The choking vines of the wine yard,
Wrap around the souls of the somber.
Staring off into space,
While a chemical feeling seals their fate.

Do they feel happy yet?
Something more than the happiness they lost,
Was it right, to push love away?

In replacement they have a craving,
A welcomed feeling of demanding.
Their kisses curdle into bites,
Ripping chunks out of who they love,
Tearing holes into their head.

If a mirror could fall in love,
It would be you.
If a mirror could stare for hours,
It would stare at you.
If a mirror was to show something,
It would show the light reflected from you.
If that mirror had to introduce itself,
It would introduce you… to you.

Like a broken machine
my mind tries to shut down,
but the cogs keep spinning
round and round.

Completely overheated,
the oils run dry—
you overthink and worry
‘till one day you die.

What would a mirror say if it could talk back?
You stare at me as if I only show your looks.
But I reflect the weight your eyes hold.
Cactus is spiky—yet thrives where most life can’t.
Snow is gorgeous, but warmth it lacks.

i found a sunny spot to sit
the kind that makes you glow a bit
the grass was cool, the light was gold
it felt like something i could hold

i stretched out like a lazy cat
no thoughts too loud, no weight, just flat
the heavy stuff slipped off my chest
the sun, for once, made all the rest

feel smaller — gone, at least awhile
i even wore a real-life smile
but shadows came, like they always do
and took my sunlight with them too.

A brass barometer lives beneath my ribs;
its needle flutters at weather only I can feel.
Thoughts wind around repairs, loops of cause & cure,
tightening the unseen air.

I read distress through pressure in my chest,
a metric too subtle to name.
Surface remains stoic;
under that, doors open for the few I trust;
at the deepest layer rests indifference,
flat, still, holding every swell in place.

The trees are growing
Like babies growing up to become adults
Like flowers blossom on the fields
Like plants growing fruit
Like the soil become fertile when rain pours down on it after a drought
Lastly, the sun shines on the earth to grow a diverse life

He came from shade but dreamt of sun,
A silent thing with wings too small.
Each morning found him halfway gone—
Each night he broke his quiet fall.

He watched the sky, its golden thread,
And thought it meant to pull him in.
His mother warned, “You’ll end up dead,”
But still he tried, again and again.

He reached, though thinner grew the air,
And stars, he thought, would answer back.
But they just watched him drifting there—
A speck upon a silver track.

She told him once, “It isn’t yours,
That light you chase, it cannot feel.”
But boys don’t hear through closing doors,
They only learn through what won’t heal.

His wings wore down like woven lace,
He rose until the dark turned blue.
The flame, it never knew his face—
But still, he swore its warmth was true.

And when he fell, they called it flight.
He burned, and called the burning love.
No echo followed into night—
Just ash that drifted high above.

someone once asked me
if i were to describe how my heart looked
in words and not through science.
it left me wondering for ages,
finding the right words—
i realized metaphors worked,
kinda like being tangled in lines,
woven outta feelings i can't describe.

my heart is perhaps a lonely, lonely setting
in a space—void of any lighting.
there's glitter on it though,
and whenever it gets a signal of the memory,
cursed even if it was,
it glows like a broken lamp
flickering to light on an empty road,
like an old cd player stuck on the same song—
or more like, stuck on the default,
going in a loop.

the member of the family
stuck in a guest room.
the little kid, trying to sleep—
waiting for a lullaby or a nighttime story.

a black hole, absorbing its own self,
it's been far too alone, on its own.
a long, long night, waiting for a sunrise—
something the world despised, but not anymore.

a dead eulogy with rhyming words.
a piece of broken ceramic, held up by mud.
pieces of fabric cinched together
with needles and stitches,
pinned across words that once shattered—
on a corkboard, decorated in a fancy manner.

a building that collapsed once
during a 5.5 magnitude earthquake—
rebuilt, but never been the same since.

the perfect interpretation is hard to find.
my heart is like a glass toy
in the hands of a child,
a burnt forest that symbolizes ashes and rebirth,
an old woman close to taking her last breath,
yet smiling to the world.

a home to those who didn't belong,
race of the misfits, who all won.

it's just an *****,
something i need to pump blood and to survive—
and yet it feels like an ironical mess of words,
philosophical in its own existence.

i love this heart of mine.