why is there a void in me when i am filled completely
why is there an emptiness when i can't take anything anymore
what am i lacking when there is nothing to aim for
why is there a missing piece when i don't see any jigsaw
what is holding me back when i have nothing to let go
why do i keep running when i know nothing to chase after
what is it that scares me when i am a sunken ship
what is it that i am longing for when i came short of everything i longed for
what do i care about when there is nothing to look after
where do i find serenity when everything is  a disaster
why is this silence so loud that it deafens me to know what i want

If I were a fruit, would you still date me, would my shell  
be easy to crack, or would your patience bruise at the very
weight of peeling me back? I laugh at my own dad jokes
that crack me open; would you still concentrate on showing
me a fruitful love, or just beat my heart to a pulp. Whether
sweet or bitter, would you press me down to juice or savour
me in sips?

Would my scent linger like ripened promise, or fade too
quickly, forgotten at the bottom of the basket? Would you
call my softness spoiled, or taste the sugar hidden beneath
rough skin? I can be sharp as citrus, cutting your tongue;
other days, mellow as a peach, velvet against your hands.

And when I start to wine; my actions feeling like a bunch
of sour grapes, do you drink me slow, or spit me all out
as vinegar, too **** for you to swallow? When my seeds
of advice scatter, do you plant them for more, or toss them
aside as waste of the core? Even my flaws ferment into
something you might call flavour—but would you learn
to love the aftertaste?

So tell me— if I were your fruit, what fruit would I be?

Heart —
   hollow until tomorrow.
A man, a painter, once aimed so far
he broke his bow; his reach stretched
wider than his hands could hold.
Dreams, swollen with glory, dripped
    down the bristles of a hardened brush
— dipped in the wetness of tears,
     each stroke a storm, heavy with passion.

It starts with a pit —
    a seed pressed deep in the soil, a hollow
carved where something once stood,
a cave widening in the chest.
In the immensity of a workshop built from
cheap wood, tell me —  
                  where does a heart take root?

Cutting down those trees is mayhem waiting
to happen; for when the pit is flawed,
  the whole foundation caves.
And maybe that’s why we doubt
the truth we’re told.

They said,
    “the great tree fell.”
But if you never saw it fall yourself,
would you ever believe it made a sound?

complexities of us:

the unfamiliarity to it
comes off as uncomfortability
in the beginning.
but then i look back,
and i stare, zooming in and out,
grasping—this is the reality.
suddenly, it doesn't feel so bad;
looks okay, feels alright.
only, please, let me keep it all hidden
for a bit longer, bouts of while perhaps,
just for tonight.

what's the perfect opening?
to begin with it—
is it picking out a line from a list of prompts,
or playing music when the shadows swarm?
i believe it's hope and faith misplaced,
out of scope, of happiness and of exacerbation.
some words come to me,
like someone in my head plucked them out
of a locked away, hidden library.
and there are sentences, feelings
that are yet to find their place in a dictionary.
so i hold, and put forward
this ultimate piece stitched carefully.
a proclamation, if you must—
i hope you don't deny
that it indeed was poisoned, misspoken gust.

she's the precious kind
do you mind?





galaxy of masks:

masks upon masks,
just so the real ones are never visible.

where do we plan on heading,
hiding who we are
and watching ourselves disappear?
why cement the original, the real,
to show an illusion people'd like?
we lose our own shadows of individualism,
and still become whatever they continue to despise.

actors are lucky—
can be anything they want.
and even though it's all fake,
that's their job.
people dismiss them,
preach the characters they own.
they can become anyone,
and i can't even be myself.
now that's just forlorn.
they get applauded,
while i get cremated.
i do just the same—
they earn, i protect.
they flash, i burn.

and when you think you're late
that's when you're actually late.
so easy for them to say,
like they didn't need to struggle to live.
despite it all, they continue to pretend,
and so do i,
that i like them.
the smile that can hide everything for me
is something i'm thankful for.
is this the gratitude i'm meant to journal down,
or a selfish gift that i grew up with?
should i not talk about it?





cosmic revelations:

we're all stars.
stars on a big star,
surrounded by many more,
creating galaxies, preaching astronomy.
what were we made for?

i often don't know what to wish for.
is it health, happiness, or taste of the unknown?
so i stand in front of the lords,
hoping to find some quiet.
and peace does exist,
only it slithers away, as if washed off by the mighty.
i bow down, offer my all,
say i'm here, let me keep it whole.
i glance through the mirrors,
little somethings at the back of my throat.
adrenaline promises the thrill
of what living should have felt like—
if life wasn't so dead, furthermore.
the only moments i feel it pulse,
the blood thrums under my veins.
it sulks.

the sun took birth
after a collision and collapse
of a molecular cloud—term it star.
the brightest in the sky right now,
a miracle, like us.
and in your life,
as the biggest star of all,
yet you choose to fall down
after the slightest push.
wear and tear and suddenly we're misunderstood.
the world could end,
the galaxy could burst open
any given day—
you'd wake up, turn into dissipated matter.
and you worry about
that one thing,
or a list of multiple,
and claim this is the end
of your life and your empirical?
loathsome towards the sky,
have you seen how it looks during the night?

observe it through documentaries:
such a small piece of matter,
surrounded by so many
that are alike, yet destruct and differentiate.
even if they don't understand,
you could always.

it's only at a distance that spring seems green.
up close, it's floral, filled with allergies—
and they don't always mention
the bouts of issues that it comes with.
it's only at a distance
that it seems worth boasting.
does spring even exist,
or are we permanently a part of stark winters?
then why does it always melt off the skin—
all that we hide, and all that we wear?
mayflies live for a day,
it's their whole lifetime,
while you waste away.

when you drift through the night,
speeding up, watching the stars align,
you can almost make out how it isn't all too real.
surreality exists in the traffic lights
and cars drifting by.
it's bound to stay all up in my head this time,
so i need not write about how it was to kneel
and claim enjoyment when it lasted for seconds.
i've lived enough—enough to understand
when i've become unwanted.

from lorde's david,
to laufey's lover girl,
the kiss of venus,
and summing up the life of the one—
everyone in this party's a vampire.
so i've put on their teeth,
ready to bite.
except mine barely break through skin,
while theirs leave marks along a rhythm.
they can tell when it's a mess within your head,
but they wouldn't do anything.
make it a ghost town.
they'd **** the marrow of life.
like the blood moon, you'll be looped into hellfire.
i didn't even know how bad it stung,
until i saw the red turning black—
all over my arms, now they account for places.
all the spots that shone the brightest
are now dimmed.
brown spots, burnt.

a person with many thoughts makes fewer mistakes—
that's just a lie, cause the thoughts give out stories
of the what ifs, and of all that is fake.
and i look back a lot.
most of my own
count as actions questionable,
even though i've thought about it a hundred times—
enough for my head to explode.

the tale of nonchalance leaves me bereft.
isn't it like—
you're afraid to be read,
cause what if they don't like what they see?
but what if them not liking you
makes you dislike yourself—
and that's all that you believe.
the moon has craters.
up close, it looks like a giant ball, imperfect,
filled with marks and depths.
and yet every night you sit,
praying, admiring
the same moon, the same hollows that you carry.
if you could preach self-acceptance,
then maybe you wouldn't grieve
someone else's ignorance.
the codependence lies within yourself.
they could or could not—
you're left with you.
that's all you got.
so live a little, baby,
even if you make mistakes.
if they love you,
they'll correct and still accept you the same.





weeds of hope:

often saving up stories, reels, images
that i'd like to keep in my memory.
i don't read it all,
instead promising that one day
i'll either use them
or take inspiration to write my own.
except all that i've learnt,
the crazy crashing innocence—
there is hope within,
even though i might not see.
i could say i wouldn't want to wake up,
i'd want to sleep forever.
but all the saved up diaries,
waiting to be written into,
and through all the saved, shared, linked posts—
hope exists.
doesn't really show in the way it must,
but in other ways,
like saving the cheesiest bite
for the last take.

hope is beautiful,
even though it is never sure—
like the real home is with the right person,
the walls decoration, accessories on bodies of them all.

you don't look back—
that's the key to keep going.
but i do it often,
a way of letting go
and moving.
i've looked back,
when i was sure no one would be waiting.
and i saw tiny figures in the mist of dark—
they were leaving.
for the first time in a long time,
it didn't feel like the ultimate ending,
yet it was the closure for me.
done, complete.

i've been keeping a track of all my greens—
the plants, the flowers, and how they stopped blooming.
the prettiest of extras, weeds they call them.
i watched them grow, unsure if i should crop them.
now they've taken over,
grown to heights the plants could never.
and they seem more in place than the originals—
except in the long run you and i both know
they'll ****, no matter how we look.
weeds have to be removed.

i removed the weeds off my plants today.
prettiest, shadowy, soft, almost as if they belonged.
and now they lie on my desk,
drying away through as the sun sets.
perhaps they'll be stacked among the pages
of my books, as bookmarks, memories and stages,
as people who've drifted in closer and walked away.

even though they weren't meant to stay,
the weeds gave me an idea:
phantoms do stay,
so the leaves as well.
and they might not have belonged in the plants,
but they did grow, and it isn't all too bad.
the plants are alive still.
the flowers might bloom again.

Walking down the aisles of fear –
a thousand miles paved in soft-spoken panic,
a cart full of dreams, half on sale, half returned.
And on other days, I crash like a kart – cornered,
spinning, never quite finishing the lap.
Tell me: what's the missing piece to a scar?
The echo that completes the pain, or the piece
of you still aching to be whole?

Some days feel like broken piano strings –
and not every key fits success, as the minor
hopes can also become our major regrets.
And still, you stay – a melody trapped in place,
living to dream. Yet if that lullaby won’t rest
your mind, find another song to sing.
One that knows your name.

Grinding your smiles, stained with bitter coffee –
as brewed remarks sip back at you. You try to hold
a strong stance in the night, but don’t live for one-night
stands with your own worth. We are all skin and sand –
grains of the past clinging to the present, footsteps
washing away even as we walk forward.

Not every people are your people —
but in that same breath, everybody needs you.
Going round the city, and round the clock,
where times are always hard, like the past
we keep wearing; all the ones we hang up.
As someone called me, and I answered
quickly, frequently, honestly; just to hang up.

Funny how that’s what we do with people too.

Fingers of strangers scrubbing their own
dishes, while dishing out cold remarks —
serving my character as tonight’s leftover dinner.
And still, I stay on their minds without an address,
resting in dreams without a mattress; in the scripts
they write, I’m some recurring actor or actress —
But I don’t have the stamina to be running through
someone else’s head for free; dressing for their occasion
while my self-worth turns into something old fashioned.

And the idea of pushing a lawnmower over grass
that’s not mine, just to keep the image they clipped
of me, cut and well-trimmed - cuts me short of worth.

I’m always cut short for time, by that very blade.
Could it be a blade of grass or time itself?
Either way, it leaves another scent in the air —
the smell of success I’m still chasing.

Not every people are your people —
there are some paths, you won’t walk.
And some eyes, you won’t meet.
And some connections? You just hang up.

you’ve suffered
for so long

and now
you want to give up

because all
you’ve ever wanted
was to be
something
to someone —

to belong
in this world

your knees buckle
and hit the ground

you try to cry
but nothing comes out

you ask yourself:
am i emotionless?
am i
down
for the count?

touching the surface
you look
for ways
to escape
this spiral

is this
the final
temperamental break?

you scream
shaking your fist
at the sky

you search
for hope —
but you see it
nowhere
at all

maybe one day
you’ll wake up

and realize
hope
was always
around

move
forward,
rebound.

this is your
time —

your time to
not let your
emotions
drown.

It’s like you plan to feed yourself with time
but never take any seconds. And I swear —
you could hear me second-guessing
myself over a plate full of food for thought,
just trying to feed a little of my ego. And it takes
a while to finish expressing myself — so let me take
the express train on any passing train of thought.
Cos it’s a full course — learning how to be well fed
in a world where everyone’s trying to make bread
while praying for that daily bread.

A man does all that he can for himself, before he
even says Amen! And all men are expected
to have themselves in order — but never given
the time of day to order the meal that fills their worth.
Because most of that time gets spent spending on
somebody else’s worth.

And sometimes, I wonder if it’s really worth it at all.
There’s a man who regrets giving it all to a girl
who became somebody else’s girl…that sentiment,
doesn’t only apply to him giving his all to girls.

—He gave everything to a seemingly self-fulfilled
world! And that meal is always so cold...