#introspectivepoetry
I found you in a sudden burst of light,
Your laughter carried me like ocean wind at night.
Our souls brushed softly, honest and bare,
And for a moment, heaven felt close in your stare.
Every word became a bridge to your world,
Every silence an abyss where my thoughts curled.
I loved your shadow before your face,
Your absence burned me, a timeless trace.
Then suddenly your heart pulled away,
Like winter freezing a forgotten bay.
I reached for you, my hand in the air,
But you stayed distant, fragile, unaware.
I cried for a silence that spoke too loud,
I shook beneath love that never allowed.
Paradox of the heart: to love, yet receive none,
To feel the heat of a fire you cannot run to or become.
And still, within the void you left behind,
I keep our laughter, reckless and kind.
For even lost, your memory stays,
And my paradox heart still sings your name in quiet ways.
Jan 9
Jan 9, 2026 at 6:08 PM UTC
I wake up and the edges of myself feel thin, as if I might fray and drift away at any moment. The world is close and far at the same time, like I’m looking through a window smeared with yesterday’s fingerprints. I remember things and then forget them again, small moments slipping out of my hands before I even know they were mine. Faces arrive, familiar but distant, voices echoing like they belong to someone else, laughter sounding like a sound I once knew but can’t claim. Time moves around me in crooked lines, and I stumble through days that feel borrowed, trying to find solid ground in a mind that refuses to hold still. There are sparks that cut through the fog—a song, a smell, a fleeting thought—but they vanish before I can hold them, leaving only the memory of something I never fully touched. And through it all, I keep moving, keep breathing, pretending the gaps don’t exist, even as I feel myself split into fragments, chasing pieces I can’t name, lost in the weight of a body and mind that sometimes feel not entirely my own.
Nov 21, 2025
Nov 21, 2025 at 1:01 PM UTC
A kiss in the dark; no theology could train the lips
to speak the full scope of love — what faith teaches,
touch unlearns. For a man in the weeds — _tangled_,
unseen — is still something that grows, stretching
toward light he may never reach. Still beauty never
promised to be impressive.
Ready to fall; not for love, but from the weight
of being myself —this awkward custody of flesh
and thought. It's truly a case argued by the mind,
and tried by the heart.
Walls of a lung breathing in and out, taking in their
words, their dreams, their worth — as if loving meant
learning to breathe through someone else’s lungs.
But we may never know how far a love may go;
it’s always a shot in the dark — blind in faith, eyes
closed in trust, when lips meet and silence speaks for us.
Only after they part does the night exhale the truth:
was it worth the shot — or just the echo of our wanting?
Oct 22, 2025
Oct 22, 2025 at 2:40 PM UTC
I smile at my reflection, and feel so lonely—
summer lingers in the shape of a kiss;
yet insecurities spring up in the raindrops
of my tears. They storm the fragile corners
of my heart, where she once found the cracks
and called them rooms.
Know what we are given can never be repaid,
still we chase the interests of love— a debt we
keep trying to make good. Sometimes we reach
for forbidden fruit, taking more than a bite,
and find the pruning knife was ours all along.
Not everything that’s fruitful is fated to ripen.
Perhaps that’s this smile—_a purpose fulfilled,_
in the feast that ended too soon.
I only hope she doesn’t bite more than she can
bear to swallow; or bites through her own jaw
just to chew; biting herself apart just to taste what’s
gone... as most will bite the mouth that once kissed
them full.
Oct 20, 2025
Oct 20, 2025 at 2:32 PM UTC
Been on the market for some time, but not really waiting
for what’s in store. __This heart__ — a brittle scaffold,
holding up a thousand regrets, building into a house
of missteps. It’s got too many stairs, and I keep misjudging
a couple steps. The pain feels unreal, reaching backward,
but everything we’ve done always lives in the past — _to pass._
The scars on my skin bear soil erosion; the body remembers
what the mind buries. And my teeth — slowly eroding —
still carry a brave smile, as if pretending counts as healing.
Sure, I can fake confidence, sure — but only for others.
Never for myself. No, not truly. Because really what’s
the point of buying into that sort of thing, when the price
of pretending always costs more than it’s worth?
Oct 18, 2025
Oct 18, 2025 at 2:25 PM UTC
Heart —
hollow until tomorrow.
A man, a painter, once aimed so far
he broke his bow; his reach stretched
wider than his hands could hold.
Dreams, swollen with glory, dripped
down the bristles of a hardened brush
— dipped in the wetness of tears,
each stroke a storm, heavy with passion.
It starts with a pit —
a seed pressed deep in the soil, a hollow
carved where something once stood,
a cave widening in the chest.
In the immensity of a workshop built from
cheap wood, tell me —
where does a heart take root?
Cutting down those trees is mayhem waiting
to happen; for when the pit is flawed,
the whole foundation caves.
And maybe that’s why we doubt
the truth we’re told.
They said,
“_the great tree fell_.”
But if you never saw it fall yourself,
would you ever believe it made a sound?
Aug 31, 2025
Aug 31, 2025 at 12:13 PM UTC
For that which I don’t know— built from
the bones of all the words I never spoke.
My life, if summarized, could be a quote:
_a borrowed line_, or _a borrowed joke_.
Either footnoted in memory, or discarded
as someone who misquoted hope
_____________________________________
Perhaps I’d trade in an __error__
for a single, shapeshifting __era__.
But funny how the past echoes loudest
in silence, and how legends live on not
in flesh, but in the offspring of their __legacy__.
Still— be careful not to jump to conclusions.
Don’t cut off your __spring__ just because
you mistook the thaw for drowning.
And don’t become so quick to sip judgment
that you forget: _a half-empty drink_
can still quench the right thirst, depending
on who's pouring… and who's parched.
_________________________________________
Now there are those who offer their offending
speech like confetti; those whose presence is a
soft kind of peace; a balm, a breath, a quiet release.
Then there are others whose only offering is grief
once a week, wearing Sunday suits but speaking in leaks.
I have grown to value those who live
like arrows— honest, piercing, straightforward.
Not those who bend truth into shapes that fit
their spin, sending stories spinning on a tired wheel,
toward destinations they never meant to reach.
_________________________________________
Some speak on others' names with
the boldness of ownership, but it’s all
counterfeit— a forged will, a stamped conviction.
As for me? For that which I don’t know:
it remains a wonder, and I live in awe of it.
But as for some, with their tongue dipped
in certainty; your armour is made of knowing—
but you truly know nothing at all.
Aug 3, 2025
Aug 3, 2025 at 1:28 PM UTC
Not every people are your people —
but in that same breath, everybody needs you.
Going round the city, and round the clock,
where times are always hard, like the past
we keep wearing; all the ones we hang up.
As someone called me, and I answered
quickly, frequently, honestly; just to hang up.
_Funny how that’s what we do with people too._
Fingers of strangers scrubbing their own
dishes, while dishing out cold remarks —
serving my character as tonight’s leftover dinner.
And still, I stay on their minds without an address,
resting in dreams without a mattress; in the scripts
they write, I’m some recurring actor or actress —
But I don’t have the stamina to be running through
someone else’s head for free; dressing for their occasion
while my self-worth turns into something old fashioned.
And the idea of pushing a lawnmower over grass
that’s not mine, just to keep the image they clipped
of me, cut and well-trimmed - _cuts me short of worth_.
I’m always cut short for time, by that very blade.
Could it be a blade of grass or time itself?
Either way, it leaves another scent in the air —
the smell of success I’m still chasing.
Not every people are your people —
there are some paths, you won’t walk.
And some eyes, you won’t meet.
And some connections? You just hang up.
Jul 31, 2025
Jul 31, 2025 at 2:45 AM UTC
Concrete coffee grounds — stapled receipts;
messages from exes you’re not ready to delete.
It’s quiet now, filled with dead conversations —
a well-kept cemetery.
Ceremonies in eyeballed crowds, proclaiming
falsehoods of love in soft languages.
Meets and greets, all speaking the lies we
feed ourselves; sandwich boards worn like identity.
Some days, bored with myself, as I draw away
from a good time like a thin sketchbook filled
with half-drawn, abandoned things.
Pulling my heart from my chest like a drawer.
An artist, talking to his shadows —learning from
my old self like it’s shadow.
Avoiding those who tease with wet mouths of lies,
but kiss with dry tongues. _Parched_ —
but maybe just too thirsty for love.
Being caught in a drought: a crumb of eye crust,
tinted with dry grass.
Still, I’d set myself on fire just to be noticed —
willing to be her wild campfire.
But even those fires need feeding.
You can’t give it all until you’re ash —
and watch them move on to another flame.
Making you feel not wild enough.
Staring at the ugly person in the mirror —
and what’s left after the smoke clears?
It's no longer a game of smoke & mirrors
Jul 28, 2025
Jul 28, 2025 at 3:17 PM UTC
Every living being must be aware of its impending demise.
Or is it just me, —seeing the dead end before we
even get the chance to die?
Lie. Say "I do," see us grow old together to gather that which we will put asunder. I ponder.
A poem comes to me, she said: This world is fragile. It can crumble so easily, but baby, don’t be afraid to take your tongue out and taste it.
All of it: the good, the bad, the limitless hope.
This life will hit you, hard—in the face. Then wait for you to get back up so it can kick you in the stomach.
But getting that wind knocked out of you will remind your lungs how much they like the taste of air.
She is good with words.
Yes—there is hurt, here.
That cant be healed by poetry.
But there is also joy, laughter, and a pinch of happiness.
Unforgetting dreams beyond the ages.
Because these, — Yes, these are the days of our lives.
Where every living being is aware of its impending demise.
Jul 10, 2025
Jul 10, 2025 at 3:11 AM UTC
My thoughts stagger, trying to carry hopes heavy as heartbeats.
Two lovers, chest to chest, whispering, “_let’s talk soul to soul_,”
trying to make sense of a love story that hasn’t been written yet
—_a heart-to-heart moment,_ I keep dreaming of.
I tell myself: stay _focused_. But I’ve been tiptoeing through
daydreams, because chasing love too fast leaves you breathless
when it runs the other way. Cos everyone wants the highs of love,
but no one talks about the problems on the down low — the quiet
exits, the silent tears, the way loneliness can sneak in even when
someone’s lying right beside you.
Maybe it’s a late-night phone call — a sleepy “_goodnight, baby_”
before the line cuts out. Or a “_good morning_” text just to fold into
my memory like a note tucked beneath my pillow. Maybe it’s
wanting to tell you everything — not just the good, but the messy
middle parts too. Like you’re both my friend and my fire. Like you’re
the one who fits the empty spaces between the soft notes of this wild
birdsong my thoughts keep singing.
I want that kind of love. But I know relationships get complicated.
And honestly, I don’t miss _perfect_ — I miss _partnership_. I miss
the “_we got this_” when life gets heavy, the “_I’m here_,” even when
we don’t have the answers. It’s not a complicated thing — just
someone to solve life with me. To laugh when things crack. To stay
when the flaws start showing.
I want skin I can breathe in — __not just touch__. Someone who sees
my silence as depth, not distance. Who holds my flaws like fragile
truths, not defects to be fixed.
But maybe that’s too much to ask. Maybe that kind of love only exists
somewhere between sleep and memory. __I’m awake now__ — and I
don’t want to fall too deep just to find the woman of my dreams.
Jul 3, 2025
Jul 3, 2025 at 7:53 AM UTC
You may not see the final destination—
but _every step, every fall_, is part
of something forming. The direction
you're heading will always be patient.
Even when you feel sick from believing
you're stagnant, you are still shifting.
__Still becoming.__
__Don’t worry__! The silence has its own
voice. And the waiting has meaning,
even when it feels so cruel. In time—
it will all make sense.
The past you came from will become
a mirror. And your future self will look
into it and see how far you’ve really come.
Jul 1, 2025
Jul 1, 2025 at 12:53 AM UTC
With a naked eye,
I share these naked thoughts—
so bear with me a moment.
You found me in a vulnerable stance—
_bare_, but still standing on business.
Banking on every dream that still
has a resting chance.
Even when life feels mundane in too
many ways—I keep pushing, fighting
the material gaze of critics, and the
cryptic ways some people define love
and measure trust.
But between all people, there is life—
and in life there’s the chance to live out
a dream, to become who we are without
shame, to love who loves us back, yet still,
hold out a hand, as an extension of love
to those who need it the most.
And maybe, just maybe—that’s the kind
of dream worth believing in.
Jun 27, 2025
Jun 27, 2025 at 4:14 AM UTC
Don’t close your eyes on your dreams—
you’ll lose sight of what you believe.
The will of your work is measured by
the work you’re willing to put in.
As I live in a house of emotions,
courting words to plead my case—
bleeding through a see-through face.
A quiet ache, always on trial.
Knowing that the high-and-mighty
Christian is the easiest target to bring down.
Careers cut short— because in short, they
never really knew the Lord.
_And me?_
I live like the world’s greatest plot twist,
my mind a tornado of thoughts—
every turn unexpected,
every breeze loud with questions.
I’ve known the chill of a cold finger turned
trigger. And felt the weight of a sharp tongue
used as a silencer. As it’s easy to shoot yourself
down the same way you shoot others—whether
whispered or screamed out loud.
But those who follow their worth,
instead of searching for it in the crowd—
those are the ones who stand out.
__Aloud.__
Jun 22, 2025
Jun 22, 2025 at 7:34 AM UTC
Once, the heart
expressed itself freely
listened without resistance
but nowadays
my heart has fallen into silence.
No longer inclined to read
no longer willing to write
my heart shows no interest in listening
it seems to have lost its sense of purpose.
I’m clueless about its whereabouts
my heart, nowadays
no longer resides within me.
-०-
Jun 4, 2025
Jun 4, 2025 at 10:25 PM UTC
Drift and blur
Detachment
Fork in a socket
Reach out to catch but
Not falling at all
Why is it dark outside?
Jun 19, 2023
Jun 19, 2023 at 2:24 AM UTC