White roses drench my
Red tinted heart; poems fall
Into the silence.

a book titled the comfort book
carries silver-tongued truths disguised as preachings offering some peace.
turns out reading what's already known
is like seeing the result on paper—
having exclaimed, i won't believe unless it's shown.

can i slip in, as a matter of fact,
the moon is suing me for emotional damage
and all the pressure i've brought upon it, forthwith, with immediate effect?

she left a letter this morning while leaving
to hide in her contrary's presence—
a cease and desist nailed to the door of my self.
she claimed i'd stared too long,
longingly enough she’d started to feel bare,
and seen me stark naked as i whispered my dire lies to the night air.
she felt used. perhaps i committed a crime.
so i admitted, and asked for apologies.

except i was sent a summon,
to present myself and the plead-not-guilty note.
the stars—she put as the jury,
the night sky her lawyer,
the sun as the judge—he held fury.

i presented myself, humor disguising my truth,
but when they brought the memories to the witness box,
i knew i was done for—eloquently misjudged and overlooked.

had to take an oath,
but they lied under it even.
promised nothing was wrong.
i saw right through their plotting.

i aimed for the time reversing,
pleading guilty, admitting innocence.
my shadow whispered secrets i haven't lived yet—
and they brought her to cross-examine:
no one else but my imaginary friend.

she was mad.
mad for being forgotten and left.

so i did the next best thing:
tore my skin, let her scavenge through the inside.
she felt for the way my veins pulsed,
and admitted i was right.
speaking the truth, your honor,
i smiled at the moon,
but felt guilty for not seeing it sooner.

the universe had glitched—
whenever i cried, it glitched,
sent down a star to wipe my eyes dry.
in doing so, the stars suffered,
and the moon, without her supporters, lost her glimmer.
she lost her friends, as i lost my own.
and no, she wasn’t angry—
just a bit tensed, for she'd seen what happened to my hope.

the lawsuit resulted in me being freed.
i stood up, walked over, and gave her a tight hug—
the trial of chaos, and of giving life to non-existent hope.

she handed me the book of comfort,
written in white on a black page.
it glistened.
the often misplaced truths hide in the bright.
so accept them as you may—
they could be sour, bitter, expired to taste,
but breathing in the venom is one way to make sure
you don’t repeat the same mistakes.

and so this was my tale,
held in the celestial court.
i missed everything—except that i was forlorn, not too long ago.
i still sit at nights and stare at her,
but this time, she lends her own shoulder.
the stars scribble it down:
surrealism meets emotional rundown.

ominous as though it might seem,
this fits like a verdict-stamped
"not guilty" in my very being.

it flickers to life with a mere spark,
burning so bright—
almost as if it’d set anything nearby into an uncontrollable fire.

the rage at the beginning continues
until the tip burns out.
and if you look close enough,
you'll see sparks dancing in the surrounding cloud of flame:
starting blue, then white,
then a bright orange and raging red.

often missed,
they say the smoldering heat lies in the blue zone.

and the craziest part?
the stick burns—turns black—
but before that,
it glows a bright red, like iron in a furnace,
even if just for a second.

if you touch the matchstick within those seconds—barely two or three—
it burns.
the ghost of the once very alive flame kisses your skin.
but not in a way that harms or leaves a mark—
in a way that the sizzle lingers just beneath the surface,
for minutes.
longer, if the zone is too sensitive.

the flame then catches the rest of the stick.
the darkness spreads so smoothly,
swallowing it whole—
almost like that one void we all try to escape from.

often, only the part you held—
the part you blew out,
afraid it’d reach your fingertips—
remains untouched.
it couldn't live the life meant for itself,
yet more than half was spent unsaid.

the black takes over.
devoid of red,
of flicker,
of magic.

but when it burns—
it’s the prettiest thing ever.

the flame.
the cloud of fire.
albeit small,
bright enough to smolder steel into black
(trust me, i’ve tried).
hot enough to burn skin
(based on personal experimentation).

flickering enough to cause destruction—
and addicting enough to make you want to commit arson.

and then it dies.

a burnt corpse.
once alive for seconds,
fulfilled its own eternity,
the life written for it since the very manufacturing—
and then it lies among the other half-broken, crushed soot,
to live its death.

that’s what it’s for.

like humans as well.

A flower oh so rare
Just one amongst a garden full
Gleaming bright like a star
Impossible to deny its pull

Caving to its beauty
Set on to find the seeds
After years of search
Heart finally found what it needs

It starts with excitement
Grows into a beautiful bloom
With lush leaves unseen
Nurtured by everything it assumes

But time of course takes its toll
Once you have it, it fades away
What once was everything in the world
Slowly becomes a far and distant sway

One missed watering
A harmless slight
Surely tomorrow
It’ll regain its might

Forgetting to nourish
Neglecting to tend
Assuming its resilience
Would never bend

But with wilted petals
It whispered goodbye
It couldn’t survive
Even though it did try

In this bittersweet garden of love
A lesson to be learnt
Just like flowers without enough care
Bonds too can be burned

I read it twice, I still didn’t get it
I did not receive the message
I couldn’t understand the meaning

You poured in your heart
And I left it, torn apart
Because some things don’t resonate
Until it’s once again too late

And you made up your mind
While I stayed behind

Always too slow to make up my mind
Staring at the lines once more,
They look back like a locked door,
I tried knocking, but not sure what for.

Poems are like puzzles in crypts
You write in metaphors
And I respond too literally

And interstellar that didn’t align
A story written that wasn’t mine

And now there’s just silence,
Where insight should have been.
I held something breakable And didn’t feel it within.

I am but a mindless puppet surrounded by dark
and I've gotten accustomed to the warmth of my lamp
and I fear when the sun does come up again
its fake light will burn us all in a blink