Tomorrow’s eyes watch me —
but I am blind until it arrives.
To cease to exist feels like a ceasefire
in time, where I burn away inspiration
on the fumes of an energy drink.

Notebook scribbles doing their best
to unknot all my thoughts —
tangled passions poured out in pen.
This art… it’s love in its messiest form.

Beneath every star, there’s a space
between us — these stained brown eyes
aching for more time, more ink, more breath
to write out the seconds before they disappear.

The pen, a formless weapon — shaping
silence into meaning, turning pressure into
prayer, forming words to be.

Life has its many high notes –
a song of misery that works on itself,
It’s its own company, inviting anyone
to the party – misery always invites company

But the song of a friend’s love
isn’t so loud – it’s soft, reassuring,
something to count on, to help you recall
your worth – even if all you need is their company.

It's often such a strain
Trying to keep up positive thoughts —
To strain my mind, hoping to get rid
Of negative thoughts; sometimes,
It just strains me more…

Life boils me over.
Some days, I get too steamed to even try
And move on forward... feeling so stuck —
Sitting still, too hot to handle,
And being too heavy to pour it all out.

I feel like white rice —

Plain, overcooked, forgotten, and just
Sitting there, cooling off in an unattractive
Bowl, that no one really reaches for…
Sometimes  I am the metaphor, the idea,
The hope, the dream; or nothing at all —
Yet I’ll give everything of myself, every
Last drop… even up to tiniest piece of rice
In that open rice bowl.

Whose mind shall rest now
Whence the body is to bow
A lifelong ballad it has become
Where to go? Where to have some
The sweet meeting juicy wine
Of your charms and of mine
Of hopes I feel warmth of love
Of memories of pleasure's dove
Ah! You silly heart stop whinnying
The pain has to go, to be winning
I daresay! Let the cute rhymes go on
Let the water flow, let it melt so on
For once,I saw that fairy's new dream
The smile for me, hiding it may seem
What's this and well why it's to mend
Oh God! Why our matter doesn't end?

There’s a parachute stitched into my eyes— soft silk holding
nothing, as I watch myself freefalling into an empty space
The ringing words of love still call, like fading prayers –
as the voices of lovers trying to reconnect.

But I never was good at playing my heart. But aren’t you
expecting me to stay in character? To wear the lines you
wrote for me, in the means of keeping up this fantasy of love.
My smiles are scripted; as everyone else is helping to create
such a picture frame. The world helps paint our picture from
all the wildest of conversations; but the more they run out of
your mouth, the more they seem to taste so tame.

These tired eyes have searched in your eyes for a reflection
I can truly bend– so is the baggage claim of my baggy eyes;
visioning our broken pieces coming together to hopefully
mend.

I was your background character, your silent NPC in a game
you never knew I played, the first time. But when I stopped
watching, when I stopped turning toward you with secret
obsession – you started to feel the crush of my own crush.
Now you chase the echo of something that once held you
true—that hidden crush, that tender view, searching. But love,
my dear, truly YOU, should see how love is so **** blind.

The day she realizes you were the one,
You shouldn't be there.
You shouldn't be
You shall be gone in the wind.
You shall touch the sun, for it will caress you and eat you write there
It will not mold your soul into a hideous one
The way she did.
The way she forged you to be a frivolous man
And she still walks as a cynical
All your love was compassion, content and rhythm
All that left is a faded spectrum of a prism.
The day she realizes you were the one.
You shouldn't be there.
You shouldn't be.
Let her sink, drown in the melancholy you suffered
Let the agony engulf her
And let her realize what she committed was  more than a carnage or a crime.
To experience the pain you felt
day to day through her lifetime.

Streetlights hum a lullaby
to neon dreams.
Cracked pavement blooms
with graffiti roses.

My heart, a tangled vine,
unfurling in the dark.
Too many words unsaid,
a choked-back symphony.

Phone screen glows,
a cold comfort.
Another night adrift
in the digital sea.

But somewhere, a connection flickers.
A shared breath,
a whispered "me too."

Maybe tomorrow,
the static will clear.
Maybe tomorrow,
we'll find our bloom.

if i were to find my place in this world -
i’d rather it be on a mountain top,
or the bottom of the sea;
somewhere - where my silence is not a bother to me,
where the voices cannot travel to tell me i don’t belong -
or that i need a voice.
i’m not sure what i’ll do there, though.
but i think i know -
i’d bring a laptop with me;
a broken one.
and i would punch away at its keys with my fingers -  
my poems, all my poems…
again,
and again,
and again…
for years, for ages
until the rhythms girdle into a symphony;
something only i could sing,
something only my heart would know,
something familiar.

and then i would cast it out into the darkness -  
where it belongs.