When my body and soul
No longer entwine
What will become of my spine?

Does it sigh solaced croon
A hymn-silken harpoon
Propelling me
Through
Threshold everlasting?

Or will it crumble by piece
Like moldy blue cheese
Marrow vinaigrette feeds
Famished nerve roots
And dirt
Absorbing lost life,
Fueling the Earth?

Perhaps a doctor
Will pass it along
Loaded syringe,
Silver and mauve
Into flesh as fresh
As death’s final breath
Enervated vertebrae
A-positive strong

Or maybe it retreats
Into shadows sea-deep
Steel-tipped discs
Flash of shimmer
As they sink
Footholds for lost souls
Sin-dark landmarks
Untouched by warmth
And
Unseen by stars

I think those who are in love on this era is cursed,
not that their love is delusional nor artificial
But because their manisfestation of love is perceived
by how society visualizes and defines it

We think someone genuinely love us because
they upload hundreds of photos of us
We think someone sincerely love us because
they write essay competition-worthy captions
We think someone truly love us because
they praise us at all of our selfie posts

To me, love is listening to a music
and suddenly it reminds you of them
To me, love is reading a good book
and suddenly wants them to read it as well
To me, love is when winter comes and all you ever think is whether they wear their warm clothes
To me, love is when the night comes and all you think of is how his day was

Well, then again, Chbosky once said that
"we accept the love we think we deserve"
And maybe we don't get to choose the way we love
or the way we want to be loved
Simply because we think it's the kind of love
that deserves us

I'm a little
-
scared

To open up that
box

That desire
A never dulling     -
fire

How to keep it-
at bay

The desire to       excel      exceed        
Ambition

A calm,
avoidance
denial
SO
   Much
         easier
But,
Should           I
Open this





Pandora's
        box?

I was left hanging
in your garden heart
yet I was only a ****
who never got your
attention.

They call it phantom pain when they sever your limb, but how come I still feel your touch, I can’t get a grip. Your ghost makes me shiver. Cut off

She sees him
from afar and sighs.
He’s easy on the eyes,
this man by the sea,
as he contemplates,
who he is and who
he wants to be.
She wants to wave,
as she raises a hand,
like how the ocean
greets the land,
but then wonders if
she should turn
and walk away,
and leave him
to his day.