I don't
feel anything
at all,
but I feel
it all
at once.
The brokenness,
the misery,
the weariness,
and the shame
are like
being
drenched in silt,
caked in filth,
covered with
life's crud.
I reek
of the living river—
its currents
have carried me
into a sea
of everything.
Now,
I find myself
adrift
in an ocean
of everything
and nothing.

I was alive — when I look back.
I can preserve it, but I can’t get it back.
I want to shine, but I’m not a pearl.
I want to cry, but I’m not a girl.

This society says: “Be happy, be composed,”
But never lets us feel free and exposed.
I wore a mask I wasn’t allowed to take off.
I’m a boy in a world that calls me free —
But I’ve forgotten what free even means to me.

There’s an outfit for each kind of day,
one for work, and one to play.
One for silence, one for charm —
I dress to keep their peace from harm.

I match their tone, their pace, their cue,
become the me they’re walking through.
A shifting shape, a face that fits —
but never quite the one that sits.

I dress in layers not for style,
but just to wear a safer smile.
A thousand looks, a thousand designs —
but none align with what’s in mine.

And every mirror looked back at me
But none of them knew who to be
I learned to read the room so well,
I lost the voice I used to tell.

But fabric wears, and so did I,
the cost of always living shy.
I’ve worn their sizes, played their part —
let fashion hide a restless heart.
But now I pull the stitching tight —
and walk in clothes that finally fit right.

© Copyright 2025 - Limes Carma

I’m in a drought for time— yet flooded with ideas.
as the sun rises with the dust, and by dusk, all hope
feels spent, or quietly scattered.

I know destiny calls— even without a map, signal
or a location marked. "Yeah, I don’t know what
I’m doing," I often confess, in quotation marks—
still walking toward the shape of who I’m meant
to become.

Pushing through bruises and bitter slights—real joy
flickers, but most smiles still feel perfectly rehearsed.
To stay above the arrows, but never ahead of myself—
sharp enough, still, to pierce through the soft fabric
of my many, many daily doubts. And I’m learning:
sometimes the cage has no door— but only the illusion
of one, built from fear.

There’s always a world just outside of it— waiting.
We’re all just finding ourselves day by day.
And life? It’s one day after another— until, finally,
you recognize the person you've been becoming
all along.

I undress voluntarily
The assistants lead me
to the middle

into the half-dark circle
of curious students who
search for the connection

between my bare legs
and the light swell
of my white shirt

I lower my eyes
and follow the instructions
of the professor

as if I see myself
in a film, turning around
in the circle

of light
of attention
of thin voices

I sit on a throne of unfinished things,
wearing a crown of missed chances,
a robe of echoes and brittle stances,
stitched with the pull of quiet strings.

My mini palace is kept on my palm,
built from silent, paused goodbyes.
I spread my kingdom with quiet gaze,
ruled it with intent none could revise.

I am self-slaved by chosen remand,
My soldier thumb obeys each command
My courtier eyes chart where I land
Time kneels before my wordless stand.

I claimed the void they wouldn't dare
and named myself the nillionaire.

I’m a flower with drooping ears
Uranium is the best snack for me

  I water myself ever night to make sure I stay ripe
  I heard the thunder scream “not again.”
  A bird watched me implode politely.
  Bees avoid me like taxes.
Sometimes I sit in the sink
Talking to dishes I refuse to wash.
I once tried to talk to a lightbulb,
It turned on, then went blind.

BAM!
  BAM!
    BAM!
      BAM!
 ­       BAM!

Caught.
Chainsawed the product.
No one asked what the product was.
They just clapped.

  BRAVO!

I wore a barcode of my favourite cereal as a scarf,
Told the cashier:
  “Scan me, I bruise easily.”
He called security.

My reflection told me:
  “You blink too much for a cyllinder.”
And I agreed.
Then blinked four times, fast.
  (That was the code for “leave me broken into thirds and believable halves.”)

I’m a memory someone scribbled over.
I’m the museum you build around your hostel.
I’m a vending machine that sells only change
And money is required for usage.

The floor tried to arrest me.
The ceiling held a grudge against me.
The windows applied for workers’ comp.
  And
  I told the walls I loved them.

They said:
  “You only say that when you’re hurting.”
My response:
  “Calamari doesn’t scream, and neither do I.”

We'll raise the kids with brown curls and olive skin,
I'd rather them have your nose,
Built as a tower of Lebanon, looking towards Damascus
Perhaps my eyes, the ones that soften at the mention of your name
Ya amar, under the chuppah, you foretold our future like a blessing
And I whispered amen
Sacrificing everything I've had
For us.