I'll throw every piece of darkness holding me back to the bin.
And as Liza Minnelli has sung,
Maybe this time,
Maybe this time I'll win.

Shimmering wings hum
Pure as morning glory blue
Traced upon the breeze

I was just a misspelled word
you so easily erased
from the notebook of your life.

                  
Now,
how do I ever erase you —
the most beautiful poem of my heart?

Far far away from you

in some corner of the universe

somewhere in the unknown —

is there any place

I can call home?

A place of peace and quiet,  

where happiness also lives.

Light cascades upon
Reflections of warmth, lillies
In colours of mist

Not a dystopian world we are living in.
That's just our imagination and way of thinking.
If the world were dystopian,
We would have been dreaming of utopia to live in.

It’s time to go there now.
The City of cement, sleet and dark that makes itself visible.
Stacked sedans fill a highway stretching to Jersey.
Rain turns to splatter while I operate this vehicle.
Yep. I’m driving
I am in the driver’s seat, and I am driving in a gray sedan on a highway next to gray sedans.
Inches of ancient dust that could perhaps be classified as cataclysmic residue of a previous apocalyptic expanse has seized the City.

It was in a context of words only bound when spoken into existence. Then it became law.
Then it became the Word of Gods.
It became verses to memorize.
To live by.
A thing they coined as “the Narrative.”
Nazareth on steroids.
The birthplace of Saviors judicated in full force.
Henceforth, the Family Bible was conceived;
which was later put through much arbitration to become law.

why does every poem start with i

Is it when my voice
is heavy with no,
or when silence chains me
to the no I couldn’t say?

Is it when my hands
refuse to move
in the dance they command,
or when they move anyway
just to keep the peace?

Do I lose my beauty
when my smile doesn’t bloom
on cue,
when my nod isn’t obedient,
when my spine stays straight
instead of bending?

Do I fade
when I cross streets in straight lines,
stand still where told,
pretend I’m fine—
even pretend I’m dead—
to survive the laughter
that stings?

Do I stop being lovely
when my lips pray
instead of pouting,
when they sing,
recite verses,
or whisper secrets to the wind,
but refuse to curse
for entertainment?

Tell me—
is beauty only mine
when I surrender,
when I ache quietly,
when I let their script
become my skin?

Or do I stop being pretty
the moment I live
for myself?