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.

You are bones of my bones,
Not in ownership,
In recognition.
What was a missing rib had come back whole.
Not taken to complete you,
But returned to walk beside you.

Your kindness is
Patient,
Long-suffering,
Unenvied—
It moves like light through stained glass.

You are my promised land,
Not perfect,
But flowing—
With milk and honey,
With the quiet richness of sweet moments,
Where peace is enough to make everything feel divine.

I’ve known the flood,
The wilderness,
The wandering—
But now I know the garden again.
In the way you say my name,
Standing beside you,
The missing rib finally returned.
And whole.

And if God is love,
Then loving you
Is worship,
And every moment with you
A kind of prayer
I never want to say “amen” to.

I've watered this garden for ages
Yet nothing ever grows
I've consulted botanical mages
They haven't the time for my trivial woes

I've pruned with bloodied fingertips-
Soil so stubborn, refusing to shift
I've given every pamphlet a flip
Still no signs of a horticultural gift

Just how glass cracks
after a lapse,
one should make a gaffe
to smash the mirror of arrogance.

Resembling sharks in the dark, deaf ocean

the wise harbour conceit in the pit of their heart

the language of egotism defining from their faces

Sermons fanning the flames of Ego's swirling smoke

Bold they stand as defenders of the Din

After themselves, who else have they deceived?

The Scarlet Refusal


The box. The chains.  
The absolution.  
“It ends the pain,” they say.  

But what is there for me to gain?  
My shackles long slipped the rein.  
It’s your box, your chain, that detains.  

I abandoned that game.  

“It sticks,” they say.  
“It rebels,” they voice.  
A bright red ‘A’.  

But no heed I pay.  
I light my illuminate blaze.  
Not an arsonist—  
Just someone who is unlevered.

Come feel the waters swell
Lips find pulses
Wave crashes into wave

Breath hastens swirling winds
Wave crashes into wave;
crashes into wave

Eyes
   clouded skies
Fingertips
   raindrops hungry for dirt
Fell
    and found the sea
Wave crashes into wave
Deep
  Crash into me

Lightning radiates surrender
Chests drifting thunder
And the tide slinks back to the sea
as you pull yourself out of me