Oh, those sixteen seconds; —
schoolings we learnt, stories on the
sixteen streets, where a few flowers
  Would be daring enough to grow.

YOU!
Bystander to the narrative of six teens,
learning about life, through every twist
and curve. Take part in such an account,
for you too, to be flourished in what
  Truths we learned.

I was sixteen; though that made
you feel like eighty-four in a concrete
jungle, where you heard stories of
its corruption, as it scarily roars.

The novel days, but with a broken
system of old. From feeling broke;
covering holes with holes,

— You could only tap into success by
the connections of who you know, and
they know; prior sixteen years. Henceforth
  Why we all sensed being so old.

Or was it, "owed"
—dang, what youth could know?
But to be honest though, the feeling of it,
was so cold: a degree less than sixteen, for
  Any flower to be frightened to grow.

As if the promise of an improved
tomorrow would never really show,
To say—"you head in your own way
and I'll be a head, ahead of you; thinking
up sixteen likely ways of where to go,
  And how to go.

I was told a story by so and so,
who knew so and so, —that said,
So and so, about so and so, that a man
claimed this was the right time to sow.

He threw out his seeds; some that hit the
emotionless ground as cold sixteen stones.
Others were pierced by the cold’s thorns.

He spoke a lot of brave words and
eccentric quotes, that held with them
great wisdom and growth.

Some hard to swallow, some fell on
deaf ears, the rest gnawed by birds.
These teachings didn’t speak of being
owed, as we were told; but were
secrets he seemed to own,
  That shone out of his soul.

I was sixteen, a nervous teen,
who gave this story sixteen seconds.
We were careless and obviously reckless
—a wonder of which gods ever forgave us.

Feeling cold as snow, in a place where,
it gets colder as the rain pours.
The man gave us sixteen of the most
profound words:


“Sixteen seconds of the Word,
your spirit grows, — sixteen
seconds of rain, and life will show.”

I was termed a flower in that story,
given sixteen words of advice
from a stranger I didn't really know.
And it was by age sixteen, the bud
  Had started to grow.

I guess flowers are
the boldest of us all.
—on where, and through which
situation they choose to grow.

She's XY beautiful,
but she'll be my ex,why?
Cos not all love is so beautiful."

"Her kisses were like ivy,
and our love sickness put me on an IV"

So said the lonely man who spoke,
"love used to lay besides me, now it
only wants everyone else, besides me"

Who am I, but a vessel of past despair,
    With a tangled knot in my mind, aware,
    "Break free from the chains of depression's snare,
     Confess your truth, find solace in the air."
     But does this advice still hold its worth,
     When wielded as a weapon, causing hurt?

"The words from a pen, a mind's indulgence,
     A gateway to thoughts, seeking resurgence,
     Escaping the prison, a soul's penitentiary,"
     Said the one who loved fiercely, with intensity.
     Yet the voice of the voiceless, it seems,
     Falls on deaf ears, lost in a realm of dreams.

Misunderstood, they heard me wrong,
     "I wished to shed my identity, be strong,
      Not brave enough to change my hair's hue,
      Like my smiles, I alter, but never anew.
      Wearing a frown, they won't take me seriously,
      Even when I express my pain so clearly.

In moments of boredom, my words flow,
     But relationships have taught me to go,
     Through a board of scrutiny, every decision,
     As if love owed me, demanding precision.
     But this time, I'll confront it head-on,
     No wooden board, just justice to be won.

Success, a pinnacle that feels unwise,
     A light-bulb to illuminate my eyes,
     To see my reflection in a brighter light,
     But as pockets fill, judgment takes flight.
     Counting the screams at empty walls,
     Filling the void that my soul enthrals.
     No cries of woe echo louder than before,
     Two Forty-Four, the hour I silently implore.

I was raised in my father’s ill-timed
           old ways: as a man saying how he feels,
           was like ash in his ashtray. And I had
           smoked up a few reasons of not finding
           certainty; but instead finding answers in
           all addictions as a troubled youth.

I remember looking for a quick fix,
          like a constant broken clock—
         without a lot of time.
         As it felt better not to admit to why I
         was crying secretly at night, and instead
         going around faking all of my smiles.


As I never once felt like I could fit an
        ounce of myself in my family, and
        sometimes the thought of being a
        mistake would be a thought I’d accept
        so gladly.
“I’ve been a fool, I’ve been a ******,
           I’ve been an idiot, I’ve been a coward,
           and I’ve been less than a good friend,
           Feeling less of myself most times, in
           saying I don’t amount to anything”—
           were all of the things plaguing my head.

I’ve been so sick of love,
          pretending to have known it as much
          And to my luck, I’ve been unlucky enough
          to know the way I lived felt like a vortex,
         cos it always ******.

Sprung out on how I forced my appearance,
        sitting on bottled emotions, ignoring
        how I’m really feeling— all thought
        to show a man in their great zealous.
        Such a lie it was; and a door to the
        knowledge of depression, that I tried to
        hide so well, with years of experience.

Cause I was taught,
          “real men don’t show their feelings”
           Still what are these feelings, I’m feeling?

Feeling sad, depressed, a mess,
          who can’t confess that sometimes
          he's a mess and not always at his best.
          Still, self-perfection isn’t what the
          whole world expects. And unless this
          boy chooses not to digress from tackling
          the feelings that have him compressed; that
          boy will only be a boy who still sits in their
          mother’s nest.

Cos no bird will truly soar where it rests—
          so would I; never be a man in this crazy
          world, by just covering up all of my sores
          in my heart with a bulletproof vest. I
          already swallowed up those bullets; choking
          up on all of the words of, not saying
          what’s beating at my chest.

Today, today marks the day,
          I threw out that **** ashtray.
         Cos the ash in that tray, made me feel
         like, the *** of the day. And I refuse to
        do the donkey-work, of pretending that
         I’m always okay.

        No, I'm not okay, because I’ve spent
        my life being burnt by the scorching
        ash, in that old ashtray.

                          It’s time for healing.

Bang! I surely heard the graze of conflicting thoughts;
setting a battleground across their minds.
Every word was in a blaring tone, as every
negative word the world spoke of it; was its
quick and merciless first fire.

Bang! Shooting down the innocence of
young, innocence that was held an infant—
still it hadn’t stopped man from killing them
in an instant. A snap of  a camera, of every violent
act played on the news, following every instance.

BANG! The gun grew louder to the crime that was
deemed by fighting for resistance. And how so will we
ever find peace in a world, if all our actions leave it
in so many broken pieces?

You witnessed the envy in your own eyes
as you gazed upon those priceless evergreens,
their lush greenery a sight to behold.
You couldn't help but yearn for their beauty,
a jealous lip bite betraying your desire to have
such splendor tucked and packed
like treasures in a boxer short.

As your legs tremble with resolve,
drenched in the intensity of the moment,
You bravely shoulder the weight of all
those taunts and challenges hurled like sharp
horns towards your chest.
Just like a bullhorn painfully piercing through
excited flesh, the sensation resonates within you,
stirring a tumult of conflicting emotions.

Your eyes, wide and searching, dart towards
the fleeting images playing out in your mind,
where the memory of being placed ever so delicately
on the bed surfaces.

Initially, his touch held a sense of
innocence reminiscent of cradling an infant,
but that purity is swiftly overtaken by a primal,
almost sinister desire that extinguishes it in a single,
searing breath.

His primal groans start chasing at your ears,
resonating with a deep and primal intensity that
seems to echo through the confines of your room,
reverberating against the walls and
enveloping you in a raw, untamed energy.

The tight moans of his fleshly presence fill the air,
creating a palpable tension that seems to draw
you closer to him, as if his very essence is intertwined
with yours in that moment.

His inviting eyes, like hot fires, burn with a
fierce intensity that seems to sear into your very soul,
their gaze captivating every inch of
your skin with a magnetic pull.

So beautiful were his eyes, reflecting a love that
enveloped you in a warm embrace, his affectionate
gaze mirroring the depth of his feelings for you.

Oh, how long you had waited for this moment,
your heart swelling with a mix of anticipation and
desire as you finally found yourself in his loving embrace.

Soft kisses, reminiscent of gentle touches on the skin,
Enveloped the senses with warmth.
Every steaming breath embraced the moment,
Saturating the air with indulgence.

Each sip from the largest mug etched a soft memory,
Like a painting on the canvas of the mind,
Capturing the essence of Sundays filled with
The comforting ritual of hot chocolate.