Why it's always late ?
To talk to her
To tell her
To stop her
To ask for forgiveness
To say it is okay

Why it's always late ?
To said

To be human means to suffer.
To fight for a permanent fulfillment that never truly existed.

No matter how perfect my roadmap is,
it will never follow that predestined trajectory.

This was a hard truth to accept because
humans have a fragile need to control.
It might be their ego or pride,
but when things don’t bend their way they get enraged.

They become too deeply attached to this impossible idea of perfection.
It’s just that life is so imperfectly beautiful and complicated,
but that’s the best part.

Embracing the unpredictability of life means to acknowledge that…
no matter how hard life gets,
it has a funny way of letting things fall just right where they were meant to be.

This doesn’t justify the cruelty of the world.
The genocides in Rwanda,
war on Israel,
millions dead and injured,
worldwide injustice.

It’s also important to realize that cruelty was not natures fault,
it was us.
We created the evil in the world,
but just try not to be the cause of it.

Learning how to live with cruelty is vital. Realizing that life wasn’t ever meant for death,
but it has it anyways.
It is important to balance these two points.

Accepting the hardships that come with life means living truly at peace.
This also doesn’t change the fact that life is difficult,
it just makes it more tolerable.

Still being attached to you shreds my soul.
I can tell you played a damaging role.
I still feel the blade you left in my chest.
I want to break free, tired of being possessed.

I’m sick of wearing mask of joy.
I see you think that I’m a toy.
I fear nostalgia tricks me here.
And past days suddenly seem real.

I was born in a city where the air suffocates
The building groans, its bones cracking under the burned of a thousand years of unspoken regret
This city smells like something poisoned,
petrol and sweat soaked into the earth,
the ghost of rain that never touches the ground.
It seeps into my skin,
As an alarm,
I never wanted to belong here.
The city speaks to me in a dialect of dust and noise
I speak its language too
but my words feel like a borrowed coat,
ill-fitting, awkward on my shoulders.
Even when I strive to make them mine,
they slip away,
elusive and alien.
The chai here burns my tongue,
sharp like an old wound that never healed
and I swallow it down,
Even as I smoke, the air smells of snow and distant mountains
I have never gazed upon

to love is to suffer
to suffer is to love

so when you reach your hand down my throat
and rip my heart from my chest,
when you curl your fingers into fists and
beat them against my face,
when you smile tauntingly and tease and mock and humiliate and manipulate me,
when you curl your fingers against the stitches that i restitch
every morning, every afternoon, every night,
and yank as hard as you can until the blood flows like red peonies against my skin

to love is to suffer
to suffer is to love

i don't mind.
it's okay.
i don't mind.
i don't.
because i love you.

to love is to love
to suffer is to suffer
or was it something else?
because i can't tell anymore

They thought it would be easy to call back,
They thought it would be easy to leave behind,
They thought he wouldn't mind if they left him,
It was as they thought, he didn't mind,
For he had already suffered worse in past,
Heart dead, Mind blanked,
A humanoid machine living for the sake of living....