it’s a cruel
dark world,
void and null.

disorder,
in no
order,

the men
in suits
have their
plans

to push
their visions
even
further.

they want
us to

suffer,
and watch
us break.

and they
know

we’ve had
all that
we can take.

they want
to create
chaos

but we
won’t
lose

our steady
hands.

they can
prey on
us

and we’ll
pray for them

when their
light goes out

and they drown
in sin.

Paint me as a painkiller – being skinny all of my life, a paint thinner;
a silent dreamer, for my lips pressed to a sleepless night. Unmoved
before  the few stars, message me later — to recall all of the best
compliments I made with a WhatsApp star. And how the galaxy spins
on notifications I never read, while the silence of pain sounds like typing.
A message long sent...

Goliaths clad in gravity; the naked eye undresses its own reflection —
I see too much of myself to believe in it. A new thirst rises just to
extinguish others, love poured into a cup made of doubts. I drink,
even when it cracks.

Then again, my pores kind of ****; they breathe in ghosts of what I
touch, and leak the ache of what I hide. I’m stuck competing over
ill-fitting pieces of peace, trying to make a masterpiece out of
what won’t stay together.

Broken kisses, fragile as glass — no wonder they cut. Every affection
a mirror shattered to fit my face. Here, the stars are all black holes,
a spiralling ballet of my art — every orbit a repetition, every stroke
of light a bruise.

I am the medicine and the mistake, dieting on feeling, searching for
colour through the thinning paint. A painkiller swallowing his own
relief — but a body dissolving to heal; choked up while I’m
swallowing relief.

I wish I could move out of my mind — truly, a vacancy for time.
All my work is self-published, and still, I’m overly booked —
for the choice not to write, and to write not what I chose to like.
Even my thoughts need re-editing.

Glad-handing, elbow-rubbing, a little elbow grease to fry what
flips me off — and still, I can barely give my writing away for free.
But funny, how it takes freedom to write. And to steal my words
and claim them as your own — that’s not inspiration, that’s a steal.

But if a Robin’s just the bird sidekick to a Bat, does the latter swing
above the signal that calls him to play the game? Maybe I’ve been
answering too many lights in the sky, thinking they were mine.

“Lead author,” they say — comical at best.
Rest has become a suggestion, and I’m the vigilante of my own creation,
roaming the night for meaning in half-finished drafts and coffee stains.
Writer’s block fears me like a man texting his crush — hitting send,
then praying the three dots don’t disappear forever. The silence between
response and rejection is an entire anthology in my chest.

And **** — this house of a mind. Dusty sofas. ***** intentions.
But still… a home of loving thoughts, waiting for someone to move in.

Wow.

Oh no,  
it happens every time.  

History repeats itself  
in so many variations,  
and we’re trying–

not to get lost  
in the lying.  

So many faces,  
vague yet familiar,  

it’s a race to the bottom,  
and we’re barely surviving.  

There’s a ghost  
in the town we used  
to romanticize–

the shadow of a demon  
we all tried to show  
the light.  

And he pointed  
to the mirror–

to show us how  
we’ve become  
a shadow of ourselves,  

a not-so-familiar guise  
we’ve grown accustomed to,  

just to give ourselves  
a glimpse  
of what it feels like  
to be fake happy.  

The past,  
present,  
and future  
are connected–

and it’s all  
going down  
unless we  
stop it  
from happening.  

We can put on  
a facade,  
but there are cracks  
in the foundation.  

History repeats itself,  
in many variations.  
I promise you–

we’re trying.

I made a decision— it lingers, enshrouding my mind; the crescent
of burning delight pulls at tonight’s darkness, as a flicker of light,
but also sliver of fright. My skin burns under its weight, while
wisdom crowns me in sleep; I dreamt of it all— and still, I woke
up uncertain.

On the hot tarmac of my dreams I’m nothing but gravel, caught
beneath the speed of passing lives. Small. Unnoticed. Wishing
to be seen— but wishing is a two-edged lie; a blade that glitters
hope yet cuts down to thought.

There’s a verse written in every tear, a scripture memorized by
sorrow, and the ocean inside me pours outward, salt and prayer,
a flood no shore can contain. And still, somehow, I give birth to
these shallow poems— though maybe shallow is just another way
to say they carry depth beneath the surface.

In the end, I return to the same place: the edge of decision, where
all of it—a dream, a wish, or a word— is nothing, until I choose.

And so I made a decision— a circle closing on itself, the beginning
rewritten, the same words, but now carved deeper in stone.

I saw her the other day
Tried to avoid her
Hoping she would not see me

My friend called me over
I could have walked right past her
To get to his desk
But i took the long way around

He asked about my birthday
Even though he was there
He asked about my grandparents
Even though he already knew

I kept my voice low
Not wanting her to hear
Still, my eyes found her
Just for a moment
And it shattered me all over again

I cannot process
How she is so unfazed
How she has erased our history

How she has simply let go.....

I’m only liquid for fears, drowning quietly in them, a slow flood
behind my ribs, no warning signs, no lifeguards in sight. You will be
a sunflower, but only as far as you choose to reach out for the sun,
bending your whole body toward light, even if the light burns, even
if the roots ache from pulling.

Happiness comes—eager, but never permanent— it’s a guest that
tracks mud on your floor, leaves its jacket behind; just to remind
you it was here, but gone before you could ask it to stay. The good
things in life never seem to last a lifetime, and going out into this
world feels like reaching for a lifeline, but all I catch is air—
thin, trembling air.

Since birth you were beautiful, but survival forced you to wear the
ugliness of the world— stitched hand-me-down scars, fabric heavy
with someone else’s shame. Each day is a costume change that
doesn’t fit, but you wear it anyway, because naked truth doesn’t
pay rent.

We are all swelling with an opus of urban angst, the kind that hums
under flickering streetlights, the melodic slang of hoodlum teens
trading cigarettes for sentences, has become the hustle talk of men
trying to feed the same hunger that never grew up. Yearning to be
something. Yearning to be someone. Constellations made of shattered
glass windows, cracked stars on the concrete, chasing after the sun as
if the further we run, the closer it comes, but the horizon never owes
us an answer.

To love, to be loved— truth arrives dressed in lies at the start,
perfumed to disguise the rot. We impress, but we press too hard,
we call it romance but it’s theatre, and every stage ends in torn
curtains. This life is love, but love isn’t so full of life when it hangs
uneven, dangling off one side like a crooked frame.

Luck isn’t justice. Cause and effect rarely add up to cause what’s
fair.

And yet we paint our burning visions next to ****-splashed garbage
bins, turning dumpsters into backdrops, spray-painting scars into
murals that smell like waste, mistaking rage for art.

Scars deserve worth, not mockery. But too often, anger becomes our
brush, dipped in venom, flung at the wall, and the picture never
reaches far— a masterpiece meant for healing drowned out by
noise.