The sky was
cloaked
in gray.
the clouds
were weeping.
As I walked today,
tears began to
fall on me—
and they made
me fertile.
I saw golden leaves
lying crushed,
flattened
by footsteps
that never paused.
Nature often
held me,
gently even when
she grieves,
And I wondered—
If God had told us
That fallen things
were sacred,
Would we
have loved
them better?
Would we
have tread
more lightly?
Seen beauty in
their break?
Found grace
In letting go?
Would we
have stopped
Before the
bruised things—
Not out of pity,
But reverence?
On sharp stones
Lay orange
flowers,
Their sleep
just ending—
As if they were
still dreaming
Of the sun.
And in their quiet,
Something
inside me
softened, too—
A stillness,
A small bloom,
A reminder
That even
broken things
wake beautifully.

🌸🍁

Last night,
 meant to
loosen
the bulb
I wrapped
my hands
in woven
cloth, and
coaxed the
moon down
instead
It creaked,
blushed,
and fainted
slipped into
my palm,
like a lover.

We can't know the sea's
depth without the swim,
Nor gauge tomorrow's
progress until it's lived.

Everything reveals
itself—in motion.

When I was a kid,
emotions were
monotonous.
A candy was
just a candy.
Happiness came
fast and full.
I didn’t wonder
who gave it,
or why.
I just smiled
and ate.
Now,
I think too much
about hearts,
about hands,
about faces,
about the things
people want
when they give.
Now, a candy feels
like a trap.
Love feels like a deal.
And the world?
Too heavy
for joy to be simple.

Her wounds were stitched
with threads of patience,
And from the hurt,
a moon emerged,
A glowing orb of light.

Love reveals our
bare selves—like
the full moon, clear
and veritable.

We lose our true selves—
no longer misted like a morning bud—
the thickened, tangled relationships
bury seeds inside our faith,
turning it dark.

—this is the quiet inheritance of womanhood.

You don't know
where the kite goes.
You just have to
let it ride.

The sky convulses,
a star plummets, plunges
into the earth, and is gobbled
up by the soil— leaving
no signs of vitality
or decay.

Love and hatred descend
in a hierarchy, unraveling
from above—where sun
and moon once kissed,
and love began.

  The sky wrote love—
before we could name it

Pearls are born in turmoil
within oysters—so is love.

The womb creates the
bones so does the grave.

The flesh — is only
borrowed.

The scars on her body seem
to leech the dopamine from
her veins― She felt that pain
is the residue of joy.

Your soul keeps returning,
even in death—like sea
remnants brought back
by restless waves...

    Grief comes like the
   sea—never done,
never dry.

A duo of
parrots
has been
fluttering
they’ve
made my
  room a stage.
Their wings
flap like
applause.
Everyone
calls it
sweet
I call it
performance.
I reject how
loud,
visible,
and simplistic
their love seems.
I don't like love
that performs in
daylight,
I want a love
that’s curtained
and cryptic.

An infantile urge to
stretch a bedsheet
and pull to reach a
toy just out of grasp
—a manifestation
of adult anxiety.

Though you’re but a
single drop of rain,
Your presence ripples
through the world—
You rise with the mist,
form clouds above
darkness and carve
rivers below hope,
stir oceans and tides,
sculpt glaciers and
awaken springs,
nourish lakes and
swell the seas.

You are part
   of something vast—
  alone, yet whole.

Loving you was
like sowing a seed
  in sea sand—
soft, vast, and never
meant to grow.

Could the sea swallow
what the heart offers?

My heart
crumbles
  and offers
itself
to you
for feed,
for love,
for sanity
so you
feel full,
because you
want a life,
not just
survival.

You already carry
enough to be believed,
Your heart tastes like
strawberries and
listens like a god.
Your blood keeps you
from rusting and  
clears cobwebs within.
Your bones keep
your daring steps
from stumbling.
Your eyes have
the power to soak
uncertainties.
Your skin lets
you love.
Your wit helps
you continue.

What more can
they ask of you?

Though the
moonlight
doesn’t run
out,
and the sun
doesn’t choose
who it warms.
Still I keep
resisting
something
as if I’m
working
against the
earth. .

Nature depicts
abscission as the
beauty of life,
so why do I
call it detachment?

I am the
farthest
geese,
mingling
over
mountains
but when
my
emotions
descend,
I flatten
into a
plateau.

I used to be
a difficult kid
when it came
to eating.
I didn’t
raid fridges
in quest
of food.
To ensure
my good
health,
my mother
fed me
spoonfuls
of bone pulp
on bunk beds.
She’d scoop
it out,
blowing air
to cool its fire,
then press it
into my
mouth
with the
quiet panic
only a mother
knows
fearful I’d turn
my head,
or spit
what she
believed
might
save me.