The dainty names
in which he paints.
There they’re kept—
folded and whatnot
in his pocket they rot.

The cries never fold
To these names that he holds.
Anyplace he walks,
he’s always full of daunt.

When will he ever tackle those lost hearts,
and soothe the tortured wards.

I trace the blade like a promise,
carve my pain into skin—
maybe if I break enough,
you’ll remember how to hold me.

Maybe if I bleed,
you’ll come back,
just to see
if there’s anything left to save.

The world didn’t end like I thought it would,
just got quieter—
like the space after a slammed door,
like a name no one says anymore.

I buried you in the parts of me
that don’t see the sun,
but grief still blooms there,
soft and unwelcome.

I thought I'd be ready.
I thought leaving would feel like freedom.
But all I have now is the echo—
and nowhere to run.

I see you in the space between streetlights,
where the wind tastes like October
and the leaves whisper your name.
I told myself I wouldn’t go back there,
but memory is a cruel, old house—
doors always open, floorboards aching.

You left your sweater in my closet,
a ghost I never learned to bury.
I wear it when the air gets cold,
pretending it still smells like you,
pretending I don’t feel like the house we built
has been condemned.

It’s funny how we used to love the fall,
how we swore we’d never be like them,
the people who left when things got hard,
the people who stopped saying goodnight.
And now, I walk past strangers
wearing your face in their shadows,
and you, somewhere,
are learning how to love without me.

I don’t know what’s scarier—
the ghosts, or the fact
that I let myself become one.

Act I
Enter two navies inspecting a robbery scene, Norman staring at a table on a stage full of empty shuffled tea cups and scattered roses.

Norman: well wouldn’t you see! isn’t this the most balanced tea!

Enter Dover eyeing the table and Norman with sharp inspection.

Dover: what the shambles you mean? (picking a rose up)

Norman:oh the shambles! where’s the gleaming fire within the clear clouds!

Dover:what even caused such a commotion?

Norman: oh what’s the withered moon without the staggering sun! the founded prism underneath the leaves when they hum
the lookers- instead of the rounds could have taken onboard routes!

Dover stands unsure as Norman roams around like he’s on shore.

Dover: what’s buzzing in that wits of yours?

Norman halts all of a sudden picking up the pieces of a broken glass, roses, and stems.

Norman: fine time how it had tethered! if the tea cups hadn’t fallen under ink of roses on their surface! then who’d rip the poor roses out their wombs!

Dover listening to Norman, picks up the labeled teabag’s paper inspecting.

Awfully surprised Dover reads.

Dover: Sugarlime Tea? how’d that not succumbed from thrills of morbid totes! my heavened lord!

Norman halts amidst his tumble around the lowered velvet curtains.

Norman: oh that must’ve been treading on dreadful strings that led to delightful things— thorns in their cups but roses around their mugs just like vibrant flowers inhaled beneath wooden brutes!

swords do twist oftentimes!, just like forsworn letters carved inside hearts oh how the mighty wind had rumbled their grounds their cups! their roses! their mugs!

It must’ve been when the lime in that whiff had hit! oh do come abrupt thrills! to forsaken wills!

Dover shakes his head exasperated.

Dover: not even the hastiest of blades could highlight your lines you rot witted Norman! if anything but, sons of your lips could fill all those bare rugged stones!

End act 1

I loved you dearly
Yet I forced you away
It was for the best
Yet I wish you’d stay

After a graduation, it's mostly mirthlessness for an introverted young guy interested mainly in music, English, movies & videogames. During this time, he makes his first steps at rhyming. Looking from the present, he's not satisfied with the most of the material indited by him in the first 2 years of this hobby. At some point during that time, he also starts to get immersed into sociopolitical stuff & as he spends time reading & watching respective materials, his views get established, but anger, being a reaction on injustices he discovers, starts to settle inside him as well.

At some point after that, he gets an occupation. During that period of occupation lasting a few years, his mirthlessness & anger increase. During a more than 2,5-year period after the barbaric invasion ordered by the underdisbanded north-east empire's dastardly autocrat with state security & criminal backgrounds, being under the influence of mostly his views, anger, spite, but also mirthlessness & escapistic fantasies, the guy indites his best lyrical works becoming, lyrics-wise, an antiauthoritarian-minded antihero, for the most part.

Anger, high-octane music, among which his main choice during those few years has been vicious mid-paced bangers, the meticulous & sometimes pleasant process of inditing lyrics along with rereading them afterwards, & movies rich on drama, violence, & dread has been keeping his melancholic side somewhat at bay, more or less. But now, it's crossroads, which makes him want to disappear, to escape from reality even more.