putting the tracks i liked
out there, on my stories
hoping, wondering,
maybe they'd see me for how i dream
and not for how i've been coping

except a step further
a path up ahead
i realized, they didn't really care for all that i had
prized possessions of mine, these lyrics so simple
they don't deserve bits of me, if the surface excites them sole
if they don't like it whole, not worth the lengths i go

a girl's room is her own museum
or so they said
mine's a beautiful chaos
trust me, a letter to self

and so i stopped
a step further even
ahead i moved
watched, smiled, told them they had all i could
share without breaking, without giving them the key
that could threaten my volatility—my being
and i hoped they'd accept

except fools require everything whole
even if they can't accept it, they need it only
for the pleasure it brings, the joy of knowing
not to like, to love—but to show—
the world always required proving

i have my own cocoon
won't term myself ready to bloom
or a butterfly for that case
but i hide, intending to forget the world
my room, the paradoxical mapping
the stars chart their own course during the nights
up on my ceiling as i turn the lamp and let it burn bright
it's simple, heady space
there's posters and pictures on one wall
the other holds a heart collage of all sorts
lomographic detailing, i've always found myself dreaming
one picture, and i tend to stare deep
whenever this head gets too loud, i sit and stare at all of the meanings

there's a magnitude that hides
read every picture, uncover—but it comes with a price
safe spaces, meant to be kept hidden
posters—the movies that stayed, the artists looking back at me
quotes, written in an unhinged manner
my favourite, i'm yet to choose
but it all kind of gives away what i can't hammer
across my skull and at myself every time i go out
i wish to carry it all, to show them what i'm all about

don't try to rewrite my scars
just don't add any new ones to the already existing
and you could wrap a bandage
i'll keep all the rough edges sealed
and edited for flow

there's carts—more like shelves weakened with a multitude of books
i counted them, turned out to be a lucky 151
now i wonder which i ought to read
to throw caution to the wind and forget all my seams

there's stands, holding tiny little things
a layer of all my bracelets, of all that i intend to wear
one with the skincare, and other little prizes i just keep
there's pens, a vast multitude—I could never have enough
in all colors, i think half of them already dried up
a couple things for journaling stay at the very back, at the very bottom
right above, it holds all the things i could use to paint—to bring my dreams to mortal realm
except the skills lack, i tend to procrastinate
so they stay, gathering dust—unless i air it out—once a day
every day

the last compartment holds a stack of pencils, a glass quill—intended for magic
couple washi tapes—perhaps i'll wrap them around my wrists
and a few paper cutters, having gathered rust from being washed—every time i stuttered

a red ribbon, and a golden one, tied around both my shelves—reminding of who brought them to
vines hang in one corner, right beside the balcony
i'm yet to minecraft the windows, perhaps i'll let them be
there's pages stuck to the walls, and a multitude of sketches
nothing all too special—but there's this one of an eye that speaks
couple stars, the phases of the moons—waning and waxing,
full one too!
a paper leaf string—maple leaf except i made little hearts
hangs over the bathroom door—completely out of place, held in a purple thread
the pages wall is of a comfy book—before the coffee gets cold
the curtains are a shade of violet and silver in the middle, indication of what couldn't have been told
silver almost looks like a grey, a bit shiny, a bit neutral
but then there's another book stand and it holds a few candles
hardcovers at the bottom, they hold too much weight
the paperbacks balance the top however
and wrapping its corners is a string light—a heavy mistake
it goes over my wardrobe
multitude of tiny bulbs if i were to turn it on
phases of the moon again, cut out
and beneath—like scribbles on a notebook—stuck album covers in tiny, varying shades

a sign that says smile—i can't say i do
but it stares back at me, every time i sit on my bed—so i try to
a blue ribbon bow—gifted, i remember just who
stuck to the handle bar, i grip it every time i pull the door through

my desk is a messy messy affair
to put a name to things would be like listing down what i couldn't bear
but here it goes—
my laptop, the one i barely use—it's new
yet to find my way through, i rely on the old one
tho it's been barely working
comfort i guess—is one step away from despair

fake purple tulips, standing in a lilac bottle that i'd painted
a pastel of the same shade except it's an hourglass
30 minutes, i'm yet to check if it lives up to its truth
three scrapbooks, incomplete, the kits emptied halfway through
a candle, a chalkboard, tiny—a slate of all sorts
with one side a black, the other a white
i tend to use it black over white

a clock, stuck on the wrong time, currently giving 11:11
some wisterias kept in a green plastic vase
and a succulent that's as real as it gets
i water it every now and then, the bubbles breathing a sign of life in the room
there's a bunny enchanted almost in a glass sphere—a lamp i don't turn on
a shell, one you'd find at the edge of a sea—except it's a gift too
sets of little trinkets i opened in kinder joy
pen stands holding my sketch pencils that i rarely use
my keyboard is a heavy affair
doesn't really fit in the room with its peachy aesthetic
it seeks repair

a bowl, huge ceramic one i'm yet to find the perfect place for
it carries several stones, i think i'd use them someday to break a skull or two
kidding—
the wall above—black and white, epiphanies printed on pictures
"human being"
"anxious person"
"creative block", "parental advisories"
"life of an artist", a quote between viktor & jayce  and big moon

a wall hanging on the wall, carries a humidifier i don't use
the three figurines of harry, hermione and ron from the wizarding world
the second ron hides just behind the three
a kuromi sits atop a small tin, holding bracelets that specifically need no calling

there's a couple fake plants, sure
books everywhere—on my bed
a set of few that i personally cherish
a dictionary of dreams, a history of time, grimms' tales and a comfort book to carry
it all together

my current read, a lighter for some reason, a diary i write poetry in
and a notebook to remind me why i do it all
add to it- a pen in white, one in blue
a highlighter just to mark the lines i already knew

oh the plushies!
a penguin, a bunny, a koala, a seal
an octo changing moods, a slytherin pillow, and a kuromi
a strawberry hiding a bunny again, and teddy—ages old from when i was a child
three pillows, and two comforters, i think i might get a weighted blanket
the grip feels familiar

there's a tapestry, right above my bed—i tend to forget its existence
since i'm always facing away
the sun and the moon, staring at each other
and a couple random trinkets that define me
don't ask of my drawers, or in between my books
my cupboard, or my wardrobe
i'll mention downturned black butterflies, a cloud with a storm symbol
a party mask, and a phone charm hanging off a circle
a small stool holding japanese authors' best works
a snowflake candle and a few marbles

it's all my own
sacred, hidden
drapery of the lights—different moods, different nights
why i wonder i hide, or spend so much of my time
but it's a galaxy here within
like in my eyes and in my being—whole

my brain resets, works to a rhythm—on nice days
i tend to keep the balcony open and wind flows
everything whispers and takes a breath of relief
the rain pours outside, as i sit and speak
little secrets to my walls
lying on my bed or sitting at my desk
wondering, circling—the reasons to live

the grandest—my baby bunny
wondering, sleeping, napping away or speaking
she stays with me
her own space, her own world a part of my own
we've got an ecosystem in here
the most prized possession

and every time i step
i carry this armor
laced with all the time i spent in this room
gathering strength, putting a piece anew
even if you're not it—
would you like to come see my room?

why'd i let the outsides visit and steal it solely
to murmur of how it all seems obnoxious
it's bits of me, pasted, put together
clumsy, messy, chaotic
i'm quite a few issues when you hear
so close your eyes, listen to my speaker
as i play the playlists i've kept hidden
tonight's the turn for prologue by cloud koh
and if you haven't even tried to read mine
how can i let you read the story directly just for show?

There’s an outfit for each kind of day,
one for work, and one to play.
One for silence, one for charm —
I dress to keep their peace from harm.

I match their tone, their pace, their cue,
become the me they’re walking through.
A shifting shape, a face that fits —
but never quite the one that sits.

I dress in layers not for style,
but just to wear a safer smile.
A thousand looks, a thousand designs —
but none align with what’s in mine.

And every mirror looked back at me
But none of them knew who to be
I learned to read the room so well,
I lost the voice I used to tell.

But fabric wears, and so did I,
the cost of always living shy.
I’ve worn their sizes, played their part —
let fashion hide a restless heart.
But now I pull the stitching tight —
and walk in clothes that finally fit right.

May I splinter away from myself
break into whole units
and
live in each with perfection!

This ME
made whole by
combining countless fragments
could not live in any one part
with complete ease.

May I show a true model
of deconstruction to Derrida
by taking off parts that make up my being!

So that I would see
one man fallen off me
shambling down the street,
and continue to speak in assemblies
with full ignorance of the subject,
continue to review the news of the world
by stuffing them in his brain
and go yapping in the crowds
fully content in the perfection of
his inferior sphere.

The other one
brooding over the ledger books
and the personal files
of the employees.

May the next one always keep reading,
the other looking after children
and still another swimming
in love all his life.

May the other fragment – the ‘me’ whom I don’t like
remain shut somewhere in the room.

May one other splinter engage
in inner decoration of the house
and meet the hunger of needs.
If he cannot do so
may he fragment himself further
into contractors
supplying vegetables, miscellanies,
clothes, and fuels
and sorting out other mess.

May one other part
forgetting that he is my splinter
continue to clap on each stupid action
of his boss, shaking head, and
remain busy in his little puppet moves.

May the other take responsibility of
television, radio and newspapers.

May the other still stay repeating the news of
the relatives and acquaintances
fulfilling formalities of well-being
embroiling in the phatic-
where? what? how?
participating in all of ‘sixteen rituals’
and birthdays.

May the other one continue to repeat
the non-news of his immobility
and continue to go to places
where people gather,
and go doing something like that.

May I hold an assembly
of the proportional representation
of all my selves.
may I go out with the poet
by leaving all the others
in their chaotic meaningless arguments.

May my poet remain a poet
in its perfection
unattached to my domesticity
full of scarcities;
may he remain separate
from a job-savvy me
who has sold his self-respect.
may my poet disengage itself
from my being
swayed by my brain.

May I discard the outer cover of time
from the layers of poetry
by immersing the poet in its entirety
within me, and
dismantle geography’s barriers.
may I break the windows of consciousness,
break further the dilapidations of waking moments
and emerge into the bright world of dream.

May life remain enamored of its own charm
may the river of love always flow from its own lap
may my pain remain drunk singing its own love songs
and the dead body of agony remain asleep
resting its head on a pillow of flowers.

May I free myself from the labyrinth of knowledge
run away from the jungle of thoughts
and jump from the hill of illusion
into the mind’s speedy currents.
by stepping on this joint of time.
may I pack all inventions in burlaps
and hide them in corners of Einstein’s’ brains.

May I free myself from the ever-pressing chest
and enter the garden of imagination
by leisurely hiding brain on hill summits.

May I take off clothes covering shame at the border
leaving them hanging on dry trees of arrogance
and run by wearing the rays of the sun.

May I create plain fields by collecting clouds
and bedeck them with arching rainbows.

Playing ball of wind
reaching the other end of The Road Not Taken
may I call in Robert Frost by holding hands
and request Ginsberg to recite Howl
facing the world.

May I bet with Devkota sitting contentedly
by receiving his lord’s blessings
that you are a poet who has written epics
and win a bagful of stars.

May I exchange T.S. Eliot’s The Wasteland
with the future of this earth like a lunatic’s dreams
and make one season of poetry farming
by tilling with the pen of desire.

Oh, this ME
made with so many fragments
could not make any achievements!

May I then splinter away
from myself
and live only with the poet.
०००००

All my life,
you said what you said.
I did what you said.

I wore full-sleeved clothes.
I stayed quiet.
My cries went into vacuum—
swallowed, silent.

But you always stood strong.
It’s the colour of skin.
The hair you couldn’t tame.
The nose that wasn’t yours.

I always just...
heard what you said
until my ears bled out.

You remind me of the mountains—
the ones I grew up with:
tall, oddly shaped, and proud.
It’s shocking
that my tears made you crumble,
like a lost girl at sea.

Glad to see,
the past haunts you
like it does me.

I set track with this map of mismatch
That just tracks, and it stacks, and its lax,
On everyone — yet it drains, and it saps
The codex, the freakin’ stats of anyone who fights back
Try to relax, take a sip, but they snap
When I’m sad, like it’s bad, like I’m whack
Like I’m trash yet have the audacity to
bid no eye, and just wave and goodbye
To the ones who just **** up to you while I’m passin’ 'em by
And it’s always just them, and them, and again
And again and again man it pains me to bend — even then
I’m denied to take a stand, but ******* — enough is enough
Of this band — I’ma snap, I’ma crack, I’ma jest, I’ma Laugh
I’m this far away from the end of my thread
But I swear on the pain that I won’t let it end

For The years of torment, and the pains I couldn’t vent
You’ll feel till the end so just relax and repent
These verses are godsent, You fools better flinch, better **** in your pants.

And since birth, I’ve been cursed with this curse to just curse
And blurt this berserk and bizarre **** that works
And it helps in itself, it’s relief in the tension
That’s seepin’ through these sentences, stress in extension
That’s been eatin’ me recently off of my chest
And I still can’t even rest peacefully
No patience is in me, and if you offend me
I'm liftin' you ten feet in the air
I don't care who was there and who saw me, just jaw you
Go call you a lawyer, file you a lawsuit
I'll smile in the courtroom, and buy you a wardrobe
I'm tired of all you
I don't mean to be mean
But that's all I can be, it's just me
And I am whatever you think I’m not
If I wasn’t then why would I say I’m not
In the paper, the news everyday’s a ****
Everything I’m not made me everything I’m
                                                                    -Asher Graves

I just wish for all people to be spontaneous and to do sth they love. Find sth they enjoy and experience true joy doing that. Interacting with others, expressing themselves as they are.

Stale
I have gone stale
On the inside
Failed
To connect
In my mind
I reject
Disappointment
Lingering,
Drowning
In those halls of whispers,
Which I condemn,
Wanting to leave
Leave
Leave
Leave it all behind.
All at once.

I want to cut my hair

Not just as a change of style

But to express how I feel inside

To make myself more comfortable

Living in my own skin

I want to cut it short

Shorter than ever before

More boyish than not

I want to cut my hair

A short, fluffy wolf cut

Even if it means more people

At school will mock me for

Being queer as they throw

Their slurs at me like stones

I wonder if those idiots know

That before it was used to describe

A gay person.. The word ****** meant

A bundle of sticks used for fuel

And in some countries

When talking about a

Cigarette they call

It a ***

I wonder

Who is

The

******

Now.

You thought I didn't hear you?

inspired by tony labrusca's portrayal of josé rizal

babae likes me contained.
me—a tupperware full of lumpia.
i'm soggy, *****.
*****—inday—i'm gwapo. fried uy.

sorry. soggy.
druggy. sorry.

my chest tattoos?
yes, they can be removed.
will that be provided in my—

nevermind. thank you.
she opened her purse.
hard candy.

waving me away.
sorry carb-eating lad.
she is just ******* hard candy.
cgeh. babay. cgeh bi.

jose, they say you wrote novels.
but i wonder—
did you ever write yourself out?

did you watch your own ink
bleed into the soil?
did you wish for something softer?

in the way i am devoured. hero forgotten.
in the way i am swallowed
whole—one piso coin
by lovers, by history, by a name
they gave me before i ever
spoke too. ii