When Intuition goes to battle with Reason,
these are usually quick skirmishes—
but this one has broken into war.
The campaign unfolds on the soil of abstraction,
reality, spirituality, and poetry.

Intuition begins with overwhelming superiority—
three of the four fields are hers.
But Reason is insatiable:
guarding the kingdom,
minimizing the losses,
holding the troops’ morale.

Its advisor is Faith—
the Eternal Outsider.
Usually Faith stands by Intuition,
but now he has slipped quietly
to the opposite box,
losing his own faith… one could say.

Intuition without Faith is dangerous.
Her box is always draped in dark lace curtains;
only her voice comes through—
no one has ever seen her face,
except Faith,
who would never stoop so low as to speak of it.

Some claim she is not even human,
others say faceless,
and in the inner circles it is whispered
she wears Janus’ face—
(probably only for Faith,
a mocking trick against hypocrisy).

Yet for the audience outside,
listening from afar,
plain common sense whispers only one thing:
she is a shapeshifter.
Heresy.
Maybe that’s why they are so quiet.

Why is Intuition so dangerous
without her two-faced advisor?
One might suppose the real danger
is the opposite:
that religious fervor seeps into her field
and sprouts the weeds of fanaticism.

For Faith hides not only
fat volumes of sermon under his cassock,
but the stone tablets of morality.
He has, they say,
even used them in close combat.
Effective: the laws of physics themselves
lend the swing its momentum;
at the moment of impact
it already speaks the language of Force.

A cudgel in Faith’s hand,
a drumhead tribunal—
the kind that applies laws literally.

When he sits beside Intuition,
his chair glows in full illumination,
stage-lights blazing,
the glare descending like a halo.
From that light,
behind Intuition’s baroque curtains,
she too takes on form—
not just a whisper,
but an active member of the council.

Without him,
Intuition grows overconfident.
If no one sees her,
perhaps she isn’t even there.
Her influence falters.
In her own words:
she has free rein.

In such moments,
Intuition dons the mask of the prophet—
a mask that grants
a dangerous confidence.
“The prophet does not err—
he is only insufficiently zealous.”

And at the final word, help arrives.
It is Obsession.
She lays her hand lightly
on Intuition’s shoulder
and says nothing but:

“You are right.”

Tempered glasses
Surround my vision.
Eyes denounce the truth.
You aren’t around.
You don’t exist here.
But your shadow
Permeates all my senses.
The institution of my mind
The crazy animal farm
That cages my steeds.
My royal legion of needs
Riding to the east
Sunrises and Seas

I can’t shake loose.
The rambling jargon of my youth

I know I am not worth much on the stage.
I don’t look good, got no rhythm.
But I ain’t afraid
When the bottles of judgement
Slice the air in my direction near
I salute them with a guzzle of the beer.
Until all my feelings become sheer
See through them and I learn.
Standing tall isn’t as firm.
As all the promises that make me yearn
To see you in the flesh
But the best is yet to come.

Just a ****** for the high
That keeps me in the bedroom.
All night
I usually flee.
The eject valve always close by
Ready to launch.
Me into space
Alone
Solitude sometimes is.
The only necessity that exists.

Can you understand?
If I surround myself with only memory
And regret
And not let you in
Because you are my Achilles heel
My denouement, after the spill
Of all my blood into the sink
Brushing my teeth
Too quick to think.
I quip, prickly and sick.

I choked on life.
And threw out the bit.
I can’t be tamed.
A horse girl by name
I ain’t a leaf, falling to the wind.
I am the howl through the chimes.
The moment of rhyme
When it all falls into line

Battle my spine up to my brain.
I can show you where your heart is.

Beating in my chest of drawers
Roque style
For good ole America’s sake
You can peek.
Inside
Your own hearts desire
And see for yourself.
Who is there, in the eye,
Of your storm
I am in the valley of shadow.
I am in the sea of tranquility.

Your heart carries all seasons.
Shades
Phases
It is the moon.
Radiance in permanence
A companion
For my earthly desire
My heavenly want

I am a spiritual oasis.
And you are the tide builder.
Rippling in from the cast stone
Blame tossed.
Former lover
Disbarred from passing judgement.
Cruel and unusual punishment

I am sure that I can break you free.
Of chains you created
Once you are able

Rather than like Cain
Giving into the rain

I shatter the staff
that emotional crutch of other drugs
upon the bridges you burned.
We burned.
To watch the wood splinter
Embers floating into the sky.
Flickering out
As a lightning bug passes by

I got your current.
In my hair
I got the shake down shimmy.
I can jimmy loose that locked up blood pump.
You ***** little punk
I got your sedation.
Stirred into my milkshake
**** it up, its extra thick.
Spill some on the table,
I’ll make you lick.

You ain’t gotta shimmer.
But surely you shine.
If only you saw the colours
Sparkling through the vines
growing around your chest
where once a heart laid to rest

I know they killed it dead.
But I got a certificate.
In CPR
I can resuscitate.
Make it beat.
Make the heat.

sink or swim.
trial by fire
flight, fight, run, or hide.
seek destroy.
isolate
terminate
whatever man
as long as it’s not the status quo.
the queue for owing you.
something that I can’t afford.

A moment in time
lost to a name.
a place
a stage fit for another queen.
who had set her sun.
Breaking Orbit and running
down to the moment
of separation
my trial by error
one chance
This very last breath
from my lips to yours
back to my head
inside
surrounded by dread.
but alive
instead of what else is there?
beyond the great veil
lift it.
Kiss back
fool hardy laughs.

When young, I took the world
inside, filling me
And every day, fed
by age-wise women

I was happy to grow, greater
than Alexander the Great
Baruch and Master Kong
I married and had children

Homely and ordinary years
of peace and fulfilled wishes
It just continued, the people
with whom I spoke, the places

I kept coming, the classes
I started to have, the world
I handed out and the soul-
snips of myself

that I began to leave everywhere
to get empty of life
that stands still when it doesn't flow
to young bodies

Ode to the Stream that sits stagnant
somewhere over Northgate Green:

I have sat by it and observed
Rippled currents falling down
Into murky shallows, an un-natural
Green, like mountain-dew
Breathing frothy spots of bubbles
That circle a rhubarb vape
And a sprite can and a
Heineken can and a
Little hopping Wren darting
Between curled roots.

I remember too,
The drips of
Rain water
Worming
Down the dingy
Alleyways of
My childhood,
Dripping down
Nettles and
Seeping into
Cracked brick and
Sodden dirt
And part of - now a -
Sordid cigarette packet.

And from some
Geography class,
I remember how
This water was
Reborn, once
In massive clouds,
Grumbling masses,
Sky's mother who
Shadows the

Bursting
Writhing
Violent
Rivers
And
Vast Fjords
And
Reaching Peaks
And
Breaching Skys
And
Once
Birthed
As torrent
Rainfall
Tearing
Massive wounds
Into tectonic
Plates

The
Blood of matter
And organism
And that which
Carries our ****
In every form

But that's not all. As, I recall:
The lifting motion of staring
Into 'etched lines of water'
From rain, tracing bulbous
Recollections on opaque glass
And knowing they don't
Know where they are going
And I bask in the significance of
This insignificance.

i think
this is perhaps the first time
i came and picked up my laptop,
sat in front of the blank screen,
with the pointer blinking back at me—
and i realized i had so much to write.

about how the world was being unfair,
of how i was being lied to,
of how i was all by myself all again—
and that's what they wanted:
to isolate me after attachment.

and i don't know,
it didn't hurt the way it used to.
i relapsed, kinda—
but i realized i'd healed much more.
and even though it's surprising,
i just don't know how to pen it down.

i was watching the recent season of ginny and georgia,
and i found quotes and expressions and scenes that i related to—
like *******, like poetry is supposed to be form of self-expressing.
but i never knew how to do it in the first place.

and i've gotten better, i know—
but i lie on my bed,
and something's just so poetic about lying in the dark
with posters on my walls,
with pictures telling me to not give up,
to write, to be creative—
and i do all these things just to stop thinking at all.

like, i have my hair open
and it's the second day since i washed them.
i'd changed the day schedule—
it seems kinda nice, like not a repetition for once.
and my mum's showering,
i'm in my room,
the air conditioning is on—
the heat outside is unbearable.

i received a text from a random person asking for my socials,
and i'm perhaps the first in this generation
to not use a social.

i bathed my bunny today,
she's kinda angry at the fact—
but i know she'll round that. she always does.
she just doesn't like water,
but she needs it.

like i don't like to live and be surrounded
by people who don't want me,
but i have to fake it.

that's kinda simple.
but it's hard to accept—
like the brutal kinda truths that seem to reflect my own insides
and i just have to let them.

and every time i look into the mirror,
i imagine who i can be.
but to be that person,
to be the me in the mirror—
it's just— i don't have a way yet laid out in front of me.

i've got no prompts today—
perhaps i'll ask for some, look around and always return
to write back in here.
but sometimes i wanna write just nothing at all.

like write it out,
but it's about nothing—
just things that are so normal
that they don't even seem to matter.

you won't see someone writing about breathing
until they know the lack of it during a panic attack.
you won't see someone writing about a heartbreak
unless they've been through that.

and they could write from the experiences of others—
but first, you have to experience.

and i don't know,
i'm perhaps getting somewhere—
but that isn't even necessary, at all?
right?
like, i can exist,
and i don't have to make a big point out of it— all times.

i can be breathing,
be listening,
be wanting something but not knowing what i want exactly.
and i could be just in the zone of comfort
without having any comfort at all.

but it's just— hard to define, to put in words.

i had no thoughts when i came here,
but right now i type,
and i watch myself type,
and i see the words coming to life
and i want to keep going on and on and on and on
until the cycle just never stops
and i can keep on speaking and speaking
and somehow get it all out—
all that i've felt, or all that i keep feeling.

and i could write my past down
but i don't have any memory unless it's triggered—
i'm just— like a total black space
with no stars either.

and i'm running out of metaphors
and i'm afraid that i won't have this writing skill of mine.
that's kinda one of the fears.

the second is to show people i truly hear—
and see, and watch as they go ahead
and do the things that will have me lost—
far, far away from them.

and i wonder if they even see then—
that i can be the one they need,
but to be someone that i need,
myself, with me—

i just read a quote that said
"life's easier if you have even just one good friend,"
and i have had— one of those, always and now and then—
but i kinda seem to always lose it all.

and that's alright,
because somehow, you find a way—
but i can't still go to these good friends of mine,
and talk to them—

another thought—
if you can't find a reason to be,
become the reason yourself.

just got a random thought that could be a big quote
and now i'm being gaslighted—
is this thought my own
or did my brain pick it up from somewhere
and threw it in the open for more?

poems don't always have to have an ending—
well, they do.
but that's what i tell myself
when i can't find an ending suitable enough
to fit in the already written words.

and then i realize,
the infamous line from the series i'm currently watching:

"listen or don't, i don't care—
that's life right?
things don't always have happy endings.
or even endings.
it's not fair like that.
we're just left hanging
and we don't know what's gonna happen.
we don't even know what really did happen.
so all we can do is decide to just not care."

"i think you do care.
when you wrote that poem, you wanted an ending.
you crave resolution.
you want things to make sense.
and sometimes they don't.
and that frustrated you,
so you frustrated us, the listeners.
you pushed us away.
oh and that's the name of the poem by the way,
'ending'."

In the tea house with

the water lanterns we feel --


life flowing through us.

Even with the departure of a defeated winter.
Spring's backstage feeling very conceited.
Bare branches still bend in their naked contortion.
With blatant desire for lush summer leaves fortune.
The trees whispered their longing
telepathically to the breeze.
The stream was a mysterious gold, green & brown.
Translucent was the elder boulder ground.
The drapes of hemlock need no announcing sound.
Below rock bottom, is a hardly reached equation.
A survival where peace is the eternal sum.
The secret stream will restore your inner gleam.