I don’t want to die,
I want to cease to exist.
To never have been born
And never have lived
For my soul and body to disappear
For any memory of me to be gone
To dissolve into nothingness and
Never have been anything at all

Indeed, poetry touches when it’s written closely from the heart—when your pen traces through every crevice until each margin is filled. Sometimes, you just have to find the kind of person who understands every word of your poetry. Someone willing to explore the depths of every line written across every piece of paper.

I do hope to find that person one day.
My own keeper.
My listener.
My reader.
Someone to carry it all with me, through every phase of life.

We perceive things differently—
hugging them only in ways we know how.
And so, we barely meet halfway.
Still, words are thrown,
beaten,
slitting open wounds that once lay sleeping,
penetrating an abyss
barely concealed by a fragile veil.

Even so, I stand here today—
a sentimental fool, as always,
apprehending every situation that fits,
viewing each one as an opportunity to grow
through experience.

lined, dotted, blank—
either way, words are written in me:
a thin piece of paper.

I carry what people write,
words I have no choice in,
but I hold them anyway,
with quiet glory.

and yet, despite bearing
the massive weight of ink,
vandalized,
I still get crumpled,thrown,
and worst of all—ignored.

perhaps it wasn’t exactly what they wanted to say,
but what went away in that moment.

Without exception to every situation they call love,
I wish things were different.
If only I were more, or less, or simply enough
what could’ve been?

Maybe no hearts would ache, no eyes would weep.
If fate weren't so unkind, there wouldn’t be words written right now.

there’s such a thing as spending time with someone—with nothing attached.
just two human beings, getting affectionate with each other.
no romance, no ***.
just two souls in a quiet room with screaming thoughts.

i’ve seen it in movies—
but not yet in real life.

what is it like,
to be in one?

There are promises we cling to
for dear life,
at times when everything feels shaky.

Yet not all promises are meant to be true —
for some,
are just words
meant to fill a void.

But when those promises remain unfulfilled,
they create holes
deeper than any alphabet can hold.

Easy to say,
yet hard to keep.
Easy to break,
yet the cuts run deep.

Words cut deeper than any knife,
inflicting wounds
that no one can heal.

And broken promises
drop a weight
into a heart
meant only to carry
feather-light weight.