Tomorrow’s eyes watch me —
but I am blind until it arrives.
To cease to exist feels like a ceasefire
in time, where I burn away inspiration
on the fumes of an energy drink.

Notebook scribbles doing their best
to unknot all my thoughts —
tangled passions poured out in pen.
This art… it’s love in its messiest form.

Beneath every star, there’s a space
between us — these stained brown eyes
aching for more time, more ink, more breath
to write out the seconds before they disappear.

The pen, a formless weapon — shaping
silence into meaning, turning pressure into
prayer, forming words to be.

Ten toes down. Ten fingers clinging to
the cross — but even I can admit: some
unanswered prayers leave me feeling  
so cross.

Where both the heart and mind
start to whisper —"maybe we’ve already
been crossed out from receiving blessings,"
even after giving ourselves to that same cross.

The soul isn’t an X to unconditional love —
it still holds on, trembling, but my human
nature keeps crossing out its own heart.
Unwilling to believe in the redemption that
bled for it, too caught in its own voice
to hear anything softer.

Pride’s the loudest preacher in the room.
It tells me, "you deserve it all" — as long as it's
everything I want and nothing I have to wait
for; even when I try to even the odds, I’m
reminded: human nature is always at odds
with itself.

Life has its many high notes –
a song of misery that works on itself,
It’s its own company, inviting anyone
to the party – misery always invites company

But the song of a friend’s love
isn’t so loud – it’s soft, reassuring,
something to count on, to help you recall
your worth – even if all you need is their company.

I knew a girl —weathered by the kind of life that
doesn’t  warn you before the storm. Still, she tried
to keep a spring in her step — but smiled like cheap
paint on a fading wall, peeling off, little by little,
every **** day.

She told me: "We don’t own enough to be claiming it all."
She’d hold onto the hands of time like it owed her
something, clocking in for the kind of love that clocks
out as soon as it settles in your mind.

And I swear — it was always the careless water she
feared the most... the kind you drown in without
noticing —a pretty smile, a warm voice, the open
door that leads you straight to your own unraveling.
I watched her from that doorway — wondered which
room of herself she let people sit in.

Was it the heart —that wicked room where love
rushes in faster than you can catch your breath?

Or the soul — too expensive for lips that try
to bargain it down with sweet nothings?

Maybe it was the skin —that kept aching for touch,
even when desire left bruises where tenderness
should have lived.

Or the mind — God, the most attractive part of her,
modelling strength on a runway of thoughts that walked
out daily for the world to judge. And maybe the reason
her story broke me was because I saw myself in every
cracked wall she tried to paint over, and over again.

We are all just houses hoping someone might stay
long enough to know the rooms we rarely let them in.

You can’t be everything to everyone —
You’ll run out of breath just trying to be heard.
Water dead plants with your last drop of clean water,
And still be called selfish for not flooding the room.

You’ll give so much; your name starts sounding
Like “help me.” You’ll leave the party empty,
Because you fed Everyone but Yourself.
And somehow, the silence you sit in is still too loud.

Even your worth will start asking for validation
You yourself don’t have the strength left to give.
Be everything to you, before you become —
Nothing to anyone. Not even you.

It's often such a strain
Trying to keep up positive thoughts —
To strain my mind, hoping to get rid
Of negative thoughts; sometimes,
It just strains me more…

Life boils me over.
Some days, I get too steamed to even try
And move on forward... feeling so stuck —
Sitting still, too hot to handle,
And being too heavy to pour it all out.

I feel like white rice —

Plain, overcooked, forgotten, and just
Sitting there, cooling off in an unattractive
Bowl, that no one really reaches for…
Sometimes  I am the metaphor, the idea,
The hope, the dream; or nothing at all —
Yet I’ll give everything of myself, every
Last drop… even up to tiniest piece of rice
In that open rice bowl.

It’s like you plan to feed yourself with time
but never take any seconds. And I swear —
you could hear me second-guessing
myself over a plate full of food for thought,
just trying to feed a little of my ego. And it takes
a while to finish expressing myself — so let me take
the express train on any passing train of thought.
Cos it’s a full course — learning how to be well fed
in a world where everyone’s trying to make bread
while praying for that daily bread.

A man does all that he can for himself, before he
even says Amen! And all men are expected
to have themselves in order — but never given
the time of day to order the meal that fills their worth.
Because most of that time gets spent spending on
somebody else’s worth.

And sometimes, I wonder if it’s really worth it at all.
There’s a man who regrets giving it all to a girl
who became somebody else’s girl…that sentiment,
doesn’t only apply to him giving his all to girls.

—He gave everything to a seemingly self-fulfilled
world! And that meal is always so cold...