#modernlove
I hate giving you the satisfaction
of seeing me like this.
I called you at 3 in the morning
thinking maybe, for once,
I could still be something good to you.
Something useful.
But it was all ********
You used to call those girls stupid.
Now I’m one of them too.
Was I ever different to you?
Or did you just know the right words
for every girl who wanted to feel chosen?
You made me feel special
like it meant something permanent.
Like I wasn’t replaceable.
But where were you
when everything became real?
You said it was true love.
I think true love would’ve stayed.
Now I keep thinking
beauty is just another way to be consumed.
All beautiful girls think they’re loved.
The truth is
people love looking at them.
Not knowing them.
Not keeping them.
You become a body first.
A person later.
Maybe never.
I wish I were smarter than this.
Smarter than waiting.
Smarter than believing you.
My head is full of paranoia and doubt.
Every memory feels poisoned now.
I wish I had never met you again.
Some things don’t heal.
They just learn how to stay quiet.
May 26
May 26, 2026 at 5:17 PM UTC
There will come a day
when the world forgets my name before I even finish saying it.
The screens will go dark.
The endless noise of notifications, admiration, temporary worship —
all of it will vanish like rain on hot concrete.
And I wonder,
when I am no longer glowing through pixels,
when my existence is no longer translated into stories, posts, numbers, and echoes,
will you still recognize me
as something worth staying beside?
Because love is easy
when a person shines loud enough for the world to applaud them.
But real love begins
when the applause stops
and all that remains is an exhausted soul
sitting quietly in the ruins of its own becoming.
I do not want to become a modern prophecy,
another human sacrificed to the altar of attention.
I do not want followers who love the performance
but disappear when the actor forgets his lines.
I want the kind of love
that survives silence.
The kind that sits beside you on the floor
when life has stripped you of every title you once carried proudly.
The kind that says,
“You are still enough,”
even when ambition has collapsed into dust.
If one day I lose my faith in myself,
do not hand me motivational words.
Just stay.
Stay like the moon stays with the ocean —
distant perhaps,
but always pulling the tides back home.
Because in the end,
I do not care about being remembered by thousands of strangers
who only knew the edited version of me.
I only care if,
when the lights finally die,
you still reach for my hand
as if darkness was never something to fear.
May 7
May 7, 2026 at 1:28 AM UTC
Time sits still in a dream, my skin stays lucid,
quiet… too quiet. Like a body paused between
moments, breath held as if waking would ruin it.
Sometimes I am a movie: still frames stitching
words into pictures, pictures dissolving into dreams…
And these dreams— feel more real than anything
I’ve lived awake. I am a romantic flick— but I’ve
been more romantically involved to my fears;
Dressed in soft persuasion, they linger close—
whispering reasons not to try. I entertain them…
let them sit too near: an affair with hesitation,
that feels safer than stepping outside.
We flirt with endings; death in the distance,
dressed in quiet certainty; and we dress our
doubts in reason— reasonable doubts, tailored
thoughts, fitted just right— but what is reasonable
doubt when doubt keeps rewriting the script?
A reason to doubt.
I can’t deny these dreams, the way they
sit quiet… but alive— resting in my chest
like a heartbeat waiting to be heard.
Do you hear me in these words?
May 1
May 1, 2026 at 5:48 PM UTC
We were caught in feelings—like cake filling for the treat
of love; sweet at the centre, soft where it mattered most.
You once said, “treat me better, than all my past scars”
and I didn’t argue—because I knew my past had its fingerprints
on me. The past isn’t just memory… it’s a scar, and sometimes,
it feels like a quiet kind of self-harm we keep revisiting.
So we tried to date our love— date it, name it, count it;
for a while; four days, those four letters: L—O—V—E.
As if repetition could make it real, or make it last. We moved
to music— soft enough to feel, not just hear; you said, "walk
a mile in my shoes," and I wondered how far love really goes
before it starts overstepping.
We’d joke, push, pull— careless banter just to get the last say,
saying things we didn’t mean just to mean something.
Love sick— no urgency, but always an emergency. We told
ourselves we were made to compliment— not complete,
just mirror the missing parts. To others, it looked complicated;
to us, we complimented each other.
Some nights felt like washing dishes— a plate full of desires,
soaked in soap and second chances; bubbles rising, popping
one by one— like years we hadn’t lived yet. We promised not
to settle, even while standing still; wildfires in quiet rooms,
burning without smoke.
And in the dark— when love felt less like light, more like
searching— we’d sit in silence like an old couple on a bench,
two lovebirds of the same feather, perching through time.
I think that’s the ending I want— not perfect, not loud—
just something that stays… long enough to become a story
worth finishing.
Mar 27
Mar 27, 2026 at 3:15 PM UTC
Haven’t swam in the dating pool, for a while—
adding a tank full of chlorine to the centre,
:staying safe by the shallow side…
whereas I leave a party early, I’m leaving
partly as myself; half of me held back,
the other half unsure it helps.
I'm pretty sure,— I’m more insecure than
I’m meant to be sure; maybe a flower in your
hair; someone softly entitled to your love—
the heir to your heart.
Attracted to each other’s being, but being
the being to someone’s being is heavier
than it reads— when you’re an insecure
human being, trying match love's being...
or maybe I haven't found my match.
Mar 26
Mar 26, 2026 at 3:59 PM UTC
Broken strings, glass-tear eyes—
where’s that smile from a distance?
:been a bit distant—
clapped back at feelings; can you hear
the applause in the distance?
You are my world in a world full of sin—
seen as you are, sin as you are; I still let
you in; for better, no worse— your cold,
my warm…you don’t just feel—
you are my poem.
Mar 23
Mar 23, 2026 at 4:43 PM UTC
There’s being full, a fool,
a fool in love— I can’t tell
which one I am to you; whole,
or just half-truth dressed in
something that feels true.
Obsessed— dream-fed, still
needing your kisses; glued
to skin on skin; something
that stitches, but is this love…
or repeated fixes?
Heart up front—yet I front
my heart; why race you,
just to play a part?
Love is blind— a blindfold gift
you never see; I hand you gold;
you hold it differently.
Bittersweet; see-through ties/lies
I still maintain; past plays back,
redirects—and love just plays
again: oh, what a forgetful,
blind, ignorant cycle.
Mar 23
Mar 23, 2026 at 4:14 AM UTC
Last Message Received —
...lust isn’t a feeling I’d openly receive—
I sign for nothing that arrives skin-deep.
A grey smile worn; I feel so blue;
raw pink cheeks—but not love’s red,
more like a notification not yet read;
heat without heartbeat, warmth misled—
a silent reply that was never sent.
Paragraph lines assemble a face,
well-formatted pain in a presentable place;
pretty at a glance, but shift your view—
the margins hold wars I never wrote through.
I am dual-SIM soul—
two selves on call: one rings me out,
names every flaw, the other cuts the line
mid-fall, then goes offline when life gets raw.
Highs and lows—compressed to text,
life summarized in what comes next;
“YOLO”—they type,
Like that’s the truth… one life to live—
yet I live in two.
Mar 19
Mar 19, 2026 at 4:09 PM UTC
I can be the one
who says she doesn’t need a man
then
holds her breath
waiting for his text back
I can be the one
who savors her solitude
then
drives late at night
in bad weather
just to sleep next to him
I can be the one
who resents the gender pay gap
then
looks expectantly at her date
when the dinner bill arrives
I can be the one
who wants monogamy
but not the ring
the relationship
but not the label
I can be the one
who denies the existence
of romantic love
then falls
deeper
and harder
than ever before
Mar 16
Mar 16, 2026 at 3:36 PM UTC
Goal:
find a love worth
the fight of its spark.
a lover that burns
and fits in my hand —
a perfect match.
Feb 16
Feb 16, 2026 at 2:16 AM UTC
You met me as a sinner—
we learned each other’s hunger.
A love song on repeat, two scraps
of flesh, whispering want like
a secret language.
We spoke in lowered tongues
as the sun slipped out of sight.
Now the night calls me the way
daylight used to—
warm, dangerous, alive.
Take your opera seat,
lay every worry on top of me.
Hear my broken voice try to sing,
count the wrinkles in music sheets.
Rest here!
There’s thirst in man's eyes;
stars hiding in the hollow, learning
your shape, your weight; my favourite
learning curve to carry.
"Creatures survive in numbers,"
they say; but when their mate goes
missing, what’s left isn’t survival;
it’s an absence learning how to
breathe again.
Feb 9
Feb 9, 2026 at 1:51 PM UTC
bell hooks taught us love is
an act not a feeling.
Then why does loving me
feel like an act of sacrifice.
You tell me that you love me.
But, do you like me?
or am I just about bearable?
I see the tremble in your finger,
when you hand me the teacup
Is that fear?
or politeness,
perhaps, of politeness.
I notice the quiver of your lips,
when I mention his name,
Is this envy?
or the only reminder that I feel.
Time wears us all down.
Love does it quicker.
hooks no longer speaks in my ear
in the same register.
Even faith fatigues
when it’s asked to explain too much.
I hear the pauses when they land,
heavier than the percussive palpitations.
I listened so hard for meaning
I forgot to ask for certainty.
Are you saying?
Are you staying?
Or is this the moment
when two nebulous galaxies
finally stretch apart:
the night sky littered with broken stars,
our last fire burning itself out.
Jan 17
Jan 17, 2026 at 10:28 PM UTC
It’s not that I want to be a bad person—
There are just too many bad people
Trying to edge all the bad out of me...
It’s not that I expect the worst from love—
I’ve just experienced the worst out of love...
It’s not that I don’t want to love someone—
It’s the fear of loving someone who hasn’t
Fully learned how to love themselves...
It’s not that I make myself expensive—
I just refuse to discount my worth, to meet
Someone’s inflated expectations...
_I’m not trying to mask my anxiety—
I’m learning to master my patience._
Jan 1
Jan 1, 2026 at 5:13 PM UTC
"What’s your favourite thing about her?”
A hard question; because how do you
Choose a single note, when the whole
Song is what moves you?
__The answer:__ “Select all,”
Because real love, at its deepest,
Isn’t about choosing what shines—
It's clicking _everything_, and choosing
__Save!__
Dec 29, 2025
Dec 29, 2025 at 4:05 PM UTC
I’m a __BBC__, when you hear
The breaking news: my heart
Is always set on constant __DND__
Wrestling feelings, and dropping
Them all with a __DDT__; spinning my
Old insecurities on constant repeat —
Like outdated __DVDs__
Rush hour in my head, my love
Is stuck in the __CBD__, and I only risk
It when I’m high enough not to bleed
But truth is, I love better on the low—
_Slow_, because love hits hard; a drug
And every high comes with a couple
Blows.
Dec 22, 2025
Dec 22, 2025 at 3:52 PM UTC
Oh, the fragile taste of love—
Sick of love, minus the love sickness,
Sea-sick, bracing through someone
Else’s emotional waves, especially
Daily texts that land like silence
In a forest of dead branches
Let’s leave the small talk—
"Oh, how was your day"
I really won’t feel your words,
but I’ll answer them anyway
_To keep in touch_
Feel insecure with every hug,
Cut my tongue, bruise my lips —
I don’t taste much love anymore,
Excuse my __Glass Teeth.__
Dec 13, 2025
Dec 13, 2025 at 1:52 AM UTC
Find the __One__
Now we’re __Two__
Say those __Three__ words
When skin & bone
Become one; two beings
Who __honour__ those three words —
A love worth choosing.
Dec 9, 2025
Dec 9, 2025 at 4:11 PM UTC
Let me usher you as my guide; waiting till love
finally gets me in the net — so when I say,
“I truly fell in love,” I really fell into that net.
I was caught by your eye that caught a glimpse of me,
and somehow we connected so well — the right Wi-Fi
speed for our feelings, a broad _inter-net,_ where our
hearts log on and we land low together, side by side.
I admit, my feelings have been on flight mode for most
of the time; an injured bird only reminiscing how high
it used to soar. I swore by pictures of you pinned to my
wall, that I’d frame every bright part of you in my mind.
To laugh and banter in good feelings of euphoria;
your touch feels a little too euphoric for my introverted
nature — I have extrovert visions of a divine love,
and that terrifies me… when the goal you hope
to reach for still has the power to leave you.
In their own shared space and privacy —
two lovers’ bodies learn the touch of each other,
to breathe upon each other and with each other;
her inhale becoming his exhale… two shall climb
the mountain of love, to its summit, in the soft
burst of passion’s peak.
But surely for me,
I first need to brave climbing up my hills.
Dec 5, 2025
Dec 5, 2025 at 4:40 AM UTC
Misery is where distasteful love likes to hide— where she keeps
falling for showboats dressed like lifeboats, the world watches her
drown again. Funny how even the coldest kiss feels warm when
you’re tired of being alone.
Golden boys shine loud from a distance, but up close, their glow
goes too quiet. Their hearts aren’t real, their promises aren't heavy,
and the intentions lose their colour the moment she holds them too
close.
Their words hit like fireworks— bright, loud, gone fast. They aim
for her heart, _shoot a couple shots,_ but only the true ones stay after
the impact, to help cover the bruise. But most take what they want,
leaving the apology unfinished, and move on like she was a season.
Most of them live behind masks; clean edges, perfect smiles, their
lies rehearsed to look like devotion. And the real ones carry their
scars in plain sight, not competing for gold, silver, or bronze, just
hoping for an honourable mention in the story of someone they
hope to love.
At the funeral of her latest heartbreak, most of the gold walks away
untouched, leaving her misery as the only inheritance they know
how to leave behind. And the rest stand there again, the good
guy in the corner, loving her like a truth she refuses to learn:
_Some halos come with horns._
Nov 29, 2025
Nov 29, 2025 at 6:00 AM UTC
Leave a couple breadcrumbs leading me to your heart;
Lend me a walking stick through this forest of doubts,
Paint me the picture to frame you as my work of art.
Call out the elephant in the room — so I never forget
Why we fell in love — oh God, I’m starting to feel like
An animal, chasing after your response.
_typing… typing… cleared… trying._
Build me that steady strong house on the mountaintop,
And maybe, for the hell of it, Heaven can judge our love.
Write it in the stars, as if constellations had an opinion,
Let's kiss in front of all your friends, just to leave them
Feeling so jealous, just for the plot.
And if you want a spark to grow,
Give me a space in your plot, and I’ll wager
All of my fears and lay out every single card.
**** can a hopeless romantic really be in love?
Nov 24, 2025
Nov 24, 2025 at 5:10 AM UTC
Love feels so plural now—
everyone adding their own noun,
giving it any verb that fits the moment.
Give it a title, call it “vibing,”
or call it “just figuring things out” —
wrap it all in quotation marks
to avoid saying anything real.
Add a little syntax, then sprinkle commas
everywhere to list the endless reasons
you “can’t commit right now.”
_______________
Leave a space between yourselves,
an underscore _ for the distance you'll
say you need “to work on yourself.”
Then comes the dash — that sudden break —
the clean cut in the middle of the sentence:
we need a break — as if punctuation could
soften disappearing.
Then use an exclamation mark for all
of the promises you never meant to keep,
loud declarations that echo empty as soon
as you reread them.
_______________
And finally, end it all with
“I love you?” — a question mark curling
around doubt, around convenience,
around the half-truth of modern affection.
That’s pretty much today’s lov —
missing the “e,” because even love feels
incomplet...
Nov 9, 2025
Nov 9, 2025 at 3:24 PM UTC
Some of my thoughts feel like an arranged marriage— yeah,
I never really signed up for that. But that’s the signature of it,
where they only love to leave their mark.
Where gospel gets mixed with gossip— Matthew, Luke, John,
and Mark, not in the right order, so much like the words in my
thoughts.
And not everyone takes a word of advice well, when the language
sounds foreign to their ears. I talk to myself in tongues of fear,
translating silence into sermons no one hears.
Doomed to hope— a hopeful romantic still searching for
a stranger’s thirst to share in; two dry hearts, small talk and static.
How intimate, how sensuous, the touch of mastering fingers
with no questions left unanswered— or maybe no answers left
to questions. Being that direct: an arrow for a heart,
a bow pulled taut by friction. It takes pressure to apply
the brakes, but lately, it’s the breaks that pull me apart.
The peril of possession is the thrill of it, divided by whatever
title we’re giving it— _situationship, relationship, companionship_—
each one feels like a subscription that’s bound to expire.
And marriage in my head is split in two,
Like every vow I never quite meant.
Perhaps this was never a poem on love— just a confession from
a man whose thoughts and feelings still have commitment issues.
Oct 17, 2025
Oct 17, 2025 at 2:29 AM UTC
sweet pea, sweet tea, sweet potato—
love’s blush red, soft as a tomato.
kisses like a recital,
tongues dancing together,
smiles too wide, they crease teeth,
and stuck there forever.
a boiling *** touch, a stove-top man,
hot-headed, cooling down as fast as he can.
unread texts on the nightstand,
after a one-night stand— holding onto
a cheap thrill, it's just a heavy hand
_so sad!_
a thirsty kiss trying to buy back time,
swallowing coins like medicine—
quarters down the throat,
all of those pennies in a rhyme.
_hoping for change._ but the clock
just swallows, and it doesn’t rewind.
crumb stains on fingers,
love shouldn’t taste like fast food.
fast and crude, but hunger plays
its tricks— and we eat what’s near,
even it's not true.
fringes in both eyes, a bite
of apple pie—the kind you’d
call the apple of your eye.
but sigh—still
no husband or a wife.
just two souls giving it their best try.
Oct 1, 2025
Oct 1, 2025 at 5:48 PM UTC
I couldn’t even afford our first kiss;
in a rented car — it happened quick,
a cheap love on borrowed time,
but we drove it anyway.
Our hands on the wheel felt like
promises, turning too sharp, we
were never licensed to keep it at all.
The engine of us coughed with hope,
the brakes already weak, but still,
we sped down that one-way road.
__Speeding too fast.__
Every glance—green light.
Every laugh— a corner I couldn’t steer.
Too single; really a turn we didn’t signal.
Love in motion— but emotions unstable,
trying to stay alive.
And when your breath touched mine,
it wasn’t just a kiss— it was the impact,
the sound of an airbag failing, two crashing
hearts colliding into the wall of something
neither of us could truly own.
The irony is: it was the kind of wreck you
never want to walk away from
Sep 19, 2025
Sep 19, 2025 at 5:36 AM UTC