People of my kind are cowards,
they say,
we are lazy,
they say,
we avoid our problems,
they say.

Yes we are,
and so are many others.
Our wants exceed our capability,
our expectations are without constraints,
but we are not.

I have not found my ambition,
I do not know how to,
I appreciate the beauty of this world,
I appreciate what life has to offer,
but I cannot live only for it.

Some see us as an anomaly,
they are confused,
some are worried,
some are bemused.

Do not help me,
for I want to feel,
do not help me,
for I want to leave.

The clock exhales a trembling breath,
its pulse a shiver in the spine of time.
I wait,
unmoored in the ebb of minutes,
where silence holds the marrow of the night
and shadows braid themselves with longing.

The moon hangs, not as a goddess,
but as a seamstress,
stitching the veil of night with frayed intentions.
Each star—a pinprick in the fabric,
leaking a light too distant to warm.

I have heard the hymn of the ivy,
creeping on stone,
its whisper a litany of slow conquests,
its green, a defiance of winter’s gray.
And I wonder—
who will sing for me when my roots no longer hold?

Beneath my skin, rivers stall.
What was once a tempest
is now the measured drip
of something no longer daring to spill.
There is a violence in stillness,
in the way silence sharpens itself against my thoughts.

But let me tell you—
in the shadow of this unraveling,
I have made my peace
with the slow decay of mirrors,
with the fracturing of names.
The sparrow need not call itself a sparrow
to fly.

And when the end comes—
(oh, it is coming)
it will not be the roar of oceans folding into themselves,
nor the shattering of celestial harps.
It will be the sound
of a match extinguished in water,
the faint hiss
of something small,
forgotten,
forever.

Bed is a vehicle
Without steer or veering wheel,
No two wings or a keel
Make a bed typical.

Coitus, Dream and Day
Inside a bottomless trunk,
You drive it when you’re drunk
Or any other way.

An eye-opener
And a commuting teacher,
Your bed's not in Future
Nor is it Past’s inner.

On a one-way road
And a carpeted sanctum,
Your bed holds you welcome
'Til your eyes become sewed.

we are waking up every day
with so many things on our plate.
Even if the whole day feels empty,
our minds are heavy like lead.

We are leaving early to live our life
but we are always arriving late.
We are ******* the air in
but we our lungs aren't breathing.

We are searching everywhere, we are trying all the time,
but we don't know what we are wishing to find.
We are living every day
but no one is feeling alive.

We are fantasising every night
But we aren't sleeping.
We are wanting more everyday
But we are gaining nothing.
We are talking about living life
But we are burdened by everything that's  coming

Last night,
I hugged my favourite book as I went to sleep.
"What an odd thing to do"
my mind said,
But I've never felt so close to myself,
as I did,
that late night.

"The fountainhead" the cover read
as it lay right next to me, on my bed.

I find very little encouragement
to live my life these days,
it used to be different when I was ten.

I remember walking down this street
humming and skipping in full joy,
Like I had the juiciest fruit in all of the world
and that fruit held secrets,
carrying more than just sweetness,
It was big, golden and shiny
I think that fruit was my heart,
It was always so full.
Almost overflowing
with sickening sweetness,
exasperating energy
and a sticky smile that was always there.

I would dance around, walk fast then slow
I would roll around, talk so loud then low.
It sickens me now.
Why was I like that ages ago?
What made me so excited about life?
To wake up every day and just....live?

It sickens me even more
That I can't have that again.
It also confuses me
because what is human life
if not a change after change after change?

The art of not caring does not come easily to me
I constantly think about who I am and who I ought to be
I could think all day about what was and what’s about to come
I have spent days stuck in my thoughts,
there have been days when I got nothing done

The art of not caring is hard to master
I just spent hours thinking if I’m too slow,
should I go faster?

I care a lot, I care too much
About things too trivial and things too big,
I think about everything.
The spots on my face, the shape of my teeth.
The dress I wear, the way I speak.

I am in the middle of caring as I write this,
I heard someone talk on the phone,
They got the best paying job, with the best team, with the best firm.
I saw someone else post a picture about a party
someone was out on lunch with a friend,
I see everyone finding someone who cares about them

I sit here caring about things wondering if it’ll ever be any different.  
I care about myself, I care about my friends and I care about the world
In exchange, I get a feeling that I might be a loser.
I paint things nobody sees, I write words nobody reads,

I dread what I do, I dread what I don’t
I feel like I am always falling behind, I don’t even know what I want
The art of not caring is something I should learn
I would be happy with a B, I don’t need an A
If I carry pieces of caring too much with me,
I would be okay.

As much as I care about if I care too much,
and I want to let that go,
As much as I want to care less,
As much as I want to be someone else,
I hold on to it,
I keep caring.
It has taken me this far, It has stuck by me.
Maybe I was born with the art of caring deeply,
Maybe it will take me places meant for me.
Maybe I will live differently.