Giving myself odd looks, while trying to even the score—
pointing out my faults like counting sins on abacuses.
Too many to tally, and every action I take I just hope
adds up to something. But I’m outnumbered by myself.

Feels like an inverted midnight— too heavy to be noon.
Doing the most, while barely praying at all— maybe
because doubt multiplies faster than faith settles.

Failures pile up like fractions with no common
denominator— just me, subtracting reasons to believe,
dividing purpose by disbelief, and hoping somehow
I’ll solve it all to find some peace.

Trying to count what I can still hold, not out-of-hand
habits or dust-covered promises. My Bible feels more
antique than answers— pages heavy with silence
until I wiped it off and saw… another layer still
hiding underneath. Like dusk, again. But this time,
I opened it— and let it open me.

It’s like you plan to feed yourself with time
but never take any seconds. And I swear —
you could hear me second-guessing
myself over a plate full of food for thought,
just trying to feed a little of my ego. And it takes
a while to finish expressing myself — so let me take
the express train on any passing train of thought.
Cos it’s a full course — learning how to be well fed
in a world where everyone’s trying to make bread
while praying for that daily bread.

A man does all that he can for himself, before he
even says Amen! And all men are expected
to have themselves in order — but never given
the time of day to order the meal that fills their worth.
Because most of that time gets spent spending on
somebody else’s worth.

And sometimes, I wonder if it’s really worth it at all.
There’s a man who regrets giving it all to a girl
who became somebody else’s girl…that sentiment,
doesn’t only apply to him giving his all to girls.

—He gave everything to a seemingly self-fulfilled
world! And that meal is always so cold...

Crowded foresight —  
      thoughts stacked sky-high,  
     cluttered windows of a dreaming mind.  

              Out of mind,  
           out of sight…  
     yet somehow, I keep seeing  
     the better days of my life  
       skimming the edge  
        of a hopeful smile.  

                 That smile —  
          soft, unspoken —  
           given with time,  
        drawn from deep thoughts  
            folded in silence.  

                    . . .  

         Any life worth seeing —  
       any better version of me —  
    is shaped by what I’m willing  
          to put light on.  

               So I  
            paint my  
       foresight with  
   fireflies  and  sunbeams,  
     hoping the dark  
          makes room  
             for the  
            light I  
               keep.