I'm worried —
I may have to destroy myself,
to walk down the path I've chosen,
that who I am today —
is not up to the journey ahead,
that fear,
makes every step further,
that much more precarious,
maybe that's every journey —
casting away the weight,
that keeps you stuck,
I don't know who may be me —
when we reach our destination,
I only hope we will be someone,
who can see I to I,
to be someone full of compassion —
for those still walking their paths,
someone I needed.

I bite into the
wet, sultry afterglow
of your presence.

The door swings open.
I reach for
the radiance left behind

It draws near,
—and swings closed,
suckling all light away.

I'd ruin my life,
If it meant feeling
your glow upon my face

I'll always grasp for you
the way
a fish clings to the
bait on the fishing rod.

hook,
line, and
never to let go.

In metro, observing quietly.
Trying to memorize every face sharply.
Looking for a sign or the one for me.
Something holy, that makes me less lonely.

Other ones don't seem to be as interested as me.
All heads bent downwards, faces dripping into screens.
I can't help but wonder why I have this habit,
A part of me craves someone worth a ring, not a sentimental labyrinth.

Perhaps a piece of me wants to be seen,
Or asks someone to be just keen.
After all, no matter how hard I suppress these emotions
I find it overflowing, oh to be a human being.

It's such a weird dichotomy,
To have the art of noticing coded in me.
I can't help but wonder,
Will I ever find someone as me, ultimately?

In my dreams the scenes unfold pretty neat.
The moment I find someone with this habit,
The time we realize we found the other half after a long bit,
Would we be making moves or just sit?

Two minds who dread starting the conversation firstly.
The real thing that scares my soul is the possibility,
Of finding the one and losing it immediately.
The one who witnesses it all, but never dares involving,
I guess that is the weird dichotomy.

Trying to connect in the metro, is it some form of grieving?
By attempting to leave something aside that I never managed to win over.
Forcing the mirror of my soul to not collide with others as judging gazes hover.
So I'll stare at the blinking station lights and fake that I am not a loner.

You hated the smell of cigarettes 

So I stopped smoking 

Even when you're long gone

I still haven't picked it back up

Because I am still hopeful

That you'll come back

Bumping into you, talking to you

And still showing 

I cared about the little things 

After all this time

On the moons repose
I stare at the flow
I study it intently
To **** out the plea
Of harrowing thoughts
Amid studious lofts
And drunken nights
Amid friendly fights
But I'm alone now
But to hell with it.

I'll wipe the blood off my brow
I'll skip down the aisle
Everything feels endowed
Without any nail file

I'm beautiful,
like everyone else.

but hope too has a powerful current,
strong enough to move me towards things
I believed I was too weak for.

hope resects the doubt from my body,
and makes the lack of air in my lungs bearable,
until I reach the shore.

and hope, reminds me that there is more.
more to see,
more to experience,
more wonder than dread.

so I’ll do my best to surrender the doubt,
and adopt the hope instead.

People tell me to live like every day is my last.

But that’s not what life is for.
Life is for believing. Believing that you will have tomorrow.
Believing that tomorrow isn’t just a prospect, but an imminence.

I can picture every horrible scenario, every improbable tragedy:
Car crash, heart attack, kidnapping—
But if I’m always wondering if I’ll meet my death tomorrow,
I’m not living at all.

Life is slow and arduous and not everyday is extraordinary.
Most days are forgotten.

But the ones that aren’t…
the days that you’ll think about when you’re really dying,
they only have value because they’re numbered.

And even though we spend our lives reflecting on
and recording those sensational memories,
I’m grateful for every useless day and hour and minute I had.

Because I love living like every day is not my last.