The pen –
is an extension of my body, held by my hand, as it
beats with my heartbeat; it's my very breath between
words, the intentions of my structuring, the brush to
my thoughts, the paint of my imagination.

The pen –
is the mic to my voice, the scope of my eyes, the chorus
to my soul, the bass to my heart, the shadow of my skin,
painted by the night, and why my pen chooses to be black!

It is bold, it is wild, it is persuasive, it manipulates words
to invoke change, it is controversial, it is understood by
few, yet it speaks to all.

The pen is an extension of my body –  for we are One!

I didn't know how still
My feelings were,
Till it got Rowdy

Final breath sounds amusing

I know deep down
It shouldn't be

But I've got a dark sense of humour

Chuckling to dark thoughts

Once my charm
Is nothing but harm

That I'm the sun
Or the orbit
With every plannet revolving around

Oh well
With a Shuddering breath

I know better
That it takes 365 for just earth to revolve

And I'm way back as pluto

I stay behind to pull you closer
Make you laugh or just smile
With my charms, I’ll play imposer
Hope you’ll make me stay a while

I’ll lend you my ear and everything else
Wish you don’t break my lonely spells
I swear I want to be just like you
But even my reflection just looks through

I’ll run after you when we fight
Wait for your texts in daylight and night
Shower you in compliments, pouring my heart
Money as well, for gifts with my card

But I mean everything I do!
And I care more than you would know
Hiding when I feel blue
But either way, my toxic traits show

I can’t fight them, they want me to fit in
As if being me was worse of a sin
Silent brooks splitter under the weight of the world
And maybe that’s my fate, cut off hair so curled

As curled as I wanna huddle up
But I brush it away
Suppress all my feelings, make them shut up
So there is a way
To like me just now
Alongside my toxic traits

My soul feels too short for love –
but there’s a tall glass of it, I’m hoping
fills the thirst of my heart’s empty cup
But if there’s a map to someone’s thoughts
…here I am, navigating!

While the hills of their eyes are always
these dreams like mountaintops
Though rising to your peak is so scary –
where the bottom always looks you up,
And I know we’re all still searching for those
pieces of ourselves.

Even when sometimes there’s a mix of
doubt in my cup – it’s so hard to doubt the
fact that you sometimes really love to doubt
yourself… most days I have to empty myself,
to refill up on worth in this cup.

I'm (not) stupid,
I am (not) a fool,
I'm (not) only useful to you,
I'll never (not) be useful to anyone.

Gratitude,success

Those two words

Had been thrown idly

Through decades freely

Could be in a form of morsel

Or fortune ,family  or health

But its also the will to breath

At every dawn

To forgive or to love your figure

To stand or fall

To cry or to chuckle

To speak or be mute

The mediocre of it alone

Is another thing to pounder

Unmask your own façade – that veil of one’s significance over
meanings to a meaningless question. We are just consumers in
this monotony of existence, a mere statistic for our emotions
being manufactured for the world’s grand theatre of parading,
one’s weakness.

And are we not taught how to measure worth by the measure
of things you acquire? We surrender to this illusion of perfect
love peddled on glowing screens; waiting on the glow of feelings,
to expect out hearts to glow by fire.

And I find control in this world an illusion; the tighter you hold
onto what you believe is yours, the more it slips through your
fingers – lest it be your own self-control; to tame your flesh that
leaks sin out of its pores. As time is an investment, but a currency
that only death can claim fully, when all our hours dwindle. Love
and hate are two sides of the same coin; as our capacity to love
fiercely, is matched only by our readiness to quickly hate when
the masses rally – though love is the stronger force to leave one
eager, or so fickle.

Life is simply everything and yet, paradoxically, nothing – as
nothing endures eternally, resting in the world. Life is sculpted
by the hand of a Creator, who calls his creations home as their
bones grows cold, and skins old.

Tis a poem on life.