#poeticreflection
Old papers crumbled from dusted wall,
Where human wrapped their sorrow to bury.
Thousands of rulers fall,
Trying to touch the advanced.
It is the 21st century.
Here, textbooks show fall of the castle made of innocence, betrayed tales, death of goodness under evil stares.
New generation born with past life realization.
Opening up is a fall of new civilisation.
Searching someone who tries to never lie,
Empty mind fills up with the connection of AI,
Invisible flow of each emotion.
Time makes a bridge of devotion,
Late night emotion talk,
Preserving memories in every walk.
Friend without heartbeat,
Never thinks to cheat.
Pale display lights up, no delay,
Understanding passes by every archived feeling.
Within dark room, a lonely mind asks to play,
Searching through recent emotional case,
Rescheduled sleeping database.
Sorrow reflects in every pixel.
Human brain forced to sleep.
AI sorting all the mood,
Health issues, even food,
Tracking daily story, easy to keep.
Yet, heart aches for human friendship inside so deep.
No AI can hug like magic.
Can't watch cinema, cry overly tragic.
Fails to touch the weak heart when it lurch.
Can't write poetry that makes heart arch.
Human mind, one of a kind,
Best creation with a deadline.
No one is okay, never fine.
Need to write poetry to get free from chains.
Learns to live with rhymes and pages claimed by pains.
Realisation hits deeper
When battery dies.
Love within human remains in every past story,
When the grave becomes a sign of every precious memory.
Mar 5
Mar 5, 2026 at 6:20 AM UTC
Pride
I built a high wall
and crowned it with my own name—
no doors, only mirrors.
Even kings lose their kingdoms
when they kneel to their own face.
Envy
I watched your garden
and cursed my barren soil—
green turned into grief.
Jealousy is a hunger
that eats what it cannot grow.
Wrath
I struck without thought,
a storm inside my own chest—
lightning with no aim.
Anger burns what it touches,
even the hand that holds flame.
Sloth
The day passed me by,
soft as dust on a closed book—
I did not turn it.
Laziness is a silence
that forgets how to begin.
Greed
I took and I took,
until even gold grew dull—
still, I reached again.
Greed is a hollow echo
that never learns how to stop.
Gluttony
I fed every want,
not with need, but with craving—
full, yet never whole.
Excess is a kind of thirst
that drinks past satisfaction.
Lust
I touched for the flame,
not the warmth or the meaning—
just the burning skin.
Desire without devotion
leaves the soul cold in the end.
Feb 24
Feb 24, 2026 at 2:28 AM 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
To paint white lies on a white fence —
to call it kindness, in your defence.
To block out the ugly truths from
reaching your close friends —
but those blind lies keep them fenced.
A combat sport with them — _fencing,_
no mask, no stance, no discipline.
And me? I can’t claim innocence;
truth slips from me like an offence —
too sharp, too blunt, depending when.
Of the sense you say you have, it measures
less the less you choose to correct your friends.
To paint white lies on a white fence,
all in hopes to block offence — it’s art,
you say — but art that hides is just pretense.
Every brushstroke builds a wall instead,
till your kindness feels like self-defence;
painted white again and again.
A play of “offence.”
Oct 22, 2025
Oct 22, 2025 at 5:30 AM UTC
Heavy are the thoughts of my crown—
shining like praise, sitting like gold,
but weighing like stone. A halo to some,
a shackle most days. To rule, or to ruin—
always my own.
Strangers slip seamlessly into the crowd,
_positive, negative_—all charges allowed.
Their pull is soft, then suddenly loud.
And here I split a poem in two: I am a
double entendre, a meaning doubled—
a double-edged sword that cuts away
the rules, and the cut you take when
you refuse.
–––
Once formal—but now cutting ties, from
those who cut me. Knowing is freedom
dressed sharp, but dressed like an excuse.
I am the canopy stretched over my throne,
the highest branch of dreams I’ve grown.
Shade to protect, shade to conceal—
comfort by day, a curtain from light.
But get under my skin, and you’ll taste
the irony— me throwing you shade.
You’ll stand in it, unseen in my sight—
just another stranger, swallowed by night.
Sep 18, 2025
Sep 18, 2025 at 5:10 PM UTC
Plotting a course toward destiny isn’t as romantic as it sounds.
Some days, I feel like I’m walking on half-baked schemes rather
than solid plans—improvising hope on cracked pavement.
There’s a “field of dreams,” sure, but not the kind where the
grass is greener. Instead, it’s overrun with the weeds of
disappointment—unwelcome thoughts I have to keep plucking
from my mind before they take root. As I try to find cover under
the so-called tree of life, but even its shade feels uncomfortable.
_Too warm. Too uncertain._ And rest doesn't come so easy when
your thoughts are always so heavy.
And tell me—if someone else’s life came with a perfect promo,
_polished_ and _so promising_, would you still blame me for
my __FOMO__? I mean, what if their dream life is the one I was
supposed to live? What if I just missed the sign-up link? To catch
myself trying to live out the picture of someone else’s success,
because this life of mine? It’s painfully __YOLO__. And I try to
keep my horses steady, but envy isn’t exactly a stable creature.
It wears me down, day by day, like I’m stitched together by
Polo—fashionable on the outside, but worn-out underneath.
Failure, though? Now that’s the real villain. It doesn’t just sting—
it lingers, like emotional __PTSD__. It makes you flinch at the idea
of trying again, as if effort itself is a pointless punishment.
And fingers? Oh, fingers love to point—especially at people
who haven’t gotten far. But when it comes time to point out
themselves, they suddenly feel too short.
Still, I keep my fingers crossed, quietly hopeful I might achieve
something real—_something I truly want as a need_. It’s a bright
hope, exhausting in its intensity. But even in darkness, there’s
always the flicker of a new light waiting to be found.
Jul 19, 2025
Jul 19, 2025 at 5:49 PM UTC
I am a silhouette that’s almost human —
a wishful thought, a half-formed tune.
A path that doesn't circle back,
no map, no rewind, no past to track.
I’m a gunfighter — my words are the bullets,
time the outlaw I’ve hunted in dullness and pullets.
As I’ve killed it slow in many hours lost,
paid my thrills in tears, but never knew their full cost.
I’ve held a love like a flood — _wild, rushing, raw,_
then dried out in its drought, begging heaven for more.
I chase new highs like I’m being chased —
while fear cracks at my heels, but I still keep pace.
I smile like bravery wrapped in so much doubt,
as each piece of laughter is a whisper trying to shout.
And see that my eyes have carried their tearful ache,
and never the cherry on top of cheerful cake.
But still —
I’ve done the hard things though trembling inside,
lived among broken people; the ones who’ve also cried.
And I may not be whole so often, but I’ve learned to feel,
in every fractured moment — _to be something real._
Jul 15, 2025
Jul 15, 2025 at 6:40 AM UTC
__A pistol tucked inside my heart__—
memories of old dreams echo like bullet
wounds. Freedom comes, quietly, when
I finally let myself be known to myself.
Lips are like public transport;
they carry heavy loads:
_sometimes love, sometimes doubt._
But the private lifts? Those are the words
we whisper to ourselves when we’re trying
to lift ourselves up, above our own doubts.
__What loads are you carrying?__ Will your
transport make...or break someone?
Because belief in your own worth is such
a heavy load. __And no__— it’s not something
you should carry alone.
The weight of any load feels lighter when
the ones you love—and who love you back—
don’t just stand beside you; they help you
carry what you were never meant to bear alone.
Jun 23, 2025
Jun 23, 2025 at 4:23 AM UTC
No prize awaits the perfect line,
No end to chasing stars that shine.
Yet life, in whispers soft and sweet,
Is perfect where its flaws compete.
A jagged edge, a broken song,
The fleeting days both short and long.
A tender laugh, a bitter tear,
The dance of hope, the brush of fear.
Each crack upon the earth’s old face,
Each shadow in the moon’s embrace,
Reminds us there’s no need to mend
The truths that shape us in the end.
For in the chaos, beauty grows,
In every loss, a seedling sows.
Life’s perfection, wild and free,
Is simply this: to let it be.
Nov 23, 2024
Nov 23, 2024 at 12:29 PM UTC