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...

My thoughts stagger, trying to carry hopes heavy as heartbeats.
Two lovers, chest to chest, whispering, “let’s talk soul to soul,”
trying to make sense of a love story that hasn’t been written yet
—a heart-to-heart moment, I keep dreaming of.

I tell myself: stay focused. But I’ve been tiptoeing through
daydreams, because chasing love too fast leaves you breathless
when it runs the other way. Cos everyone wants the highs of love,
but no one talks about the problems on the down low — the quiet
exits, the silent tears, the way loneliness can sneak in even when
someone’s lying right beside you.

Maybe it’s a late-night phone call — a sleepy “goodnight, baby”
before the line cuts out. Or a “good morning” text just to fold into
my memory like a note tucked beneath my pillow. Maybe it’s
wanting to tell you everything — not just the good, but the messy
middle parts too. Like you’re both my friend and my fire. Like you’re
the one who fits the empty spaces between the soft notes of this wild
birdsong my thoughts keep singing.

I want that kind of love. But I know relationships get complicated.
And honestly, I don’t miss perfect — I miss partnership. I miss
the “we got this” when life gets heavy, the “I’m here,” even when
we don’t have the answers. It’s not a complicated thing — just
someone to solve life with me. To laugh when things crack. To stay
when the flaws start showing.

I want skin I can breathe in — not just touch. Someone who sees
my silence as depth, not distance. Who holds my flaws like fragile
truths, not defects to be fixed.

But maybe that’s too much to ask. Maybe that kind of love only exists
somewhere between sleep and memory. I’m awake now — and I
don’t want to fall too deep just to find the woman of my dreams.

art is an interchangeable form.
what is poetry can be prose can be music can be art can be TV can be movies can be video games can be visual novels can be webcomics can be dance can be movement can be aesthetics can be a flash of inspiration hidden behind a street corner.

art is a connective process.
you forge new threads between yourself, others, and the world around you.
you realize the universe is so much bigger than yourself. and yet, you discover just how you can be a part of it, just how you can fit in.

through art we are not human, yet art is the most human form of being there is.
art motivates us not just to live, but to thrive. it shows us the evidence of why we should all still be alive.

and to appreciate art, is no less than to make it.
to create, is no lesser or greater than to be.

go feel art.
go make art.

go be art.

A pistol tucked inside my heart—
memories of old dreams echo like bullet
wounds. Freedom comes, quietly, when
I finally let myself be known to myself.

Lips are like public transport;
they carry heavy loads:
sometimes love, sometimes doubt.

But the private lifts? Those are the words
we whisper to ourselves when we’re trying
to lift ourselves up, above our own doubts.

What loads are you carrying? Will your
transport make...or break someone?

Because belief in your own worth is such
a heavy load. And no— it’s not something
you should carry alone.

The weight of any load feels lighter when
the ones you love—and who love you back—
don’t just stand beside you; they help you
carry what you were never meant to bear alone.

we are not all going to die.
a draft will never hit our home
the TV will always be on, but
we will never be alone.

i write to dress the aching wounds
of the impending fantasy of a wartime
or rather a sickening anxious nightmare
of what cause
of what cause is it for?
is it to tear all of our teens to shreds on a dusty battlefield
while those who stay work our fingers bare?
fighting for a piece of colored fabric and glory that was never there?

the war will only hurt this broken world
and they say we will die american deaths.
someone pulled the bathtub stopper for
the liquid love in our hearts is gone,
and yet
the TV is always on.

you, me
sunscreen lines
hot concrete
public pool
wasps clinging to hazy poles supporting scratched-up waterslides
that made us scream:
both the slides
and the wasps
but we always laughed it off
in the end.

when we sit down the sunset will follow.
i hope we do it all over again, tomorrow...
pretzel cup cheese-induced teenage chlorine dreams
the summer i turned fifteen
i thought you
i thought we
were everything

Moments of love feel almost medical—
but my patience for it is cold, clinical.
I never meant to overdose, just chasing
comfort in a heavy dose of someone new,
to help me cope.

I try to build a house from broken pieces—
too many to count. I am the empty echo
of a heart still full, but far too loud
to be heard.

Echo...
  Echoes
     fall between the silence of our words,
two awkward breaths apart—trying
to keep it innocent, just as friends,
while our primal skins just want to skip
to the part of just having ***.

It’s the risk of falling in love—
that makes us stumble near the edge.
It’s beautiful. It’s ******* stupid.
It hurts. It’s love.
Whether it finds you first, as the one
you need— or shows up last, as the one
you never really wanted.

a random way to start a poem.
this was the prompt i'd given to my head.
i re-read it,
realized it works as it was—
and i didn’t need another instead.

this might be more of a digital zine.
i read it once, and more—
had it unravel my soul.
there's a lot that goes in here.
free verses are simply rare.

i've got a mind
trying to make sense of the chaos
through rhythm and fragments,
a heart
trying, staying far away from the shallow ends.

this is a journal between them both—
a memoir,
monologue,
memory,
moment—
perhaps double of all.

there's contradiction,
there's numbness,
and a yearning.
i ain't always living
in the classic sweet little nothings.

listening to the wrong playlist.
well, it’s just that particular one.
special moments, special feeling,
kinda thing?
the kind where the memories are kept and treasured.
but in the long run,
i’m afraid they’ll get weathered.

there’s a lot, quite literally.
today’s another time i write about—
well, being picked up and left.
not in the wrong way,
as a choice—perhaps?

slept only for three hours or so last night.
it was the last day—
ending of a year in a place
that ought to have been littered with memories,
and yet i felt—
a lot of nothings
things do that to you eventually, i guess.

they say when you keep lying to yourself,
pretending it doesn’t exist,
you hear screaming one day
and all you ask
is if the world exists.

numb.
that’s all i’ve been—
for most part, at least.
still am when it comes to talking
’bout things i should speak
about and of—
but they’re hard to put in words.

and so once again,
like a fool unknown to use of language,
here i am—
hoping you’d understand.

three hours of sleep.
two of writing my final.
another of waiting.
another two of failing at
achieving what had been planned
before it had to end.

a call—
my phone is ringing.
is it them?
yes—oh yes! i’m worried.
should i answer—
play pretend sleeping?
heart’s weak since the 21st of may,
i think i just will.

and so i did.
and so i found them
at quite literally my doorstep.
and next second we were out and talking.

have you seen petals bloom?
or sunflowers turning towards the sun—
slowly, gradually living and soaking it up?
i believe we’re that way.

it starts slow—
words and gestures,
nods and silly little eye contacts.
and then one speaks—
the other carries—
the third continues—
the loop persists.

(i wish the loop did exist this once.
a loop that would let me do whatever,
except each day would end on a different note—
in a different setting,
with the same people—
and the same old feelings.)

balloons.
ice creams.
ice pops—
they melted.
grape flavored. all three.

movie—kind of boring.
laughing—yes. loads.
walks on the footpath.
one continued to trot,
the other just headed for the road.

wished i’d been a ghost—
to stay,
to follow,
to breathe the same air,
not obsessively—
to protect,
to handle,
and to show the care that i felt—


memento? wanted.
find? never did.
left with—
memories.
hopes.
thoughts.
a lot more contraries.

still no pictures (well i have one! of them)
multiple in my head.
words and feelings—
all the downturned,
less spoken of meanings,
shared all at once—
"here’s what happened with me—"
"you need to tell me about yours—"
"we’re listening."

"the ones who know you the most,
are actually the ones who become the perfect ghosts."
meant nothing—
spoken without thinking.

and oh—friends.
the ones who’re ours. ours. yours & mine.
they are the ones who truly get to leave.
rest are unknowns—
they’ll still be so.

i’m afraid of goodbyes.
and of forgetting.
and of missing out—
living in the moment,
hoping to store it all in—
and watching it fade out.

of distancing.
of walking away.
of pretending it wasn’t real.

’cause it was.
and it has always been.
there’s just too many masks
and too many vulnerabilities underneath.

and irony to say—
remove the mask and show the real you.
the real is layered like an onion—
never saw light of the day after that one point in time.

forgot to laugh even—

i’ve been laughing and smiling a lot recently.
should i be worried?

asked,
are you going to pretend none of this happened and move on?
and this sounded like an ex’s question to their former lover.
but this one came true—
from the bottom—
deepest betrayed—
often starved,
often overruled layer.
the original.

will you fade out too? was the meaning.
heard no symphonies,
no heeding.
so it seemed.

i wouldn’t mention the replies or the comments.
perhaps i should.
i’ll hide them in words,
like i should have hidden the fragile
before i let it take over.

but sometimes it shows,
peeks out like an observing, curious,
scared little child
seeing a new person for the first time.

(curiosity killed the cat—
sometimes i was killed too.)

e-rickshaw rides. (a blue balloon.)
empty roads—
away from the city life and the highways.
barren land—
a flower shop.

a pink rose.
a blue balloon once more?
a red one to the one who helped cash in.
a pink chrysanthemum too—
unless i’m wrong, beauty nonetheless.

smiles.
smiles all along.
the security.
rose to him.
chatted along.
teamwork? surely.

cab driver.
music!
oh, can you play darling?
yellow balloon for his child.

child reminds me—
all the kids in the mall!
playstores and areas—
eating,
screaming,
crying,
laughing,
filled with glee.

and families.
blood is thicker than water.
not being related by blood—
i wouldn’t compare the densities.

(purple. pink. orange. blue. red.
the colors of balloons that i have.)

couldn’t share hugs—
too awkward,
i know i’m that.

(kinda mad, chaotic—
and sly.)

i do see it all,
but how do i say i’m afraid of it being a lie?
can’t confirm,
so i try to get it out in words.
from the others, of course—
can never admit i understand.
what if i understand it all wrong?
i’ve done—multiple times—
mostly bad—
compared to the rare good.

back home, in the shower—
hit me hard and soft playing.
a new kind of love followed,
settled in the dark.
took out my laptop
and turned it on—
cigarettes after *** songs that feel like drowning
and here i’m writing.

sleep.
i should.
but first, i’ll admit something—
only in words i could.

i’ve been smiling.
a lot, recently—
plotting, perhaps—maybe?
not to hurt,
to be aware.
to beware—
to protect.

i don’t want to be betrayed.
no tears,
heart feels heavy.

writing didn’t help much,
i didn’t know what to really say.
i speak slower at first—
at a tone only i can hear.
first to recognize,
that it’s how i sound.
second to make sure—
if this is really what i want to go around?
but then louder,
to express—
i’m left with several ways—
a couple handshakes—
a few signatures.
and that’s all i am—
boring, awkward,
a ghost of the third pov.

but that’s not how it feels—
at most times, at least.
feels like i exist—
hi, i’m here.
will you let me breathe?

they do.

how will you describe me?
& us! they asked so—

i'd read something a while ago.
the negatives could be killed by the positive—
but no, that wasn't the entire truth.
in the long run,
that is what you could grow into.
negatives were easy to fall back in—
the positives had to be given birth.
and for that,
the seed,
for the bud to grow—
warmth.

i termed them as warmth.

my hands are slowing down.
eyes shutting even faster.
i’m going to sleep,
kinda hungry,
but i won't be eating.

going to sleep—
a long, long sleep tonight—
hopefully it’ll be without dreams.

i’ve left pieces of myself once again—
bigger, rarer,
truer ones
that can be termed as fossils
from how long they’d been buried.

but i don’t seem to regret it.

i shall trust you—
it’ll be your choice to hold.

my heart kinda hurts.
i’ll come back later?
(you’ll be back, later, yeah?)

(a cut that always bleeds—
mine do a lot more than just that.)

afraid it’ll be long gone—
never to repeat—
that it wouldn’t be the same—
i’m afraid of destiny.
afraid of fate—
of everything turning out wrong.
(he had said something- it slipped from my memory)

and it hits
because i know a distance
and a time period that’s to come—
it just is so long.
the day ended.
smiles.
in all smiles.

i’ve been smiling a lot.
but then why is my heart so heavy?
is it nostalgia?
or is this the feeling i carry?
i wish i could be read—
as easily as reading a book with chapters titled and left—
bookmarked.
oh, it would help!

there's no tone—
nowhere the end to which this ought to go.
but it doesn't have to end, does it?
i'll keep it open—
not shallow—
not broken.

now, a couple things that i ought to add.
these are random, but they're the warmth they left.
the clock ticked the same way before,
why do i notice a few numbers—specific times—
the angles, a lot more?

i got my form of warmth from the people,
and i think i'll accept it now—
i've always wanted for it to be real.
bonds and bonds and bonds and families—
did i repeat? you'll see the meaning.

i got a sad soul with a happy personality.
see the paradoxes a lot more—
should rather be focusing on my memory.

the rules the society set—
work, earn, repeat—forget the rest.
i think i'll pass on that.

i still believe in mbti's and words that describe you—
knowing humans are more than that—
beyond feelings and beyond the divided distinctions.

like why start a maze from the beginning to end—
start from the ending you know—
maybe you'll go around the right way to the front.
lay down the path
for the ones who needed help to follow.
i often start from the centre of a puzzle
instead of finding all the pieces and placing out the corners.
boundaries are there—rarely taken down—
but walls need not be broken,
you could build a door!

and windows—
i've got a couple to my own self.
just knock the right way—
and i'll hand you the keys you'll need.


we had desserts!
a lot—
sweets—
oh, i love when i get to hear them talk.
it's nice having people.
nice having the ones you can love
without having to leave,
without having to prove.

but then—

you throw pebbles in the water—
watching the ripples they make.
this probably has a meaning—
but i think more of the stones in the stomach—
at the base of the meek.
is that why i too feel so heavy?
is it being anchored,
or set up for a fall that's called drowning?

the edit: (here to once again)

dreamt this once.
i woke up—had an epiphany.
a zeitgeist?

i saw a rope—
actually two.
are they here to pull me out
or simply leave me battling through?

i gasped, grasped so hard—
watched it go taut—i pulled so hard.
fragments punctured the palms of my hands,
the knots on the rope resembling a tug—
every chapter i ought to be pulled up.

the rope was warm—glowing even,
connected to the figures who stood at the end.
they were blowing—bubbles on land.
i didn't have to see their faces—
not as of then.
except, despite not capturing the moment,
they still remain engraved.

please don't let go—
i'd voiced it out.
they couldn't hear it through the water
that surrounded me all around.
please don't let go—
i screamed.

water filled up my mouth—
the rope burnt through my skin.
there were chains at my ankles,
something holding me down,
pulling at my shins.

i looked at the scars left behind by the other ropes—
the ones before.
other tries at saving.
rare as they'd been,
they remained,
and i felt my grip weakening.

something within yet again called out—
forced me to keep going.
to squeeze at the knots,
hold it tight,
pull myself up—
and then what?

could i swim?
perhaps i never learnt.
who would have thought i'd be drowning?

halfway up, or so it seemed,
i looked down—
the deep was and is unmeasured.
i've been here?
how long have i lived?

visible just enough,
the knots swarmed around me.
the rope fell and fell—
i pulled it harder and harder,
like the hands of a boat weaving through water.

i was so close to the top—
am i finally going to be better?

felt a grip at my wrists,
up my arms—
i felt the lethargy.
i lost the rope from my hands.

i didn't let go first—
or maybe i did.

all i remember from that night is:
there was a knot that had formed—
that locked me up—
tied itself around me,
making this mass a dead weight.

and i'd drowned once again
to a new rot—
to a new never.
a deep i didn't know existed.

they were molten hot this once—
my skin burnt.
the cold, numbing cold of the water
did nothing but provide a sensation—
like adding salt to the wounds.

i watched the figures,
who ought to have held the other end
for a little while longer.
they were human.
they perhaps got tired.
i'd watched them walk away.

read it somewhere,
thought i'd write my own
with the same meaning.

if poetry were to cover up my bleeding scars—
shouldn't there be bandages
instead of hollowed-up wounds
that were left for me to shower—
with care and in pain,
with love and in ache.

hi!
i'm here,
and i'll stay.




need not—shouldn't have ended this
the way i brought it to a close.
but i'll admit another once:
i loved it—loved being in their company,
and i shall hope and wonder
if it'll repeat, or if i'll reap
all that i've sown. i don't think there's much to begin with—
no clue, no ideas, nowhere to go.
loved it, loved what came out of it,
loved them, loved life, a bit more than i did the last time.

it's hard to begin, even harder to end.
i'm talking about poetry, not human bondings.
they mend, need stitches, new careful considerations—
specially in the patterns you plan to weave.
i never knew how to embroider,
but i think i did learn a bit on how to hit repeat.

tonight. the night repeats.
i've put the tape in my head, of all the memories.
my eyes cross, my vision swims,
and i shall go to sleep with a sigh—
one that cleanses my soul, gets rid of all that's stuck.
and i hope i'll dream of another time,
the first or the second.
there hasn't been a third—
perhaps i should end this with a yet or maybe.

maybe it is. maybe it will be.
maybe i'll love to live, and live to love—
someday, perhaps, maybe.

There’s a parachute stitched into my eyes— soft silk holding
nothing, as I watch myself freefalling into an empty space
The ringing words of love still call, like fading prayers –
as the voices of lovers trying to reconnect.

But I never was good at playing my heart. But aren’t you
expecting me to stay in character? To wear the lines you
wrote for me, in the means of keeping up this fantasy of love.
My smiles are scripted; as everyone else is helping to create
such a picture frame. The world helps paint our picture from
all the wildest of conversations; but the more they run out of
your mouth, the more they seem to taste so tame.

These tired eyes have searched in your eyes for a reflection
I can truly bend– so is the baggage claim of my baggy eyes;
visioning our broken pieces coming together to hopefully
mend.

I was your background character, your silent NPC in a game
you never knew I played, the first time. But when I stopped
watching, when I stopped turning toward you with secret
obsession – you started to feel the crush of my own crush.
Now you chase the echo of something that once held you
true—that hidden crush, that tender view, searching. But love,
my dear, truly YOU, should see how love is so **** blind.

painting my nails seems so unproductive
when i could be studying for math or german or history
but i'm thinking about you.

i don't know your favorite color, or i would have painted them that shade.
though, unless your favorite color is
pink
purple
silver
crusty blue or
clear
then i guess i couldn't anyway because those are the only colors i have.