There’s a prayer with a sigh—
a breath let out like scripture,
written in stone, signed by a former lover.

Would you ignore every sign,
just to chase the shape of a feeling?
In over your head, thinking you’re
heading in the right direction—
when even the stars have stopped pointing.

A little too forceful, a little too often,
repeating the same mistake like it’s part
of the ritual— a pattern etched in skin,
but called love, to make it sting less.

But maybe… it’s the measure that matters most—
how the repetition finally taught you to become
your own ruler. Not of someone else’s heart,
but of your own.

I’m in a drought for time— yet flooded with ideas.
as the sun rises with the dust, and by dusk, all hope
feels spent, or quietly scattered.

I know destiny calls— even without a map, signal
or a location marked. "Yeah, I don’t know what
I’m doing," I often confess, in quotation marks—
still walking toward the shape of who I’m meant
to become.

Pushing through bruises and bitter slights—real joy
flickers, but most smiles still feel perfectly rehearsed.
To stay above the arrows, but never ahead of myself—
sharp enough, still, to pierce through the soft fabric
of my many, many daily doubts. And I’m learning:
sometimes the cage has no door— but only the illusion
of one, built from fear.

There’s always a world just outside of it— waiting.
We’re all just finding ourselves day by day.
And life? It’s one day after another— until, finally,
you recognize the person you've been becoming
all along.

Circle CirCle  
          
          In

Circle circle

(At the centre Centre
The Centre Centre )

No at the FoCus
At FoCus
focus focus

.......

Or at the fence
Yes maybe

The fence
The fence
Fence maybe at it


No at the corner
Yes Corner -
The corner

The corner ?
The Corner


Where ?
.....
Can't find
Can't find
Can't find
Can't find
Can't find
Can't find

Where is it ?

Can't find
Can't find
Can't find
Can't find
Can't find
Can't find

Maybe

In
Circle CirCle

       And

Circle CirCle


Yes where is it
Where is he
Where is me
Where am I
Why I am here

Why why
Why

At the centre
Why am In a ..

I do not wear the brightest colors
they blister on me like false hallelujahs,
like hymns sung by mouths that never tasted ash.
Red is a lie. Yellow screams.
I was meant for grey
for the shade that lives between smoke and surrender.

I hate the sun
its gold teeth, its cruel spotlight.
It peels me open like fruit left out too long.
Give me the sky when it's weeping,
when it folds in on itself like grief
tucked beneath an old coat.

Sweet coffee tastes like apology.
I drink it black
like a widow’s veil,
like ink spilled on a suicide note.
I want the bitterness to bite,
to remind me that even silence can scald.

Joy is foreign
a costume that fits someone else’s ghost.
When I laugh, it echoes wrong,
as if joy is borrowing my voice
and not returning it.
I was stitched from thunderclouds,
from cellar air and moth wings.

I do not like people.
Their voices swarm like flies
around the fruit I’ve already thrown out.
Their love is too loud, too pink.
I crave solitude the sharp knife of it,
clean, precise, and without perfume.

I’ve stood at the edge
of so many beginnings—
just close enough to taste them,
never close enough to stay.
The door always slightly ajar,
never open.
I want to be more than a shadow of almost.

People call me potential,
but never presence.
A promise, not a person.
Their faith feels like fog—
thin and disappearing
the moment I reach for it.
I want to be more than a shadow of almost.

I speak like I know who I am,
but the echo doesn’t agree.
My words crumble in my mouth
before they ever build meaning.
Even my hope sounds rehearsed.
I want to be more than a shadow of almost.

I dream in color,
but live in grayscale.
My hands stretch forward
but always fall short—
of the vision,
of the version
of me I thought I’d be by now.
I want to be more than a shadow of almost.

So I write.
I bleed ink and silence
trying to draw a shape
that feels like truth.
And maybe one day,
I’ll look back
and see I was becoming all along.
I want to be more than a shadow of almost.

I am not my own strength – nor am I my own words
I am not the sum of silver, or rich as the world,
Nor even close to a sliver of gold.

I am not my future – or any better than my own past
I am all of my mistakes made in the present,
And all of the things, hoping to come to pass
Nowhere near a love that endures without question –
Nor the calm; being a life of many, many scars.

I am the quiet battles, that tears praise my triumphs,
The stillness in inner storms, battling emotional riots –
Marvel of flesh, fragile code; built of miracle science
Living in society’s endless bias, where the little
You hope to give, is the hope that will be trampled
Beneath the heels of Giants.

A faith that’s ALWAYS under intense heat
And so many pressures; pressed and refined,
I emerge as a Beautiful Diamond.

scared shitless of the idea that
in a month i’ll probably never see
him again

a constant in my life ever since year 7
someone who awoke something in me
allowing me to see who he is
what am i
without him anchoring me
like a drifting ship to shore

Where lies the gate of this world? I long to escape