She feels like she is in the center of it all
Between the chaos and the peace she longs for
The day when she can close her eyes and shut out the noise
the days of joy that went past her as the minute hand races pass the hour we all hope would last a few minutes longer

She filled with peace but in her peace there is so much pain
I would know I listen to her when she decides to share her story
Her story is not the story of a princess and the prince
But I admire the determination cause once in a while she tell me that she too will eventually get her happy ending
That the hell hole that she is currently facing will be a thing of the past
She has a smile of the early morning sunrise
In her story even when she seems beaten and bruised
She still wants to fight
She gets up every morning to a battle and goes to sleep in her armour
I have to wonder if she sleeps most of her days

But am only a visitor thanks to her
Just like many others before It is only due to her kindness
Even though others were quick to voice their opinion about how they would do if they were in her shoes
I just do not think her story is for me to edit but to rather keep my thoughts to myself
I listen

Everyone dreams
of a happily ever after
But nobody asked, it seems
what happens there after
Maybe they forgot
to add another chapter.

Prince charming left Cinderella
and went to be with someone else
He found some other Bella
He was always like this, someone tells.
All that they cared about
was if the shoe would fit her or someone else
Then there would be no doubt
There are going to be wedding bells.

But this is real life, not everything can be perfect
Like in a fairytale
Things won’t turn out as you expect
right down to the very detail.

But it is your story
It’ll be as you write
Love in itself is a fairytale
if you play your cards right.

Don’t be too fast
let the flow take its course
Let it happen organically
let there be no remorse.
You will smile, you will cry
You will succeed, you will fail
Just don’t give up, and always try
You will definitely create your own fairytale.

Oh, those sixteen seconds; —
schoolings we learnt, stories on the
sixteen streets, where a few flowers
  Would be daring enough to grow.

YOU!
Bystander to the narrative of six teens,
learning about life, through every twist
and curve. Take part in such an account,
for you too, to be flourished in what
  Truths we learned.

I was sixteen; though that made
you feel like eighty-four in a concrete
jungle, where you heard stories of
its corruption, as it scarily roars.

The novel days, but with a broken
system of old. From feeling broke;
covering holes with holes,

— You could only tap into success by
the connections of who you know, and
they know; prior sixteen years. Henceforth
  Why we all sensed being so old.

Or was it, "owed"
—dang, what youth could know?
But to be honest though, the feeling of it,
was so cold: a degree less than sixteen, for
  Any flower to be frightened to grow.

As if the promise of an improved
tomorrow would never really show,
To say—"you head in your own way
and I'll be a head, ahead of you; thinking
up sixteen likely ways of where to go,
  And how to go.

I was told a story by so and so,
who knew so and so, —that said,
So and so, about so and so, that a man
claimed this was the right time to sow.

He threw out his seeds; some that hit the
emotionless ground as cold sixteen stones.
Others were pierced by the cold’s thorns.

He spoke a lot of brave words and
eccentric quotes, that held with them
great wisdom and growth.

Some hard to swallow, some fell on
deaf ears, the rest gnawed by birds.
These teachings didn’t speak of being
owed, as we were told; but were
secrets he seemed to own,
  That shone out of his soul.

I was sixteen, a nervous teen,
who gave this story sixteen seconds.
We were careless and obviously reckless
—a wonder of which gods ever forgave us.

Feeling cold as snow, in a place where,
it gets colder as the rain pours.
The man gave us sixteen of the most
profound words:


“Sixteen seconds of the Word,
your spirit grows, — sixteen
seconds of rain, and life will show.”

I was termed a flower in that story,
given sixteen words of advice
from a stranger I didn't really know.
And it was by age sixteen, the bud
  Had started to grow.

I guess flowers are
the boldest of us all.
—on where, and through which
situation they choose to grow.

I was raised in my father’s ill-timed
           old ways: as a man saying how he feels,
           was like ash in his ashtray. And I had
           smoked up a few reasons of not finding
           certainty; but instead finding answers in
           all addictions as a troubled youth.

I remember looking for a quick fix,
          like a constant broken clock—
         without a lot of time.
         As it felt better not to admit to why I
         was crying secretly at night, and instead
         going around faking all of my smiles.


As I never once felt like I could fit an
        ounce of myself in my family, and
        sometimes the thought of being a
        mistake would be a thought I’d accept
        so gladly.
“I’ve been a fool, I’ve been a ******,
           I’ve been an idiot, I’ve been a coward,
           and I’ve been less than a good friend,
           Feeling less of myself most times, in
           saying I don’t amount to anything”—
           were all of the things plaguing my head.

I’ve been so sick of love,
          pretending to have known it as much
          And to my luck, I’ve been unlucky enough
          to know the way I lived felt like a vortex,
         cos it always ******.

Sprung out on how I forced my appearance,
        sitting on bottled emotions, ignoring
        how I’m really feeling— all thought
        to show a man in their great zealous.
        Such a lie it was; and a door to the
        knowledge of depression, that I tried to
        hide so well, with years of experience.

Cause I was taught,
          “real men don’t show their feelings”
           Still what are these feelings, I’m feeling?

Feeling sad, depressed, a mess,
          who can’t confess that sometimes
          he's a mess and not always at his best.
          Still, self-perfection isn’t what the
          whole world expects. And unless this
          boy chooses not to digress from tackling
          the feelings that have him compressed; that
          boy will only be a boy who still sits in their
          mother’s nest.

Cos no bird will truly soar where it rests—
          so would I; never be a man in this crazy
          world, by just covering up all of my sores
          in my heart with a bulletproof vest. I
          already swallowed up those bullets; choking
          up on all of the words of, not saying
          what’s beating at my chest.

Today, today marks the day,
          I threw out that **** ashtray.
         Cos the ash in that tray, made me feel
         like, the *** of the day. And I refuse to
        do the donkey-work, of pretending that
         I’m always okay.

        No, I'm not okay, because I’ve spent
        my life being burnt by the scorching
        ash, in that old ashtray.

                          It’s time for healing.

As a kid, was I
as accomplished a storyteller
as I remember?
Did I truly evade consequence?
As an adult, was it a little similar?

Is it just me?  
Or lately have I found more truth?
Do the stories seem to you
to be intertwined with unexpected twists?
Do they immerse you,
despite their incompleteness?
Do you find that this gives space
for imagination, for permission
for grace to flower?
Are you surprised by the colour?
Does the sweetness of the fragrance
stagger you as it does me?

Have I always been a storyteller?
A teller of stories?
And are they really unfinished?
Is there more fragrance to come?

As a kid I was an accomplished storyteller
an evader of consequence.
As an adult it was a little similar,

but lately, I’ve found more story with truth
intertwined with unexpected twists,
and immersive but unfinished narratives,

which gave space for imagination,
for permission for grace to flower
in familiar but unexpected colour.

And sweet fragrance.

I have always been a storyteller.
A teller of my stories.
And they’re unfinished,

with more fragrance to come.

"I have a hundred photos lined up to be posted.
I edit them, I think about them, and I let them be.
I let them be in my gallery for the right time.

And the right time never comes.

Days become months, and months at times turn into years.
But the right time never comes.

I don't know why!

But it is alright!

It is alright because I am not in a race, nor am I in a hurry to tell my story.
I don't mind waiting at the stop like this bus.
I don't mind being forgotten about
Or just not talked about for days.

But I, in my own way, after making those stops, I will carve my road ahead.
Uncover the true beauty of my story
In the most unusual way.
Just like how sunlight lights up a simple road and makes patterns with the help of shadows.

Shadows have their own ways.
Shadows glorify those pretty rays.

Enchantment - In the vast gardens of the great castle, under the soft glow of the summer moon, lived a servant girl named Elara. She moved through the castle corridors with grace and humility, her heart filled with dreams beyond her station. And it was on one magical summer night that her destiny intertwined with that of a handsome young prince.

Prince Alden, with his striking features and kind demeanor, often sought refuge in the castle gardens, away from the pressures of royal life. One evening, as he wandered among the fragrant blooms and winding pathways, he caught sight of Elara, tending to the flowers with gentle hands.

Enthralled by her beauty and grace, Alden approached her, his heart racing with a newfound excitement. As they exchanged shy smiles and idle conversation, they found themselves drawn together by an invisible thread, their souls recognizing a kindred spirit in each other.

Under the silver light of the moon, they strolled through the gardens, their laughter mingling with the sweet melody of nightingales. With every whispered word and stolen glance, their connection deepened, forging a bond that transcended the boundaries of their worlds.

As the night wore on, they found themselves alone in a secluded alcove, surrounded by the fragrance of roses and the soft rustle of leaves. There, bathed in the moonlight, they shared their hopes, their fears, and their deepest desires, each word a testament to the growing love between them.

In that enchanted moment, Elara and Alden knew that they were meant to be together, their hearts entwined in a love that defied all odds. And as they embraced beneath the starry sky, they vowed to defy convention and follow their hearts, no matter the consequences.

From that night onward, Elara and Alden's love blossomed like the flowers in the castle gardens, filling their days with joy and their nights with passion. And though their path was fraught with challenges and obstacles, they faced them together, their love shining as bright as the summer moon that had brought them together.   https://youtu.be/mXbIF9eoLZ4