Young or old,
poetry is for all.
Some write soft,
some write bold,
sometimes cold.
Yet they are all
treasures like gold,
never to be sold.

I myselfed like I’ve never myselfed before
And the result was
I liked myself more
Not what I was searching for
But I’m gonna keep myselfing
Until my myselfer is sore

You asked me
the reasons to be
thankful for this life.

Yes, maybe I should be thankful
for not finding myself in a war zone,
for having a good education,
a roof over my head,
a job to pay the bills.

But I never had
the life I truly wanted,
not a single dream
ever came true.

So, I am not
​thankful for the life
​I got to live.

Buy a cobra

with legal tender,

& touch it

sometimes.

One word —

You spoke once

I
live
it

every moment.

It’s almost been a year—
a year since I last saw you smile,
since I talked with you,
since I heard your voice,

A year of crying,
a year of trying to understand,
a year of sinking into silence and grief—
a year since you breathed.

𝐴𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑙𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑠𝑖𝑚𝑝𝑙𝑒 𝑚𝑎𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑠
𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑝𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑏𝑦 𝐺𝑜𝑑'𝑠 𝑔𝑟𝑒𝑒𝑑
𝑊ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑑𝑜𝑒𝑠 𝐻𝑒 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑎𝑏𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑦
𝑊ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝐻𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑛'𝑡 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑛 𝑙𝑒𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑚 𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑚


𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞
𝐑𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭'𝐬 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭
𝐃𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐲𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐬
𝐑𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐤


𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑒𝑎𝑘 𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒 𝑔𝑢𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑑
𝐹𝑜𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑚, 𝐻𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑟𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑒𝑜𝑢𝑠
𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑑 𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑝𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒
𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦, 𝐇𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐮𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐬


𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐞𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐞
𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲'𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐮𝐩 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞
𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥
𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞
𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐞𝐱𝐢𝐬𝐭
𝑩𝒆𝒄𝒂𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒘𝒆 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒈𝒐𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒏


𝐴𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑙𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑠𝑖𝑚𝑝𝑙𝑒 𝑚𝑎𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑠
𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑑𝑜𝑛'𝑡 𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑘
𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑑𝑜 𝑎𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑐𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑡𝑜𝑟 𝑠𝑎𝑦𝑠
𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑠


𝐅𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐩𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬
𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐬, 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐨𝐲𝐬
𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐇𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝, 𝐇𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐲𝐬


𝑊ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦 𝑔𝑟𝑜𝑤 𝑎 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡
𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝑭𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎 𝒂𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕
𝐻𝑒'𝑙𝑙 𝑑𝑟𝑎𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑚 𝑎𝑤𝑎𝑦
𝑰𝒏 𝒉𝒐𝒍𝒚 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒔
𝑇𝑜 𝑂𝑏𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑜𝑛
𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑙𝑠' 𝑝𝑟𝑖𝑠𝑜𝑛
𝑾𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒃𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒈𝒐𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒏


𝐴𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑙𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑠𝑖𝑚𝑝𝑙𝑒 𝑚𝑎𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑠
𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑑𝑜𝑛'𝑡 𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑑 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠
𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑑𝑜 𝑎𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑐𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑡𝑜𝑟 𝑠𝑎𝑦𝑠
𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒'𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑏𝑒𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑠


𝐆𝐨𝐝 𝐰𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐜𝐫𝐲 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐤𝐲 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬
𝑇ℎ𝑜𝑠𝑒 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑂𝑏𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑜𝑛'𝑠 𝑡𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑠
𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑏𝑒𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑙𝑠
𝐖𝐡𝐨 𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬


𝑊𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑛'𝑡 𝑟𝑒𝑚𝑒𝑚𝑏𝑒𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑙𝑠 𝑤ℎ𝑜 𝑓𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑑 𝑎𝑤𝑎𝑦
𝑆𝑜 𝑤𝑒'𝑙𝑙 𝑛𝑎𝑚𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑔𝑜𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑛 𝑡𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑠


𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑹𝒂𝒊𝒏

maybe it's you
maybe it's me
maybe it's the both of us
the reason we disagree
could be the direction
in which we lean
me splashing in the shallow end
you swimming the deep

maybe it's me
maybe it's you
it could be outside ideas
that constitute the truth
inside our spinning circles
we're forced to get round to
what group think constantly heaps
on the likes of me and you

maybe it's us
and we both have it wrong
when it comes to our ideas
of what is really going on
we could sit and reason
the reason for it all
could be you
could be me...

come to think
we're both at fault

"She loved the embrace of nature,
and so did I.

Perhaps that is why we never met —
for the earth can never touch the sky,
even though their names
are always spoken together."*
✍️ Usha Maniar

getting sunburnt
may be painful.

but its so worth it.

making those memories
of being on the beach
with friends
or maybe your family.

or being at a pool party
to cool off
after that forty degree day.

i would exchange laughs for sunburn
any day.

because memories,
they stay.