Sometimes,
My mind,
Decides,
To scare me.
Feeling,
Indifferent,
All-consuming,
Apathy.

I held the weight while others wept,
watched love choose someone else.
Buried dreams beside the dead—
and no one even noticed.

This is the one, I whisper low,
Ink on the page with a steady glow.
My pulse is sure, my spirit proud,
I post it up, above the crowd.
Done.

Two days pass in silent scroll,
A single like—a softened toll.
My thoughts return, both sharp and terse:
Maybe this was my best… or worst.

Again I write, the spark feels dim,
The words fall out, a clumsy hymn.
I roll my eyes, ashamed to send
A piece I’d never recommend.
Done.

Two days pass—my phone alights,
The piece is trending, shared in flights.
The one I thought was shallow, weak,
Spoke truths another couldn’t speak.

The weight is held in different ways,
Some see the sun, some feel the haze.
What’s “best” is tied to where we are,
Some feel the storm, some chase the star.

So now I write with open hands,
No more demands or strict commands.
Each piece, a gift I can’t control,
May miss one heart and reach a soul.

And when I post, I don’t deride—
The worth’s not always mine to decide.
For passion’s voice, though sometimes low,
Still finds a place it’s meant to go.

“I like you.”—but not enough.
Not enough to stay, to care,
To see the way I withered,
Piece by piece, beneath your weight.

You took what you needed,
A hand to hold, a heart to lean on,
And I gave until I was nothing,
Until even my shadow felt thin.

Now there’s nothing left to take.
No warmth, no light, no fight.
I have run dry, drained hollow—
I hope I was enough to quench your thirst.

I will draw
But there are no colours left to see.
I try to draw
But what is there for me?

I do not walk,
Yet still, I talk.
I try to speak,
But who will hear me when I’m weak?

I cry sometimes
But my face stays dry.
Tears fall inside my eyes,
But who replies?

I try to play,
But I’ve grown too tall
The toys I knew are far too small.
I play with walls
That never play at all.

I live,
But do I live a life?
I craft a lie
But who deserves my lie?

On this desk, years have been certain.
I cling to some people, let go of the rest.
The book’s pages are yet to be completed,
But I don’t want to.

There might be better places, better people, better everything.
The air around me, the living smiles everything is there.
The feeling, the racing heart, the excitement yet to be fulfilled.
But I don’t care.

Now, I don’t feel anything.
My body, my heart, my brain urge me to stop.
To stay in this state,
Where I’m numb.

The question is:
Where am I?
Why am I?
Or do I just need someone to ask,
How are you?

As Roosevelt said,
“Comparison is the thief of joy.”
Six simple words—
struck something deep,
A truth felt,
But never named.

We measure ourselves
against strangers and friends alike,
whispering,
“I want what they have.”
And just like that,
our joy slips through the cracks.

Comparison breeds envy,
envy turns to bitterness.
“Why them? Why not me?”
we ask,
as if fairness follows longing.

But truth is—
they’re likely looking back at you,
thinking
the *******
same

remember the feeling of falling,
before you enter the land of dreams?
i felt that in your presence,
not knowing what the future deems.

felt when I looked into your eyes,
and once our fingers intertwined.
we face an uncertain tomorrow,
with both our hearts aligned.

but no one can ever be prepared
to face dark, rainy nights,
when you've gotten used to sunny days,
and nights under bright city lights.

opened my eyes, realizing the fall.
head throbbing, but I'm awake.
was it a dream? a nightmare?
why does my chest still ache?

the line blurs between real and fake,
a memory, or a soul’s mistake?