Whenever she opens her eyes, she writes poetry,
And with every breath, she pens dreams effortlessly.

Whenever she talks, the universe leans in to hear,
Whenever she thinks, she paints skies crystal clear.

Whenever she's near, my soul finds its beat,
Yet somehow, we're strangers, destined never to meet.

I want to write you a poem,
One as fragrant as a breeze after the first rain,
carrying the scent of jasmine,
twisting softly through your hair.

I want to tell you how even the flowers, with all their perfumes,
grow jealous of your presence,
their petals fade, knowing they cannot match your grace.

I want to weave words around you,
like a shawl steeped in rosewater and musk,
wrapping you in whispers
that linger long after I am gone.
Like the sun's gentle glow in a cold morning,
warming you everywhere.

At seventeen, I walk this line,  
Between what's lost and what's mine.  
MATURE in ways they cannot see,  
While others dance in youthful glee.

I hide my gifts, I shrink from light,  
For fear they’ll claim what isn’t right.  
They flaunt their pride, so loud, so sure,  
Yet their certainties feel so impure.

I loathe the arrogance they wear,  
Yet hate myself for how I care.  
For in my heart, I see the truth,  
That self-awareness often wastes in youth.

I exist for no one else but me,  
My deeds unseen, a quiet plea.  
Misunderstood, they call me bold,  
But selfish? No, that’s not my mold.

I’ve wasted time, I’ve tried to please,  
To fit a mold that wasn’t me.  
But now I see it’s all in vain,  
A cycle of self-inflicted pain.

Some call me friend, but I can see,  
They’re only close when it suits their need.  
Their empty words and careless ways,  
They leave me hollow, lost in a haze.

They act as if they care so much,  
But their warmth is cold, a shallow touch.  
I laugh and smile, but it feels off,  
Like I’m just playing some tiring scoff.

I've seen a few, wise and kind,  
But they’re too far for me to find.  
Their presence feels a distant star,  
Too far to reach, too bright, too far.

end,,,,,,

The bus
was late
This morning
I miss you

in a very large labyrinth
a lone walker wanders
once was a figure danced, bathed in light
now an echo fading into night

each step forward, under the moon
carries a whisper of a tune
a melody once sweets, bitter now it seems
for love shared by one, alive was at least in dreams

the hearts solace, memories fray
yet there’s relief in the unravelling
from the grasp of a love that never did spread.

In this gentle release, both sorrow and grace,
For a heart that loved alone, finds its own space.
No longer tethered by what could have been,
Embracing the stillness, of love unseen.

I ask for no love to linger, nor fade into blue,
But for memories to visit, as old friends often do.

unburdened now, but i miss the weight’s hold.
that gentle hold.

I'd rather die young than fade into grey,
A song left unfinished, unsung to this day.

God willed my fate, but I’ve bent to none,
The drink I’ve spilled, the damage is done.

A flicker of a spark from the stone,
Flickers into ashes—let it burn.

I just woke up and—
It’s cold, and I’m tired.
Standing at the bus stop with my neighbors,
my bag heavier than my body,
my head heavier than my bag.

The textbook in my hand lists my exams,
Kingdoms I can’t classify and processes I can’t explain.

The bus driver lives around the corner.
We hear his engine start,
the grumble of morning.
He pulls out,
backs up,
and rolls toward us.

We climb in.
Seats creak.
Heat hums, just barely.

I open the book,
but the letters won’t stay still.

I glance up—
and the sky hits me.

Pastel.
Not pink, not purple—something between.
And it’s almost as if you can smell it—
it smells like—

Like something good.
Not candy.
Not flowers.
Like air after rain, but sweeter—
cleaner.

The sky just exhaled
and the world paused
to breathe it in.

I stare.
Busmates probably think I’m twelve,
staring out the window like I’ve never seen clouds.

But that sky—

It knocks the tired out of my bones.
Cuts through the fog in my chest.
Wipes out the weight of what-ifs and what-nows.

It feels holy, almost.
Not church holy,
but the kind that sneaks up on you
when you don’t believe in much.

I keep looking,
like maybe if I stare long enough,
I’ll stay awake.

And for a moment,
I don’t care about the test,
or the clock,
or the day.

For a moment,
I believe that something out there
is still worth watching.

One step, one shot, one final breath.
I walk through war, I talk to death.
He never speaks, but I still know
Not yet, not yet. There's more to go.

Winds carry whispers from afar
The moon drifts softly in its aura
Stars fall quietly where shadows lay
Memories linger, refusing to decay
Time slips past in the light of aurora
But still, your name remains unspoken.

What a strange request
To beg the dawn to sleep once more,
To bid the tide retreat, forget
The footsteps swallowed on the shore.

Alright now then, what’s next?
The turning page, the ink that bleeds,
The tethered soul who dares reflect
A child’s dream lost in grown men’s deeds.

Mourn me the wonder in my eyes,
For in its place, a hollow gloom,
No star remains,
Only the shadow of a bloom.

Never thought I’d hold those days
Like yellowed scrolls in trembling hands,
Illiterate to youth’s own phrase,
Yet reading now what time demands.

How can it be? This ticking crime,
this slow betrayal dressed in time?
This slow betrayal robed in grace?
Let me vanish in their wake.

In the tender embrace of a serene, ancient wood,
Two trees once soared, side by side they stood.
Roots entwined in the soil’s tender clasp,
Branches woven in a timeless grasp.

One tree, robust, with emerald might,
Its leaves a dance in the sun’s soft light.
But the other—oh, the other!—fades,
A slow decay in nature’s cruel parade.

Its bark now brittle, cracked like bone,
Once vibrant leaves to the earth are thrown,
Curling brown, a whispered plea,
As it withers, longing to be free.

Yet still the healthy tree leans near,
Its emerald boughs full of silent fear,
Reaching toward its dying kin,
As if love alone could pull it in.

The forest watches, breath held tight,
In twilight’s pale and ghostly light.
And still, the living one won’t release
Its fading lover from this endless peace.

For how can life persist, alone,
When heart and root together have grown?
In shared breaths of wind, in rain’s soft kiss—
How can one survive without the other’s bliss?

So they stand there, a tragic pair,
One green, one ghostly, beyond repair.
Yet the living tree refuses to sway,
As if to say: "I’ll hold you till I too decay"

Hold me as you once did,
With a love so fierce, it stilled the explosions of stars.

Wrap me in your arms,
Tighter than the universe binds its constellations.

Feel my heartbeat against yours,
A rhythm only we could share,
A connection that feels eternal.

You are my always, my only.
So please, just one more time,
Let me feel what we once were.

Green eyes, soft as moss in the rain,
Holding the kind of quiet that hums.
A flicker of gold when the light shifts—
A forest, a flame, something alive.

That Garden, That Garden
I see it in my sleep.
The rivers run green,
bright and alive,
a scene that holds me still.

The air is thick with a scent I cannot name,
unique, like nothing else.
The water flows with a sound
I would hold onto forever.

The flowers are soft,
their colors muted,
gentle against the eye.

In the lake, a bridge rises,
bright oak simple, steady.
And the tree stands alone,
its arms wide,
a mother watching over her children.

I’m tracing back to moments I’ve replayed a thousand times,

It’s just a confusing tone
Have the doubts and hatred grown too overblown
Has my perception been ruined on the lies we condone,
On the fleeting pleasure of a throne

Stop and wait a sec
When ten years from now, I look at myself, will I express regret
Do the failures of youth dictate the path we expect,
Or does a stumble define what’s next

An adult all alone,
With nothing to do, he spends his time scrolling through his phone,
With no one to call his own.

But being alone is no cause for shame
Sometimes the right person just never came
It’s not a failure or flaw it's not a crack in the frame,
Just a life unfolding at its own pace

Though frightened by the thought,
But what do you expect when you yourself have brought
A life where the cracks are easier to see than the whole
That if I’ve let myself be caught,
What if I grow into someone I no longer know
But perhaps the cracks bring light,
A fragile hope that cuts through nights

It seems like all the years are wasted, but who is there to blame
Hope is a thing that just makes me feel like ache
What is there to be hopeful of when all I see is pain
And I’d leave, if what was waiting for me wasn’t flames

And it’s all just in my chest
A disease that forbids me from going to rest
Lord, forgive me for where I’ve strayed,
If I’m still in your grace, let my soul not fade
You’re the only one who knows my path
I’m here by your will, not by chance or wrath
Just don’t take my eyes from my head too soon
Let me see the sun, even in this darkened room.

When she appears, dawn hides in shame,
It folds it's light.
Her eyes, twin fawns by the stream,
Framed by lashes that haunt like a dream.
I lean toward her as the thirsty lean,
To water’s edge in lands unseen

The font in her eyes—verses untold,
Etched by masters whose pens drip gold.
Each line I trace is a map to her soul,
A script where longing has taken control.

Her voice—like water over stone,
Soft, yet strong, wholly my own.
I need no riches, no kingdom’s throne,
Her smile alone makes the world my home.

I have wounded mine own heart,
Yet naught but blood it yields.
Shall I forever dwell apart,
In failure's barren fields?

Must this scar, so crimson-red,
Proclaim me weak and frail?
Or doth my spirit rise instead,
And let my torment sail?

Shall thou remain a failure evermore?
Or rise, and claim the strength thou had before?

I am a seed,
a husk of what once was,
a soil for what will become.

In this earth, my dead body is fuel,
flesh dissolving into the dark,
feeding roots that thread like veins,
pulling life from my decay.

Even in the loneliest of places,
where no eyes have lingered,
the trees stand as witnesses,
their leaves brushing whispers of acknowledgment.
The earth cradles my weight,
the air drinks my last breath.
Each moment, however brief,
leaves echoes in nature's memory,
etched in the bark,
traced by the wind,
carried by the quiet pulse of soil.

We live not in the length of our time,
but in the ripples we leave—
in the bending of grass,
in the songs of birds,
in the memories that hold us close
long after we are gone.

I am the quiet surrender to the inevitable,
the silence that gives way to green whispers,
a sacrifice to the bloom of tomorrow.

I do not ask for forever,
I do not beg to remain.
That I am in the roots, the wind, the rain—
That is enough.

Left two souls tangled in silence at 2 a.m.,
wondering if love was ever there at all.

No
this is blood memory,
ritual,
a brush of bodies that can spark
the breath of another soul into being.

She let him close,
not knowing he would vanish like vapor
the moment she said “What if?”

He left fingerprints on her skin
and none on the crib.

It was a choice.
But his choices vanished.
Hers became a heartbeat,
She wept at the altar of a promise that was never written.

In a few weeks—maybe months—
the feeling will shift, soften, settle.
Whatever it was, it will fade.

Maybe it was there the whole time,
tucked into the space in between,
folded in the way you almost leaned in, the way you curl but never reach.
And if you wanted
if you ever actually wanted
then it’s all right.

I’m leaving, and you’re staying.
Like petrichor after rain,
like the last breath of lavender in late autumn.

And how could I know what lingers behind your throne?
The truth I reach for rests in your hands alone.
Some secrets are carried in silence,
never shown.

And I’m nothing but a flicker in your periphery,
a half-lit streetlamp you never stop under,
a street name you notice but never remember,
a radio station you flip past without listening,
a reflection in the train window, gone before you can focus,
a raindrop that dries before it hits the ground,
a coffee ring on the table.

Your affection
thin as frost on a window,
gone by morning,
a candlewick burning too low to catch.

I carved my name into the sky,
wrote you in the language of hands reaching,
eyes lingering,
silences thick with meaning.

It was an echo,
a touch that never stayed,
a warmth too faint to ever call fire.

Do I linger in you the way you linger in me?
Or was I always just a passing season
a petal caught in your soft hair,
noticed only when the wind carries it away?

There’s something here, there always was.
But I’ll never see the full picture,
and maybe that’s my fault.

Still, I have one favour to ask:
Stay.
If not in my life, then in my memory.
You’ve long outstayed your welcome,
but you won’t leave
and I won’t make you.

You are, simply, a memory.

I keep sinking,
but I never drown.
And I can’t help but wonder
what have I done for you?
And what have you ever done for me?

I played that song when we set sail,
The vinyl crackled like the waves,
The sun was liquid, gold and pale,
And youth was something time forgave.

I played that song in someone's car,
A summer night, a borrowed sky,
We laughed like gods, we burned like stars,
We didn’t know we’d say goodbye.

Oh, how absurd, to plead with dawn,
To keep the past like souvenirs,
But tides will pull, and time moves on,
And songs will fade in salted ears.

Now every note’s a missing friend,
Now every chord’s a rusted chain,
Now every road that had no end
Leads only back to where I came.

So what’s the use? The moon won’t wait,
The sea won’t still, the car won’t start,
And youth, that liar, locks the gate
And leaves the key inside your heart.

In the ash of forgotten flames, a bloom will rise,
Its roots drinking from sorrow, its petals a hymn to the stars.
For in ruin lies creation, and in solitude, the whisper of eternity.

See that cat?
Yeah, I do mean you.
She’s got a TV eye on me.
She’s got a TV eye.

The sky is a canvas
paint it with greed,
paint it with oil, yeah, paint it with drain.
**** paradise for a parking lane.

Shoot to ****.
Shoot the bird flying the sea.
Do it for fun, don’t do it for me
even though I am hungry.
Do it for fun, don’t do it for me.

Chrome veins twitch,
static twitching in the ditch.
Neon god with a cigarette lip
burns holes in the ozone slip.

She walks like a car crash
slow-mo flash,
glass in her smile and blood in her lash.
Radioactive glamour trash.

Rat race dinner plate,
serve it cold, seal the fate.
Eat the rich with a spork,
and chase it down with molten torque.

Skull full of bees,
heartbeat like a drum machine freeze.
Yeah, baby’s got a Rust Belt kiss
and a chainsaw tongue that hisses bliss.

Preach from a pulpit made of lead,
baptize me in melted meds.
Hell is a mirror
I see the light.
It’s a lit cigarette
on the tongue of a dog.

The dog is filthy.
He's what you think you are.
He follows me wherever I climb.
He follows me with pride.
He’s from Hell.
He’s from Hell.
He’s from Hell.
He belongs in Hell.

We drift so softly, still break in the end,
Moon rising faintly, no path to ascend.
The pull to step out,
To let the sound drown out,
A fleeting dawn, too bright to stay,
Soft embers lost to yesterday

What remains?
The place, the time, the shadow stains.
You falter, play, let it slide,
First you feel
The tide subside,
And what’s left
Lingers in your mind.

Hands stained with the weight of days,
If there's no truth to chase, no one to praise,
I'll still laugh beneath this heavy sky,
And push the stone, though I don't know why,
And clutch the fallout, though I don't know why.

Something scratches, not sound,
but shape. The edge of a shadow.

I do not call it by name.
Even the birds hesitate to describe sky.
Even the dead
they long for it, and it showers them.

It comes in moments:
the spoon lifted,
the glass unbroken,
the wrist staying whole,
though nothing insists it should.

It dresses in light, thin as regret,
then leaves.
A thought unspoken,
burning a ring on the tongue.

I keep the door unlatched
for the possibility of paws.
A cat might wander in.
Or
you, trailing the smell of rain and half-said sentences.

The room holds its breath.
I do, too.
You do not come.

This is how it ruins:
with the almost.
It draws a seat at the table,
unseen,
and eats first.

I’ve been kissed by fire.
She was a woman,
impossible not to watch,
impossible to touch without consequence.
She didn’t save me.
She lit the match,
watched me burn,
and She never looked away.

I wait beside the open door.
I name nothing.
I listen
for the hinge.