Everyone has a dream
brewing inside their head,
wishing to quash
the day-to-day
that we all have to dread:
it’s hard not to feel stuck
inside of a revolving door,
hard to escape
consumerism
that wants to make us
think we are poor

At the end of each sunset
comes another rising moon
to some it’s just
a time for sleep,
others it is an unbearable
silence, a deafening clarity
that we are truly all alone
because nobody will ever
see the way our insides tick
and form into afterthoughts,
never to begin

Still, the clock is spinning,
our minds keep spilling
thoughts we appreciate,
others we regret-
the endless war of
waging through mental states
to endure physical reality again
as we get up in the morning
with another attempt
at facing the blinding light,
the arduous day-to-day,
leaving our dream behind
that only wants to
breakthrough, and come alive
within this means to an end

There’s a tongue in my blood
that don’t sit right in my mouth—
words I know in feeling
but not in sound.
My grandma prayed in it,
soft and low,
like a secret meant for someone
who I never meet.
She’d stir the beans slow,
hum songs I never learned,
and when I asked what they meant,
she’d just say,
child, some things ain’t meant to be told.
I carry stories in me
that I don’t have the voice for—
songs without melody,
homes without maps.
My hands know more than my mouth does,
my silence says more than my tongue.
Some days I ache in syllables
I ain’t never been taught.
I dream in colors
that don’t exist in this country.
I write poems
with ghosts in the grammar.
And when I try to speak it—
whatever it is—
the words feel like someone else’s teeth
in my mouth.
But still,
I keep trying.
To shape the hush into music.
To name the ache without breaking it.
To say I am here,
even if it sounds like
something I ain't sure how to mean.

I used to identify with this idea of self
but it’s become an empty canvas,
a memory of romanticizing help
from being attached to words and panic
like they are the resolution to this
normalization spell

Coming to terms has kept me awake,
knowing that perceptions are lies
and with this continued heavy weight
from seeking external answers
my eyes will forever stay open,
devoid of the internal ocean

Burnt out from each day
maybe I was meant for the night
if I’m still finding ways to shake,
still saying good morning to the stars
wondering what this all means
and where the answers are

But here is good enough
to contemplate
while we humans
peddle our ignorance,
shy from possibilities that are endless,
afraid of simplicity
that is timeless:
ignoring nowhere
when it is somewhere,
though we mustn’t bask in fear,
no one ever arrives late-
if suffering occurs from attachment
then letting go must be
the way to stay sane

Right?

Chasing attention in stride,
everyone seems concerned with
empty things half the time
flourishing in every room at the center,
we speak out and judge
from perceptions that don’t matter,
pushing bad behavior like shills;
are we all climbing the same endless hill?

It is circumstance laced with denial:
we will get tired of being so busy
of spinning in mindless desire
and artificial normalcy,
tired of looking outside ourselves for
what will induce today’s new ecstasy

It’s easy to forget dry land
when you’ve always been at sea,
maybe there is still common ground
in living out our wildest dreams
and holding onto authentic truth:
don’t lose touch with this search for
the fountain of youth

Everything passes,

so we have to build bridges --


roads over the sea.

They argue in threads they barely read,
Just dopamine and capslocked tweets.
No questions asked, no space to try —
PEOPLE READ, NOT TO UNDERSTAND BUT TO REPLY.

Plastic chairs, shaped in

such a way that I can't help --


but think of buttocks.

So it true?
True that as a newborn is welcomed to this world
Someone is also somewhere struggling to find life... or rather dead

No wonder
When there is death ,there is tears
When there is birth, there is excitement except in the wicked world called Earth... rare cases actually

Practical Practical Practical
Imagine a world not earth now
A world where time flies  differently
The one with distinctive culture
Where birth is a sorrow
And death is excitement.....because the world is too cruel for new borns and dying is resting to be save from the wicked world

The roots won't grow, they just won't. The water is tepid and the gnats know this as they hover over it. They buzz around with grand expectations and buzz in anticipation of thriving in such fertile conditions (for water is as life-giving as is soil). Propagated from one flesh to another in hopes of growth. However, the roots just won't take. Slime already grows there. Some gnats may lay eggs, glass jelly sacs, tenderly floating amongst the roots. Soon it all starts to rot, to stink, just the same as before.