Each morning, lips to bitter brew,
Each night, a toast to battles lost.
The bruised crescents beneath my eyes
Are trophies crowned by what they cost.

“Was it worth it?”—a prayerless cry
To gods who watched and never came.
The mirror grins, a beast reborn,
Whispers, “Now, we play the game.”

I peeled away the past they burned,
Revealed a skin they’ll never know.
No longer just my suffering—
I am the storm their seeds will sow.

He built the walls.
He locked the doors.
He feared the death
That walks outdoors.

He feared the streets,
The plague, the knife—
Not the glass chandelier
That took his life.

The brightest light,
The grandest art—
The most beautiful thing
Broke his heart.


---

I don’t write poems—
I bleed in metaphors,
Breathe in verses,
And let ink sleep on my pages.

Whisper its name,
And it wakes in shadows,
Speaking the silence I once loved—
A silence I taught to speak in poetry.

They call it poetry,
But I call it fire—
The fire that keeps me alive.

Poetry is the soul’s oldest language,
And mine has never stopped speaking.

When my lips fall silent,
My heart spills in stanzas.
When my voice trembles,
My pen takes flight.

Some feelings are too heavy for words—
So I let them fall as verses.

Poetry is the oldest art of truth,
Woven into every soul,
Revealing not just what we feel,
But who we truly are.

Within each verse lies a heart unveiled,
Where passion and truth
Entwine eternal.

Shadows dissolve where silence takes hold—
So do people,
tamed by the dark,
ghosts draped in marigold.

Chains of humility, lacquered and new,
Disguised as virtue,
cling like dew—
shimmering, choking,
beautifully untrue.

Beware the gold-plated gospel they preach:
Their words are mirrors,
sharp at the breach.
They buff your shackles 'til they gleam—
And call it freedom,
call it dream.

Are these the mourners with practiced sighs,
Wringing grief from unopened eyes?
They spray on sorrow like perfume mist,
Never flinching
when your shadows kissed.

And you—yes, you—celestial flare,
A signature soul,
singular, rare.
Who are they to judge your flame,
Then vanish,
maskless,
without name?

This life is no script, no dainty refrain—
It’s cliff-edge breath,
storm-fed pain.
Let them twist and trace your form,
But know:
your chaos is your norm.

So rise—not gentle,
not as planned.
Unwrite the laws they understand.
You are the wild the world can’t mold—
A truth too loud,
a myth retold.

I hear them—
the sheep in their scripted refrain:
"Lower your gaze. Stay in your lane.
Blend with the flock, bury your flame—
No need for thunder. No need for name."

But I remember the ones who walked unbowed,
Eyes like storms,
souls too loud.
They taught me not to kneel, but rise,
To tear the silence,
to scorch the skies.

Don’t flow like water through cracks they choose,
A shape that fits
is a self you lose.
Be wind—ravenous, rough, untamed,
A force with no leash,
no master,
no name.

If they seal you in a space too tight,
Too small for soul,
too dim for light—
Split it open. Let rage ignite.
Turn your whisper into a war-cry flight.

This is your voice:
not meek, not borrowed.
A sun that sears
through every sorrow.
If breath still burns within your chest,
Roar, rebel—
be nothing less.

Carve your path through dusk and scar.
You are the blaze.
You are the star.

You are bamboo—
slow to grow, strong for life.
You are jasmine—
delicate, fragrant, real.
Both are needed.

And you?
You’re here.
Still blooming.
Still meant to be.

And me?
Just a human
catching his thoughts like fireflies—
watching them glow
on paper.

Was it hard?
The flower releases countless grains,
Hoping just one finds its way—
Did you give your best?
Even water, pure and sure,
Sometimes slips into a drain, led astray.

Was it hard to leave your home?
The dandelion must,
To ride the wind and touch the sky.
Were you too comfortable to change?
Snakes ache while shedding skin,
Eagles break their beaks to survive.

Did you fail this time?
Be gentle—
Even caterpillars must fall still
Before they learn to fly.
Mock tests precede the final day,
It’s the cycle—harsh, yet true.