Heart is torn–  
Caught and worn.
Mind debates–
Is hope born?

Feelings race,
Lost in space.
Logic breaks
At fear’s embrace.

Dreams ignite,
Burn through night.
Thoughts collide,
Flee or fight.

Hope may sway,
Drift away.
Fear may lead
The soul astray.

Love will call,
Rise or fall?
Truth may bend,
But not be gone.

It holds us still,
Like dusk to dawn.
We bend, not break,
Till fear is gone.

If end is near–
Love or fear?
Mind and heart
At war, unclear.

Still from strife,
Bright sparks of life–
Blend or break?
Love or strife?

We speak of ends
As if they’re worst,
Yet breaking shows us
What comes first.

A hand to hold,
A vow to keep,
A soul that wakes
Instead of sleep.

If all must fall
And skies descend,
Let hearts not break,
But rise and mend.

If the world must fall,
Then let us stand–
Not with shields,
But hand in hand.

They said the stars were born of dust,
That life awoke by chance- not trust.
No hand to shape, no grand design,
Just atoms spinning, cold and blind.

They taught us all to chase the light,
To crown the mind, dethrone the night.
But stripped of soul, what did we find?
A clever beast. An empty mind.

No voice from heaven. No sacred law.
No seeing eye. No heart in awe.
Just bones that break. Just blood that dries.
And meaning lost beneath the skies.

Yet in the silence, something stays-
A whisper through our shadowed days:
"He sees you still, though no eye sees.
What you sow now returns to thee."

It is the line before the crime,
The pause, the weight, the edge of time-
The thought that sears, the fear, the flame:
There is a Judge- you’ll speak your name.

But cast that voice in silence out,
Replace it with the hunger’s shout,
And man will turn with sharpened claw,
To write his will as nature’s law.

He'll build machines, then break the sky,
And never once ask, "Tell me why?"
He'll sit on thrones of steel and fire,
With hollow heart and cold desire.

So science grows, but wisdom fades.
The lights shine bright, yet cast long shades.
And in their glare, we lose the thread-
Forget the living. Mourn the dead.

Let science serve, but not command.
Let knowledge walk, not seize the land.
For when the soul is left behind,
The mind becomes a cage, not mind.

So whisper still, O voice divine-
Be now our brake, our sacred line.
Not all is dust, not all in vain.
The truth remains: we rise again.

To those who’s voices enclose them in a tomb of closet silence.
Where we can look outward but breath
ever so deeply.

Yearning to clasp on to the words
of others but we sit static and hold our hands outward.

But realise that sometimes no matter
our yearning we grasp upon our own thoughts looking inward.

I’m me, I’m myself, I can look outward
but existentially I’ll delve inward
looking upon my own worth.

My realistic version of what
I’m to become.
My past may be scared,
deeply penetrated , never showing
the depth of my sorrow for I only smile.

Fragmented within my inner depths.
Waves may look placid.
But there are only fragmentation
symmetry of delusions.

We are all fractured, but never showing anything but perfection.
Even though we are just cracks
soothed out.

Decoded underneath softly cleaved decryptions of our showcase  of feelings.

Intricate labyrinth of neurons
Within whose web I dally, caught
Tangled synapse-bridged *****
Continuously recalling tallied thought

Laser-etched steel-plate memories
Deny wisdom so dearly sought
Reinforcing episodic-twisted realities
Revealing epiphany where is naught

Neuronal circuits staccato-fire rapidly
Tetanizing notions trauma-wrought
Spike-timing-dependent plasticity
Potentiating emotions distraught

Swearing healing by hippocampal oath
Promising surcease to wet-work hard-fought
Neurogenesis rebuilds hope for both
Amygdalan peace and neural-networked bio-robot

It is so boring yet alluring,
So strong and weak in just a nick of time,
To drive all night without hesitation,
To come back in the morning with a broken spine.
To switch the role of a conqueror to victim,
And juggle stories to make up a perfect line.
In retrospect, come up with better answers,
To realize it's all a waste of time.
It is a moment of complete misunderstanding,
To fill the cranium with what is wiser to be off.
There is an end that points to the beginning of a new axis,
It turns upwards, completing the dimension of a cartboard box.

It is not gullible as paper, still able to be molded and reshaped.
One day a hopeless sufferer surrenders
And talks oneself out of the noxious place.
Outside the box, imagination blossoms peacefully
Without the coerced necessity to play within the walls.
New tales embark on unexpected journeys
Demanding the narrator be an explorer to behove.
To find out better moments in decisions.
To finish pointless crushing of the bones.
There is a start that shifts the living
After the point of no return.

Since I was young,
I’ve lived in the in-between
a mind always wandering,
slipping beneath the surface
of ordinary moments.

I remember being very little,
winter pressing against the windows,
a decoration tapping the glass,
the snow falling soft as breath.
I would sit for hours,
just watching.
That quiet
was a world unto itself.

I could watch the sun set
and feel the whole world soften,
or trace the wind
through the leaves
like it was telling me
something only I could hear.

Time bent around those thoughts
hours, days,
evaporating like breath
on a cold window.

Even then,
I was searching,
though I didn’t know for what.

Now, the thoughts
have turned inward.
Still wandering,
but deeper now
am I growing?
Is this meaningful?
Is what I’m doing right?

And still,
it’s easy to get lost in them,
to lose time,
to drift.

These thoughts
soft as a breeze,
sometimes paralyzing,
always persistent
are my compass and my undoing.
They keep me aligned,
even when I question
every step.

They’ve become the soil
from which I know myself,
layered with doubt,
but rooted in reflection.

They’ve shown me
how I’m stitched to the world:
to the wind,
to the fading light,
to the hush
that follows deep seeing.

And when I return,
I carry more questions
not answers,
but invitations:
Am I slowing down?
Am I really seeing?

It’s not escape.
It’s return.
To wonder,
to stillness,
to the place where thinking
becomes a kind of prayer.

I lit a joint
at the edge of reason,
Socrates pulled up a stool,
Lucifer leaned on the sun.

"Truth burns,"
Socrates muttered,
exhaling philosophy like smoke,
"but lies rot slower."

Lucifer grinned,
flicked ash into the void.
“They call me fallen,” he said,
“but at least I jumped.”

We passed the joint
between silence and thunder,
while the stars held their breath
and time forgot its name.

"I asked too many questions,"
I said.
Socrates winked.
"Good. Keep asking."

"And I loved too loud,"
Lucifer added.
"Good," I said.
"Keep burning."

We laughed until reality cracked,
and God peeked through
like a landlord with no keys.

Then I walked home,
lungs full of fire,
head full of questions,
heart still undefeated.