#melancholic - Hello Poetry

#melancholic

Not a gaseous ball of fire. But a bringer of light, and warmth. Though I understand the sun is angry. It grows our plants, and powers our buildings, It melts our snow and uncovers our cities. But we yell "It's too hot!" Or "It's too bright" I want to help too. But what if people yell at me? I just wanted to help. I don't wanna be the sun.

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May 22

May 22, 2026 at 12:15 AM UTC

I wanna be the sun.

Not a gaseous ball of fire. But a bringer of light, and warmth. Though I understand the sun is angry. It grows our plants, and powers our buildings, It melts our snow and uncovers our cities. But we yell "It's too hot!" Or "It's too bright" I want to help too. But what if people yell at me? I just wanted to help. I don't wanna be the sun.

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I know the weight of Spades before a shuffled deck is dealt, I see the way conflict settles in a room, Like lingering smoke suspended motionless. I've sat across from it enough times, To stop flinching when it pulls up a chair. Clubs hit different when you've felt them land, Not on skin, but somewhere closer, Right beneath the sternum, Where survival resides rent-free-- And never bothers to unpack its baggage. Diamonds catch the light for sure, Everyone turns to look-- I watched as men build whole identities Around that glitter, Confusing the reflection, for the thing itself. But I never lay down my Hearts. Not because I don't hold them, For indeed, I do, more than I know what to do with, And the table isn't built for that kind of currency-- The last time I tried, Nobody knew what game we were playing. They observe the stillness and assume they know me-- "Stone", they say, or steady, As if that's a compliment. I gave up on correcting them sometime around thirty-- As I realized explaining takes more out of you Than just letting them be wrong. There's is this hum though, just beneath the collarbone, This persistant low-grade fever of pondering, That doesn't have a name yet, And probably won't. I've tried talking about it twice. Maybe thrice-- Maybe a million times. It came out sideways in all ways. So I'm left with the geometry of chance, The quiet logic lies beneath the shuffle, Searching for the pattern that explains Why any of this means, what it means? I haven't found it yet! Maybe that's the whole point of staying at the table.

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May 10

May 10, 2026 at 12:03 PM UTC

AurelianAyush_30

The Card I Never Show

I know the weight of Spades before a shuffled deck is dealt, I see the way conflict settles in a room, Like lingering smoke suspended motionless. I've sat across from it enough times, To stop flinching when it pulls up a chair. Clubs hit different when you've felt them land, Not on skin, but somewhere closer, Right beneath the sternum, Where survival resides rent-free-- And never bothers to unpack its baggage. Diamonds catch the light for sure, Everyone turns to look-- I watched as men build whole identities Around that glitter, Confusing the reflection, for the thing itself. But I never lay down my Hearts. Not because I don't hold them, For indeed, I do, more than I know what to do with, And the table isn't built for that kind of currency-- The last time I tried, Nobody knew what game we were playing. They observe the stillness and assume they know me-- "Stone", they say, or steady, As if that's a compliment. I gave up on correcting them sometime around thirty-- As I realized explaining takes more out of you Than just letting them be wrong. There's is this hum though, just beneath the collarbone, This persistant low-grade fever of pondering, That doesn't have a name yet, And probably won't. I've tried talking about it twice. Maybe thrice-- Maybe a million times. It came out sideways in all ways. So I'm left with the geometry of chance, The quiet logic lies beneath the shuffle, Searching for the pattern that explains Why any of this means, what it means? I haven't found it yet! Maybe that's the whole point of staying at the table.

Continue reading...

The walls were too close again tonight, That specific kind of quiet that presses on your chest, So I pulled on my jacket, the one with the broken zipper-- And just… left. The street smelled like rain that hadn't decided to fall yet, Neon bleeding into wet pavement, And the city was doing that thing she does-- She didn't just sit there; she breathed against my neck, A cold, wet invitation tasted like something I shouldn't have. There was a woman near the crossing, Didn't look at me, then looked. That half-second that means something-- And also means nothing, Like two people looking at a fire they didn't start. And I stood there a beat too long, Tasting the edge of that forbidden fruit-- Not biting, just... Noticing how close my mouth was. The sky was turning that ugly, bruised purple now, And my feet ached from the uneven sidewalk bricks. Everyone thinks you need a reason to stay out until your eyes burn, But does curiosity need a map or a moral? By morning it was all just streetlight, And the sound of an early bus, My jacket damp, my chest a little looser. I’m still lonely-- But it’s a different kind of weight now. I didn't solve anything out there. Didn't need to, I think. Some nights you just walk out the door Because the body knows things, The brain is still arguing about.

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May 10

May 10, 2026 at 7:19 AM UTC

AurelianAyush_30

The City Liked Me Looking

The walls were too close again tonight, That specific kind of quiet that presses on your chest, So I pulled on my jacket, the one with the broken zipper-- And just… left. The street smelled like rain that hadn't decided to fall yet, Neon bleeding into wet pavement, And the city was doing that thing she does-- She didn't just sit there; she breathed against my neck, A cold, wet invitation tasted like something I shouldn't have. There was a woman near the crossing, Didn't look at me, then looked. That half-second that means something-- And also means nothing, Like two people looking at a fire they didn't start. And I stood there a beat too long, Tasting the edge of that forbidden fruit-- Not biting, just... Noticing how close my mouth was. The sky was turning that ugly, bruised purple now, And my feet ached from the uneven sidewalk bricks. Everyone thinks you need a reason to stay out until your eyes burn, But does curiosity need a map or a moral? By morning it was all just streetlight, And the sound of an early bus, My jacket damp, my chest a little looser. I’m still lonely-- But it’s a different kind of weight now. I didn't solve anything out there. Didn't need to, I think. Some nights you just walk out the door Because the body knows things, The brain is still arguing about.

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The truth is that human beings will always be casualties, scapegoats for god's egotistical whims and greed. They wait for redemption, deliverance from unseen restraints, whispering prayers into silence, hoping something listens, hoping something answers. Wishing for a bright day, blue sky, birds on branches, peace across all horizons. A stillness untouched by fear, by noise, by time itself. The wind blows as lightly as the summer breeze you felt as a child, lying in the grass counting stars and dreams of a grand future to come. Which inevitably never came.. Children became adults with fractured personalities. Promises were never kept, they thinned, they splintered, they fell to dust, leaving them stuck in chaos and unrequited dreams, repeating themselves in empty patterns. Days blurred into years, and years into something harder to recognize. What once felt certain became distant, what once felt close became unreachable. Tarnished by dark ailments of the mind, incapable of holding a thought or seeing it through, everything slipping through unseen cracks, we hand ourselves over to a quiet undoing, within and without. The species is gone. What remains are empty husks, moving, speaking, resembling what once was, shells of past worshippers of gods, echoes of belief without meaning, rituals repeated with nothing behind them. And still, no grand message from the heavens ever came. Then, as if the cosmos itself is mocking our existence, as if all of this was always meant to end this way, the sun turns blindingly bright, and then suddenly black, signaling the end of stars in the sky. One by one, they disappear, until nothing remains to be seen. Steam and roaring magma swallow the land, not in anger, but in indifference, as nature intended, clouds of smoke rising high enough to reach the heavens, as if trying to return something that was never taken. There is no one left to witness it. No one left to remember. The bright blue dot is no more.

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Apr 6

Apr 6, 2026 at 12:26 PM UTC

The truth is that human beings will always be casualties, scapegoats for god's egotistical whims and greed. They wait for redemption, deliverance from unseen restraints, whispering prayers into silence, hoping something listens, hoping something answers. Wishing for a bright day, blue sky, birds on branches, peace across all horizons. A stillness untouched by fear, by noise, by time itself. The wind blows as lightly as the summer breeze you felt as a child, lying in the grass counting stars and dreams of a grand future to come. Which inevitably never came.. Children became adults with fractured personalities. Promises were never kept, they thinned, they splintered, they fell to dust, leaving them stuck in chaos and unrequited dreams, repeating themselves in empty patterns. Days blurred into years, and years into something harder to recognize. What once felt certain became distant, what once felt close became unreachable. Tarnished by dark ailments of the mind, incapable of holding a thought or seeing it through, everything slipping through unseen cracks, we hand ourselves over to a quiet undoing, within and without. The species is gone. What remains are empty husks, moving, speaking, resembling what once was, shells of past worshippers of gods, echoes of belief without meaning, rituals repeated with nothing behind them. And still, no grand message from the heavens ever came. Then, as if the cosmos itself is mocking our existence, as if all of this was always meant to end this way, the sun turns blindingly bright, and then suddenly black, signaling the end of stars in the sky. One by one, they disappear, until nothing remains to be seen. Steam and roaring magma swallow the land, not in anger, but in indifference, as nature intended, clouds of smoke rising high enough to reach the heavens, as if trying to return something that was never taken. There is no one left to witness it. No one left to remember. The bright blue dot is no more.

Continue reading...

We live in a broken carousel, in the middle of a long time empty festival. The old wooden horses go up and down on and on, and everything spins once more, and once again, while the horses slowly lose their paint. Every so long, a carpenter comes and replaces a horse with a new and shiny little pony, who learns to go up and down, revolving around, from the old and worn other horses. And so the carousel can go on spinning, young little ponies turn into old worn horses that wait to be replaced. But never, in this ancient cycle, not a single time has the central column that everything revolves around been replaced, or even examined by anybody. And if someone did look at it, they would see that no single horse has ever been more worn than this column, center of all. No, no one has, and so the carousel goes on spinning without clients or even tickets.

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Apr 2

Apr 2, 2026 at 5:43 AM UTC

A broken carousel

We live in a broken carousel, in the middle of a long time empty festival. The old wooden horses go up and down on and on, and everything spins once more, and once again, while the horses slowly lose their paint. Every so long, a carpenter comes and replaces a horse with a new and shiny little pony, who learns to go up and down, revolving around, from the old and worn other horses. And so the carousel can go on spinning, young little ponies turn into old worn horses that wait to be replaced. But never, in this ancient cycle, not a single time has the central column that everything revolves around been replaced, or even examined by anybody. And if someone did look at it, they would see that no single horse has ever been more worn than this column, center of all. No, no one has, and so the carousel goes on spinning without clients or even tickets.

Continue reading...

I pour a warm hug, Into a ceramic cup, And drops of salt fall into it. I drink my bitter coffee, from the cold cup. My hand loosens and-- The ceramic falls. -----Gazee<3

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Mar 28

Mar 28, 2026 at 6:47 AM UTC

THE BROKEN CERAMIC

I pour a warm hug, Into a ceramic cup, And drops of salt fall into it. I drink my bitter coffee, from the cold cup. My hand loosens and-- The ceramic falls. -----Gazee<3

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We are fear… a dark abyss, though shallow, reflected in putrid water, and in it, we lose ourselves. Yesterday’s sun never came; and tomorrow, only barrenness. We become dead roots in the shadow of a leafless tree. Yet the wellspring, which should have run dry, keeps flowing, dragging us along. The salt of tears scourges tender skin; and beneath heavy scales, we shield ourselves from the silent lightning of a cloudless sky. And of the rainbow, only red remains.

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Mar 18

Mar 18, 2026 at 10:08 PM UTC

Silent Lightning

We are fear… a dark abyss, though shallow, reflected in putrid water, and in it, we lose ourselves. Yesterday’s sun never came; and tomorrow, only barrenness. We become dead roots in the shadow of a leafless tree. Yet the wellspring, which should have run dry, keeps flowing, dragging us along. The salt of tears scourges tender skin; and beneath heavy scales, we shield ourselves from the silent lightning of a cloudless sky. And of the rainbow, only red remains.

Continue reading...

The bruises on your knees he’d kneel down for, hands full of apologies, regret stitched into his voice. My scrapes learned how to heal without witnesses. I’ve tried so hard to earn it. Your love is just given. You are the princess in the photographs,  standing where the light falls naturally.  I’m cropped out,  or holding the camera, or told to stop standing like that. And I hate myself for the envy, because it isn’t your fault you were loved out loud. But sometimes I wonder who I would’ve been if I hadn’t spent my childhood trying to prove I was worth keeping gentle. I was never asking for more. I was just asking not to be the lesson in a story where you were always the miracle.

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Jan 16

Jan 16, 2026 at 5:26 AM UTC

The bruises on your knees he’d kneel down for, hands full of apologies, regret stitched into his voice. My scrapes learned how to heal without witnesses. I’ve tried so hard to earn it. Your love is just given. You are the princess in the photographs,  standing where the light falls naturally.  I’m cropped out,  or holding the camera, or told to stop standing like that. And I hate myself for the envy, because it isn’t your fault you were loved out loud. But sometimes I wonder who I would’ve been if I hadn’t spent my childhood trying to prove I was worth keeping gentle. I was never asking for more. I was just asking not to be the lesson in a story where you were always the miracle.

Continue reading...

roll of the dirt, click of the tongue— metal clanks at the roots. digging is done; fatigue caked to boots. scent of rest lingers down in the hollow, splinters in fingers. lay frozen under sky; night clouds open their wounds, bleeding on the dry that vanished too soon. without a casket in a flood, unmoving in treacle mud.

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Dec 3, 2025

Dec 3, 2025 at 8:46 AM UTC

roll of the dirt, click of the tongue— metal clanks at the roots. digging is done; fatigue caked to boots. scent of rest lingers down in the hollow, splinters in fingers. lay frozen under sky; night clouds open their wounds, bleeding on the dry that vanished too soon. without a casket in a flood, unmoving in treacle mud.

Continue reading...

To be left in an empty space, Just- waiting to expire. These moments without desire Dread, my last friend- when suddenly a call into the wild trembling in me like a child, as I forced the door aside and stepped out, but in toe regrets followed me, where-ever I go. Once to sing, to dance and to love. Small heated prisons rain, Moments of past longings remain… Deep within the brumal thicket, even hares were leaving the night. Moments out of reach- out of sight. Cursed be this blight on my dreams. To be brought to my knees- yet this fleeting moment- it flees. I can see clearly now and will once more embrace waiting with grace. As I could hear bells tolling in the wind and feel pale branches lift me high. These moments, heavy, now passing by. A myriad of doves to descend, to surround my being, covered in sheets, yet I kept seeing a window bare to distant darks laid with blazing pyres, moments burning bright like fires. And they shall come and see But long will I be gone, when a morning sun is drawn Bless me and my people, bless me and my people, till the whole stage shall come crashing My last goodbyes are left waning. For drifting as I lay Moments- drifting far away

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Nov 16, 2025

Nov 16, 2025 at 12:18 PM UTC

Drifting Moments

To be left in an empty space, Just- waiting to expire. These moments without desire Dread, my last friend- when suddenly a call into the wild trembling in me like a child, as I forced the door aside and stepped out, but in toe regrets followed me, where-ever I go. Once to sing, to dance and to love. Small heated prisons rain, Moments of past longings remain… Deep within the brumal thicket, even hares were leaving the night. Moments out of reach- out of sight. Cursed be this blight on my dreams. To be brought to my knees- yet this fleeting moment- it flees. I can see clearly now and will once more embrace waiting with grace. As I could hear bells tolling in the wind and feel pale branches lift me high. These moments, heavy, now passing by. A myriad of doves to descend, to surround my being, covered in sheets, yet I kept seeing a window bare to distant darks laid with blazing pyres, moments burning bright like fires. And they shall come and see But long will I be gone, when a morning sun is drawn Bless me and my people, bless me and my people, till the whole stage shall come crashing My last goodbyes are left waning. For drifting as I lay Moments- drifting far away

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Far from real, A empty shell of a being, Suppressing its **** Many eyes yet blind by all seeing. A void in its eyes, Forced to see through lenses, Human by its lies, An animal depending on its senses. Bruised finger tip, Scattered across different views, Scraped around the lips, Broken glass and breath stinks from ***** Head laid back, Fingers tap the beats of his heart, Notebook and a Jack, Dead besides what once he called art.

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Jan 22, 2025

Jan 22, 2025 at 11:42 AM UTC

Far from real, A empty shell of a being, Suppressing its **** Many eyes yet blind by all seeing. A void in its eyes, Forced to see through lenses, Human by its lies, An animal depending on its senses. Bruised finger tip, Scattered across different views, Scraped around the lips, Broken glass and breath stinks from ***** Head laid back, Fingers tap the beats of his heart, Notebook and a Jack, Dead besides what once he called art.

Continue reading...

I push daily, Getting out of bed, Brushing my teeth, Going to college, Trying to sleep. It got tiring, This cycle never ends, I lost my face in the mirror, Don’t even know who I am. Miss the sky, Stars shining all over it, I think to myself sometimes, Hoping that I will be apart of it, My light being up there, To guide the blind.

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Feb 8, 2025

Feb 8, 2025 at 1:30 PM UTC

I push daily, Getting out of bed, Brushing my teeth, Going to college, Trying to sleep. It got tiring, This cycle never ends, I lost my face in the mirror, Don’t even know who I am. Miss the sky, Stars shining all over it, I think to myself sometimes, Hoping that I will be apart of it, My light being up there, To guide the blind.

Continue reading...

That’s my take on life. It’s like finding a beautiful old diary in an abandoned house, only to realise…it belonged to someone who died tragically. It’s like accidentally stumbling on something morbid (say this poem haha), that hopefully, ends up changing your perspective in an oddly fascinating way. In an oddly, maybe, for the better way. For the experiences you’ve made. For the possibility to reflect. Grateful for the transformation nonetheless. Serendipitously morbid, that’s my take on the world…and I am starting to think that’s alright. I AM NOT advocating for a bleak view of life, please DO seek out its joys, for they stay scarce sometimes. What I am advocating for, is the quiet beauty, hidden in moments that ache. I am advocating, to not too quickly blame ourselves for having those morbid thoughts or for being pessimistic sometimes. That it’s alright to not see the endgame sometimes. At least that’s what I think. I think acknowledging the constant tension of both extremes and learning to accept the ambivalences of life (in their truest, overwhelming forms) is simply seeing it for what it is. Seeing it for what it is, in my opinion…is the beauty in finding the will, to want to see it through. The beauty in believing in a higher Power, in love, in happy endings and most of all learning to believe in Yourself. We are thrown into this world, with no idea whatsoever of; what is to come, how to go about going there or where THERE, even is. The world just continues to run its imperfect course and no one has the script for it. To be completely honest, I really like having scripts for things. TIS(-m) the way I have functioned most of my life. So, I too am learning to adapt to the ambivalences of this Serendipitously Morbid life. Learning to revert from the B&W thinking. Yours in brighter days, Namib Dusk

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Oct 3, 2025

Oct 3, 2025 at 12:08 PM UTC

Serendipitously Morbid

That’s my take on life. It’s like finding a beautiful old diary in an abandoned house, only to realise…it belonged to someone who died tragically. It’s like accidentally stumbling on something morbid (say this poem haha), that hopefully, ends up changing your perspective in an oddly fascinating way. In an oddly, maybe, for the better way. For the experiences you’ve made. For the possibility to reflect. Grateful for the transformation nonetheless. Serendipitously morbid, that’s my take on the world…and I am starting to think that’s alright. I AM NOT advocating for a bleak view of life, please DO seek out its joys, for they stay scarce sometimes. What I am advocating for, is the quiet beauty, hidden in moments that ache. I am advocating, to not too quickly blame ourselves for having those morbid thoughts or for being pessimistic sometimes. That it’s alright to not see the endgame sometimes. At least that’s what I think. I think acknowledging the constant tension of both extremes and learning to accept the ambivalences of life (in their truest, overwhelming forms) is simply seeing it for what it is. Seeing it for what it is, in my opinion…is the beauty in finding the will, to want to see it through. The beauty in believing in a higher Power, in love, in happy endings and most of all learning to believe in Yourself. We are thrown into this world, with no idea whatsoever of; what is to come, how to go about going there or where THERE, even is. The world just continues to run its imperfect course and no one has the script for it. To be completely honest, I really like having scripts for things. TIS(-m) the way I have functioned most of my life. So, I too am learning to adapt to the ambivalences of this Serendipitously Morbid life. Learning to revert from the B&W thinking. Yours in brighter days, Namib Dusk

Continue reading...

I see children giggled like how little birds chirp. How I wish roses would burst from the barrels of guns aimed at every minute. I saw the news today, the Reverence talked of peace between the militia and the peacemakers of the territories. We treat a person as if he was a Stranger in a Stranger’s Land. I stare at them and reflect that they are the blood of my blood. Whom our forefathers shared a meal with and shed blood. The gods would abide if we talk peace when we have the chance to harm our brothers and sisters. May this be our good will. I remember the words. I saw the killings of innocent sheep in the time of crisis and changes. The soul yearns for the outer voice. Remember me, I say, when time changes…

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Sep 12, 2025

Sep 12, 2025 at 12:57 PM UTC

I see children giggled like how little birds chirp. How I wish roses would burst from the barrels of guns aimed at every minute. I saw the news today, the Reverence talked of peace between the militia and the peacemakers of the territories. We treat a person as if he was a Stranger in a Stranger’s Land. I stare at them and reflect that they are the blood of my blood. Whom our forefathers shared a meal with and shed blood. The gods would abide if we talk peace when we have the chance to harm our brothers and sisters. May this be our good will. I remember the words. I saw the killings of innocent sheep in the time of crisis and changes. The soul yearns for the outer voice. Remember me, I say, when time changes…

Continue reading...

As I trek through the valley of the shadow of death, I rolled my boulder and leaned on, heaving it, ‘till it rest and roll, untouched on the slope… I strode forward, and stood beside it; quieted by the deafening serenity… As I push and lean, I averted my gaze, and pondered, on when it will come to an end…

0

Sep 12, 2025

Sep 12, 2025 at 10:20 AM UTC

As I trek through the valley of the shadow of death, I rolled my boulder and leaned on, heaving it, ‘till it rest and roll, untouched on the slope… I strode forward, and stood beside it; quieted by the deafening serenity… As I push and lean, I averted my gaze, and pondered, on when it will come to an end…

Continue reading...

Too many of my tears wore your name, Too many nights spent tossing and turning; It burns and sears me, your cursed flame - Long gone yet still fueling my yearning. . I'm a fool, a wreck, irreparable mess, Drowning in 'what if's and regret; Immune to time - this pain in my chest, Clinging like an unpaid debt. . And you probably don't think of me, Of our nights, and talks, and smiles, You must be living your life, free, Separated from me by so many miles. . I tried to overwrite the story in my heart, To replace you with someone new; But they all lack some undefined part, No one can match the memory of you. . I carry this curse of living death, Trapped in the past that we once shared, Following me with every breath, A monster with its teeth bared. . And I have no one that could understand The gaping hole you left in my soul, A living monument of a love so grand, It consumed me and burned me whole. . And you'll likely never even know Just how much I suffered when you left, And still do, whenever I sink low, My eternal torment, leaving me bereft. . .

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Sep 7, 2025

Sep 7, 2025 at 12:39 PM UTC

Too many of my tears wore your name, Too many nights spent tossing and turning; It burns and sears me, your cursed flame - Long gone yet still fueling my yearning. . I'm a fool, a wreck, irreparable mess, Drowning in 'what if's and regret; Immune to time - this pain in my chest, Clinging like an unpaid debt. . And you probably don't think of me, Of our nights, and talks, and smiles, You must be living your life, free, Separated from me by so many miles. . I tried to overwrite the story in my heart, To replace you with someone new; But they all lack some undefined part, No one can match the memory of you. . I carry this curse of living death, Trapped in the past that we once shared, Following me with every breath, A monster with its teeth bared. . And I have no one that could understand The gaping hole you left in my soul, A living monument of a love so grand, It consumed me and burned me whole. . And you'll likely never even know Just how much I suffered when you left, And still do, whenever I sink low, My eternal torment, leaving me bereft. . .

Continue reading...

that night, i was brewing coffee in my favorite mug, then began knitting another homemade scarf while soft songs played in the background. my mind began to wander— is this the life i chose, or one that was chosen for me? this so-called unhealthy relationship... i wondered: is he thinking of me, smiling? or wearing that same blank expression he always gave whenever we had another boring conversation? i began to ask myself: have i wasted my time on something i never truly liked? have i wasted my years on something i’ll always regret? have i wasted my tears on something i could never hold or reach? or worse— have i given up my soul and freedom for something that never truly existed? and yet, i’m still sitting here with my coffee, knitting another useless scarf i’ll never wear.

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Aug 2, 2025

Aug 2, 2025 at 11:28 AM UTC

that night, i was brewing coffee in my favorite mug, then began knitting another homemade scarf while soft songs played in the background. my mind began to wander— is this the life i chose, or one that was chosen for me? this so-called unhealthy relationship... i wondered: is he thinking of me, smiling? or wearing that same blank expression he always gave whenever we had another boring conversation? i began to ask myself: have i wasted my time on something i never truly liked? have i wasted my years on something i’ll always regret? have i wasted my tears on something i could never hold or reach? or worse— have i given up my soul and freedom for something that never truly existed? and yet, i’m still sitting here with my coffee, knitting another useless scarf i’ll never wear.

Continue reading...

I speak, they listen—wide-eyed, still, as if I bend the world to will. Yet all I do is state what’s there, but truth is rare—so they just stare. I just speak what sparks my brain, it isn’t deep, it’s just explained. The things that sting, the truths I fear, I lock away where none come near. ...But I am not some guiding star, Just tired of how lost they are. And wisdom’s just a hollow throne, When no one's speaking in your tone. They crave uniqueness, desperate to glow, yet fear the depths they’ll never know. I wear my difference like a scar, standing alone, for what we are. I am not profound—just alone, It's a dialogue I'm longing for. My entire life, just been searching for equals, Instead—empty echoes of applause and sequins. I never asked to lead the way, 'Cause if I had the chance, I'd never stay. Someone, somewhere, speaks like me, Without a need for poetry.

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Jul 28, 2025

Jul 28, 2025 at 12:23 AM UTC

Speak Now—Or Forever Hold Your Piece

I speak, they listen—wide-eyed, still, as if I bend the world to will. Yet all I do is state what’s there, but truth is rare—so they just stare. I just speak what sparks my brain, it isn’t deep, it’s just explained. The things that sting, the truths I fear, I lock away where none come near. ...But I am not some guiding star, Just tired of how lost they are. And wisdom’s just a hollow throne, When no one's speaking in your tone. They crave uniqueness, desperate to glow, yet fear the depths they’ll never know. I wear my difference like a scar, standing alone, for what we are. I am not profound—just alone, It's a dialogue I'm longing for. My entire life, just been searching for equals, Instead—empty echoes of applause and sequins. I never asked to lead the way, 'Cause if I had the chance, I'd never stay. Someone, somewhere, speaks like me, Without a need for poetry.

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I asked my better halves how they desire to lie, once their hearts stop beating, and breath bids a last goodbye. Whether they want the stars to sculpt their constellation, or the wind to whisper their cacophonic tales. Whether they want the earth to devour their cadaver, or the skies to weep and wash away their existence. The guitarist stated he'll despise grief as his memories are being relived, of who he was and who he remains, as his guitar sleeps in the arms of its heir. And maybe, the perished strings of an old guitar don't have to be mourned over, but applauded for the melodies that once kindled a ripple of delight. My dearest across the border wishes to be nestled beside a mosque to be enwreathed by The Divine and lullabied by the Azaan. And maybe, the eternal slumber is a charade, and the past still echoes within the mute boughs or streets alive with familiar voices. My junior casts an absurd wish — to be submerged in cocoa's caress and be tossed to the lesbian zombies, who hunger, not for flesh, but for a passion, so savage and insatiable. And hence, I believe, the hilarity will haunt forever, but so will my adoration for her, and perhaps, the craved fervour will find its form in me. Then, another writer wove it in her own syllables — she urges to sink beneath the dismissed waves, flicker among starlight, like undying thoughts. She wants her bones to dissolve, ink for Gods, and her heart to rest beneath a willow. She wishes to slip into silence, like laughter scattered over dreamy vinyl, breath scattered over moonlit stars, and a page torn mid-sentence. And lastly, if you enquire of me, I wish my corpse to be a legacy beyond self and be gifted to time and science. But if coerced to be cremated, I wish to reincarnate as a litchi tree. With my arms extended in a welcoming warmth, I will embrace the excluded, my shadow will shelter the weary, and my fruits will sate the starving. All of which I was never offered in the frigidity of my bloodline, but was abundantly endowed with, in the refuge of my closest mates.

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Jun 23, 2025

Jun 23, 2025 at 12:06 PM UTC

How do you wish to be cremated?

I asked my better halves how they desire to lie, once their hearts stop beating, and breath bids a last goodbye. Whether they want the stars to sculpt their constellation, or the wind to whisper their cacophonic tales. Whether they want the earth to devour their cadaver, or the skies to weep and wash away their existence. The guitarist stated he'll despise grief as his memories are being relived, of who he was and who he remains, as his guitar sleeps in the arms of its heir. And maybe, the perished strings of an old guitar don't have to be mourned over, but applauded for the melodies that once kindled a ripple of delight. My dearest across the border wishes to be nestled beside a mosque to be enwreathed by The Divine and lullabied by the Azaan. And maybe, the eternal slumber is a charade, and the past still echoes within the mute boughs or streets alive with familiar voices. My junior casts an absurd wish — to be submerged in cocoa's caress and be tossed to the lesbian zombies, who hunger, not for flesh, but for a passion, so savage and insatiable. And hence, I believe, the hilarity will haunt forever, but so will my adoration for her, and perhaps, the craved fervour will find its form in me. Then, another writer wove it in her own syllables — she urges to sink beneath the dismissed waves, flicker among starlight, like undying thoughts. She wants her bones to dissolve, ink for Gods, and her heart to rest beneath a willow. She wishes to slip into silence, like laughter scattered over dreamy vinyl, breath scattered over moonlit stars, and a page torn mid-sentence. And lastly, if you enquire of me, I wish my corpse to be a legacy beyond self and be gifted to time and science. But if coerced to be cremated, I wish to reincarnate as a litchi tree. With my arms extended in a welcoming warmth, I will embrace the excluded, my shadow will shelter the weary, and my fruits will sate the starving. All of which I was never offered in the frigidity of my bloodline, but was abundantly endowed with, in the refuge of my closest mates.

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At the foot of my balcony, there was an inviting hole, allowing my eyes' vision to enter, luminescent colors burning in my head, like a child's fantastic playground, retaken from memory's debris. Running out of time, night's veil faintly glowing, stars reaching out to me, asking me witheringly, why I would treat my soul beneath contempt, why would they appreciate my absence, my whiskey's glass, cascading, down the shade's slide. Breathy wind skimming over my soaked lips, disappointment prowling through trembling legs, the joy of night, taking one's leave, the sighs of dawn, crossing the threshold into waking life, tears steadily drying out, curling my consciousness insentient, ruptured hole, denying my presence too.

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May 15, 2025

May 15, 2025 at 7:41 PM UTC

At the Foot of the Balcony

At the foot of my balcony, there was an inviting hole, allowing my eyes' vision to enter, luminescent colors burning in my head, like a child's fantastic playground, retaken from memory's debris. Running out of time, night's veil faintly glowing, stars reaching out to me, asking me witheringly, why I would treat my soul beneath contempt, why would they appreciate my absence, my whiskey's glass, cascading, down the shade's slide. Breathy wind skimming over my soaked lips, disappointment prowling through trembling legs, the joy of night, taking one's leave, the sighs of dawn, crossing the threshold into waking life, tears steadily drying out, curling my consciousness insentient, ruptured hole, denying my presence too.

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Flying through the abyss, Nothing but darkness. Everything wilted— Not even eyes glow with fondness. A dark hue in the air, An aroma thick as musk. This odyssey has left me stuck— In thought, in place. This land where even stars don’t fall, The moon swallowed by a thought long gone. These nights where no light is found, Where heartbeats are not meant— Is where I’m most content. —s

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May 5, 2025

May 5, 2025 at 4:35 PM UTC

As soon as it ends

Flying through the abyss, Nothing but darkness. Everything wilted— Not even eyes glow with fondness. A dark hue in the air, An aroma thick as musk. This odyssey has left me stuck— In thought, in place. This land where even stars don’t fall, The moon swallowed by a thought long gone. These nights where no light is found, Where heartbeats are not meant— Is where I’m most content. —s

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A heart worn thin, still standing, held up by wages and routine, racing to seem put-together, starving for praise, chasing the sheen. I mend these wounds in silence, behind walls that never speak. I laugh where echoes answer, longing for death each fragile week. The days slip by unnoticed, time erodes what made me real. Even the mirror looks away, and shadows flee what they can't feel. In this room that breathes but hollows, every wish sinks and dies. What remains is just a vessel— a pulse that lives, but never tries.

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May 1, 2025

May 1, 2025 at 8:09 AM UTC

A Living Empty Room

A heart worn thin, still standing, held up by wages and routine, racing to seem put-together, starving for praise, chasing the sheen. I mend these wounds in silence, behind walls that never speak. I laugh where echoes answer, longing for death each fragile week. The days slip by unnoticed, time erodes what made me real. Even the mirror looks away, and shadows flee what they can't feel. In this room that breathes but hollows, every wish sinks and dies. What remains is just a vessel— a pulse that lives, but never tries.

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