Sometimes I tend to be a catalyst,
Carrying things to light,
Rooting them deep where they belong.

Nothing bad,
It's what I do,
I'm proud to ferry,
The things they carry.

Sunset burns
in my eyes
like a piece of nostalgia
not yet extinguished
at the border
of steel and soil
shadows stretch long
become a silent giant
bearing the weight of all these years
standing still in the fissure
of time
at the street corner where
town meets countryside
I remember the sparkling beach
waves murmur in foam
lapping the shores of memory
on the other side
it's the roar of bulldozers
the arousal of city’s neon
sinking into a soft sofa
is what many dwellers here call life
two souls twist in the night
loneliness heavier than our skeletons
two unfamiliar thoughts pressed
in a momentarily illusion
breaths synced like a metronome
falling and rising
searching for any place to land
wind tapping the windowpane
bringing the paleness of dawn
behind us
who are numb to the passion
mountains stretch on
silent and strong
lifting a vast sky
beneath it all
is the weave of city and country
the tangle of dreams and reality
and the countless footsteps
of the faceless
setting out again, fading down the hall
in the morning
faint click of a door
sealing off the shape of
a little comfort.

In the creases of my heart, I sit alone.
Feeling the waves of life hit as soothing as snow.
My husk feels hollow, as though I am melted to the bones.
Above me are clouds of darkness and thunder,
moving as silent as the despair through my blood.
I look at the journey afar to just catch a glimpse—
a glimpse of the promised life that seems a lie so far.

To the girls who grew up too fast,
now women who cling to hopes of magic,
I'd like to propose a toast and raise a glass-
the reality we escape from is tragic.

Whether your vision is a knight or prince,
or even a jester at times,
I want you to know I feel less alone,
drinking tea and reading your rhymes.

To the ones who whisper to stars at night,
who still make wishes when clocks strike eleven- eleven,
we may not have fairytales etched in gold,
but we scribble our own versions of heaven.

To the ones who carry too much weight,
and still find time to dream,
here’s to healing in fragments and poems,
and patching our hearts at the seams.