Frost caught up
to ghostly fingers;
His December walks
filled dark prophecies,
would he witness
another year
or a month?

In the deep snow,
he knew the answer.

The Necromancer told him,
in her underworldly dreams,
he had once been her true love.
He smirked:
I’m still here
in your words.

i always have
the urge to run.

but what is it like
to be a tree?

to be confident enough
to root yourself
and grow with
wild abandonment,
being unapologetically
you?

i'm still running,
but i wish i knew.

the wrong one
will find you in peace
and end up leaving you in pieces

only the right one
can find you in pieces
and guide you to peace

Can I be the poem, not the poet?

There Is Failure all around us.

      Failure to hope.

Failure to dream.

      Failure to believe.

There is failure in education.

       Failure in love.

And there is failing with yourself.

I let you go
because I knew you could do better
and now you’re gone
I wonder
if I should've
just been better.

In the crowded street,  
a stumble, a twist,  
my foot over the edge  
of a forgotten crack.  

Eyes blink, faces turn,  
laughter hides behind hands,  
and I, a moment caught  
in slow-motion fall.  

Heart racing like a drum,  
I gather my dignity,  
dust off my knees,  
and smile through the blush—  

a tiny trip in the dance of life,  
reminding me,  
we all wobble sometimes.

All the time we are always mess
just like other flowers that are colorless, but you know what we are still a human that always hoping for the best.