pretending innocence
with powdered breath.

Say goodbye too many times,
and I won’t answer the last one.
This is my sonnet—
the count of the fallen man.
All men have fallen.

And when the call reaches your heart,
what cost does love demand?
It speaks in voices tender, cruel—
the sound of devotion
from a wicked heart.

All men have fallen.
All men have fallen.

She was standing still, just like I was.  

Her hair swaying in same wind as yesterdays.

Everything was white  

The only exception being the crater.

That was black and a grey gradient.

Apart of her skin the same gradient three or four metres

Coming down from that crater.

It took me some time.

I didn’t want to believe that I couldn’t reach for her

And if I did, she would be cold.

If she wasn’t made of material,

Could I feel her warmth?

Much worse than me are all the prior versions of myself,
all of them still stumbling through the riddle of identity.
Fate, destiny— both play me like a long lonely chord,
strumming my heartstring, a song both bitter & sweet;
truly the taste of a man’s casual defeat.

See if survival is a means to meet an end, then I’ve met
enough ends to know, each greeting feels like a farewell,
as each rise a false high that drags me lower still. And in
this place where I stand, this ground I call my own, are
the days life slowly feels like hell.

Much worse than me are the questions I can’t outrun:
do I hate myself, or do I hate the eyes that all watch me
through everyone else? “Oh, he sits on his ***, or he’s
someone just to chase ***,” they say— but truth is, I am
more of an *** to myself. Kicking myself for not doing
enough, and beating myself down for doing too much.

Much worse than me is the interference that shapes
me, this half-formed man that I keep trying to correct.
Incomplete, unfinished, still searching— as if figuring
it all out is not my burden alone, but it's the long road
of every man, he must walk.

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.

I am no-one. Yet I feel everything.
I do everything. I am rewarded by no-one.
Tragedy? Nothing. I am owed nothing
but a fitting death.

To fish for dreams on the scales of my life,
weighing all options—faults already exposed,
a past made of glass: reflective. Fragile. And so
unforgiving.

To be credited as a modern writer, despite
my financial pressures. Swiping left on bait
too absurd to bite. My ID card? A license
to exist— plastic proof I belong to a world
that never asked for me.

Fate. Destiny. Whatever it is— tilts the odds.
I tilt back. Desperately balancing: one side,
my bank account. The other, my place. Truly
my full worth. Every moment I must make count.
And if the world won’t remember me, then let
my balance sheet of scars be the proof I existed.

complexities of us:

the unfamiliarity to it
comes off as uncomfortability
in the beginning.
but then i look back,
and i stare, zooming in and out,
grasping—this is the reality.
suddenly, it doesn't feel so bad;
looks okay, feels alright.
only, please, let me keep it all hidden
for a bit longer, bouts of while perhaps,
just for tonight.

what's the perfect opening?
to begin with it—
is it picking out a line from a list of prompts,
or playing music when the shadows swarm?
i believe it's hope and faith misplaced,
out of scope, of happiness and of exacerbation.
some words come to me,
like someone in my head plucked them out
of a locked away, hidden library.
and there are sentences, feelings
that are yet to find their place in a dictionary.
so i hold, and put forward
this ultimate piece stitched carefully.
a proclamation, if you must—
i hope you don't deny
that it indeed was poisoned, misspoken gust.

she's the precious kind
do you mind?





galaxy of masks:

masks upon masks,
just so the real ones are never visible.

where do we plan on heading,
hiding who we are
and watching ourselves disappear?
why cement the original, the real,
to show an illusion people'd like?
we lose our own shadows of individualism,
and still become whatever they continue to despise.

actors are lucky—
can be anything they want.
and even though it's all fake,
that's their job.
people dismiss them,
preach the characters they own.
they can become anyone,
and i can't even be myself.
now that's just forlorn.
they get applauded,
while i get cremated.
i do just the same—
they earn, i protect.
they flash, i burn.

and when you think you're late
that's when you're actually late.
so easy for them to say,
like they didn't need to struggle to live.
despite it all, they continue to pretend,
and so do i,
that i like them.
the smile that can hide everything for me
is something i'm thankful for.
is this the gratitude i'm meant to journal down,
or a selfish gift that i grew up with?
should i not talk about it?





cosmic revelations:

we're all stars.
stars on a big star,
surrounded by many more,
creating galaxies, preaching astronomy.
what were we made for?

i often don't know what to wish for.
is it health, happiness, or taste of the unknown?
so i stand in front of the lords,
hoping to find some quiet.
and peace does exist,
only it slithers away, as if washed off by the mighty.
i bow down, offer my all,
say i'm here, let me keep it whole.
i glance through the mirrors,
little somethings at the back of my throat.
adrenaline promises the thrill
of what living should have felt like—
if life wasn't so dead, furthermore.
the only moments i feel it pulse,
the blood thrums under my veins.
it sulks.

the sun took birth
after a collision and collapse
of a molecular cloud—term it star.
the brightest in the sky right now,
a miracle, like us.
and in your life,
as the biggest star of all,
yet you choose to fall down
after the slightest push.
wear and tear and suddenly we're misunderstood.
the world could end,
the galaxy could burst open
any given day—
you'd wake up, turn into dissipated matter.
and you worry about
that one thing,
or a list of multiple,
and claim this is the end
of your life and your empirical?
loathsome towards the sky,
have you seen how it looks during the night?

observe it through documentaries:
such a small piece of matter,
surrounded by so many
that are alike, yet destruct and differentiate.
even if they don't understand,
you could always.

it's only at a distance that spring seems green.
up close, it's floral, filled with allergies—
and they don't always mention
the bouts of issues that it comes with.
it's only at a distance
that it seems worth boasting.
does spring even exist,
or are we permanently a part of stark winters?
then why does it always melt off the skin—
all that we hide, and all that we wear?
mayflies live for a day,
it's their whole lifetime,
while you waste away.

when you drift through the night,
speeding up, watching the stars align,
you can almost make out how it isn't all too real.
surreality exists in the traffic lights
and cars drifting by.
it's bound to stay all up in my head this time,
so i need not write about how it was to kneel
and claim enjoyment when it lasted for seconds.
i've lived enough—enough to understand
when i've become unwanted.

from lorde's david,
to laufey's lover girl,
the kiss of venus,
and summing up the life of the one—
everyone in this party's a vampire.
so i've put on their teeth,
ready to bite.
except mine barely break through skin,
while theirs leave marks along a rhythm.
they can tell when it's a mess within your head,
but they wouldn't do anything.
make it a ghost town.
they'd **** the marrow of life.
like the blood moon, you'll be looped into hellfire.
i didn't even know how bad it stung,
until i saw the red turning black—
all over my arms, now they account for places.
all the spots that shone the brightest
are now dimmed.
brown spots, burnt.

a person with many thoughts makes fewer mistakes—
that's just a lie, cause the thoughts give out stories
of the what ifs, and of all that is fake.
and i look back a lot.
most of my own
count as actions questionable,
even though i've thought about it a hundred times—
enough for my head to explode.

the tale of nonchalance leaves me bereft.
isn't it like—
you're afraid to be read,
cause what if they don't like what they see?
but what if them not liking you
makes you dislike yourself—
and that's all that you believe.
the moon has craters.
up close, it looks like a giant ball, imperfect,
filled with marks and depths.
and yet every night you sit,
praying, admiring
the same moon, the same hollows that you carry.
if you could preach self-acceptance,
then maybe you wouldn't grieve
someone else's ignorance.
the codependence lies within yourself.
they could or could not—
you're left with you.
that's all you got.
so live a little, baby,
even if you make mistakes.
if they love you,
they'll correct and still accept you the same.





weeds of hope:

often saving up stories, reels, images
that i'd like to keep in my memory.
i don't read it all,
instead promising that one day
i'll either use them
or take inspiration to write my own.
except all that i've learnt,
the crazy crashing innocence—
there is hope within,
even though i might not see.
i could say i wouldn't want to wake up,
i'd want to sleep forever.
but all the saved up diaries,
waiting to be written into,
and through all the saved, shared, linked posts—
hope exists.
doesn't really show in the way it must,
but in other ways,
like saving the cheesiest bite
for the last take.

hope is beautiful,
even though it is never sure—
like the real home is with the right person,
the walls decoration, accessories on bodies of them all.

you don't look back—
that's the key to keep going.
but i do it often,
a way of letting go
and moving.
i've looked back,
when i was sure no one would be waiting.
and i saw tiny figures in the mist of dark—
they were leaving.
for the first time in a long time,
it didn't feel like the ultimate ending,
yet it was the closure for me.
done, complete.

i've been keeping a track of all my greens—
the plants, the flowers, and how they stopped blooming.
the prettiest of extras, weeds they call them.
i watched them grow, unsure if i should crop them.
now they've taken over,
grown to heights the plants could never.
and they seem more in place than the originals—
except in the long run you and i both know
they'll ****, no matter how we look.
weeds have to be removed.

i removed the weeds off my plants today.
prettiest, shadowy, soft, almost as if they belonged.
and now they lie on my desk,
drying away through as the sun sets.
perhaps they'll be stacked among the pages
of my books, as bookmarks, memories and stages,
as people who've drifted in closer and walked away.

even though they weren't meant to stay,
the weeds gave me an idea:
phantoms do stay,
so the leaves as well.
and they might not have belonged in the plants,
but they did grow, and it isn't all too bad.
the plants are alive still.
the flowers might bloom again.

I’ve seen how fast
A life can pass
Yet I’m too tired for life’s dance
Too worried about the egos
of the worlds cast
And too stressed to pick up the trash of my own little worlds past