I wish you could see me
More than my gaze,
More than my smile
I wish you could hear more than these words
That I’m speaking out loud

Your eyes wander up and down slowly against my silhouette
Yearning my embrace, craving my warmth
Just to fill your thirst with your empty glass
Eyes that lust - dress me up in lies.
Gouge them out and throw them away, please - If you can not, meet me in purity

Haunted by tomorrow’s hopes,
I wish you could see me.
Not just idolize or fantasize
I am not your projection
I am not your sacred prize
I wish - you could see me.

Immaturity loves Shiny objects,
Because that’s what beings are to IT - objects, right?

IT caught a Butterfly and caged her in,
Just to boast: “I touched her Wing.”
But never asked how Light is fed,
Or why the Stars sleep in her head

IT wants to say IT once touched Divinity,
But not honor it, nor grow with it

In seeking to cage the Butterfly,
You lost the chance to learn
how to tend your own Light
in the presence of one
Who carried Sun in her wings

I can never be enough,
Or fully myself.
You want me to limit my presence for your liking,
Need to be careful not to shine too bright, Otherwise you’ll go running to the shadows. There’s the comfort zone..
Did I scare you?

“Too much” - what does that even mean?

Perhaps it’s just the trembling scream
Of egos fearing what they lack,
So they attack or turn their backs,
Since her fullness can only be tolerated in fragments.


If you want to stay in your comfort zone,
By all means go ahead, regress.
But don’t expect me to conform.

I don’t operate for likes,
Or to have people understanding me anyway. I know all wisdom seekers were also once never understood,
So I don’t expect you to.
But nobody told me how lonely
This path of Truth was to be walked upon.

This is the ache of the mystic,
The healer, the truth teller
The one who feels so much, Sees so deeply
Yet must often walk
Without being truly met

Still…

I wish you could See Me.

I was born into shadows, not into light,
Since breath began, nothing felt right.
Not broken by moment, but by design,
A stranger to joy, even in my prime.

Thirty one years, I’ve watched life unfold,
Not in color, just quiet and cold.
Not hated, not loved, just unseen,
Like dust on a shelf, caught in between.

No one has called me their reason to smile,
No one has asked me to stay for a while.
I’ve spoken in rooms that swallowed my sound,
I’ve stood in the crowd but never been found.

What good have I done? What trace have I made?
My efforts feel hollow, my memories fade.
Just ticking through time, a silent parade,
Existing, not living, a slow, aching fade.

And yet, here I am, heart still in chest,
Wounded but breathing, unrested, unblessed.
Each morning I wake feels more like a dare,
To face one more day when no one is there.

So if I am nothing, not needed, not known,
Why does the ache still cut to the bone?
Perhaps it’s the proof, however unfair,
That even unseen, I’m still something there.

Sometimes I feel
like I have so much to say to you
but you're not in my life yet.

I trust one day
you'll hear my words
not with your ears
but in your mind
and find your way to me
not by accident
but by the design
of the Causer of Causes.

When that day comes
I won't need words
I'll just hold you so tight
you'll hear every unspoken thought
through the silence
of my heartbeat.

i don't like being stared at,
or glorified,
or looked at like i'm just a showpiece—
almost like a mannequin?
like i'm supposed to do your bidding,
or abide by your ideals.

i don't like being looked at
the way one would look—
when they're judging you for the smallest of hook,
the tiniest of details.
no, you're just aggravating—
there's nothing romantic about that stare.

kinda like—
the difference between being seen
and just looked at on the surface.
what is wrong with my brain,
why can't you seem to judge that?

i wouldn't despise it
if you were to give me the longing glances,
or the ones filled with care,
the kind where i know
they wouldn’t just drift top to bottom—
like fingers on a shiny sphere.

don't objectify me.
i know my worth,
even though i forget it sometimes.
it's a vulnerability
i intend to show.

i’m not the prettiest—
that still doesn't give you the right to know.
i hold the discomfort,
i hold my identity.
feels like shattering,
the moment a wrong glance or a finger
touches any part of my skin.

it's complex.
i don't think you'll understand it.
i'm a human—
not a model,
not an art piece
held up for judging.

you know they’d look at the one you love
the way you do at me right now,
when i tend to swerve.
the severity of it— you wouldn’t know.
what it's like to be criticised,
judged,
given looks everywhere you go.

i still don't understand
why i face them.
more than half come from lust,
and barely a few from the place of love.

i don't shake hands,
afraid of what i’ll touch,
what you’ll feel—
and later think about.
god, i shiver at the mere thought.
too much.

i could be worshipped,
held by the right hands,
but the wrong eyes,
and the wrong views—
they almost always
**** up this land.

can't walk,
can't talk,
can't laugh,
can't show.

if i'm to exist like a stone,
why can't i hurl back
and simply clone
all that you’ve done
and all that you’ve said?

i've got those stares creeping up my skin,
like slithering worms underneath my shin,
smothering me from the inside, like being smoldered in heat.
i feel like i might melt, or worse, fade away into nothing.
perhaps it wouldn't be so bad of a choice, if i'm to disappear.
for it is this feeling that sears, within and carries a scream.
sheer mockery, provided the serenity with which you return that gaze.
i hate you, i hate each one of you that's made me feel bare,
and not the way i'd want to be emotionally with the one whom i hold tender,
but the way— the way— the way—

oh please, let me just disappear.

don’t look at me
if you only wish
to see me as an object.

They call it a gift,
this body of mine,
but every month it gnaws at itself,
chews the lining of my womb,
spits out blood like a sacrifice
to a world that does not care.

I step outside,
eyes crawl up my skin like ants,
like maggots,
like fingers that never asked for permission.
A whistle slits the air—
a razor against my spine—
I swallow the bile, keep walking.

Mother said, don’t wear that
Father said, boys will be boys
I say nothing—
only dig my nails into my palms,
so deep the crescent moons bloom red.

I dream of shedding this skin,
peeling it back like an overripe fruit,
scraping out the parts that feel *****,
that feel weak,
that feel like they do not belong to me.
I want to be new,
to be sharp,
to be something they cannot touch.

But even in dreams,
they chase me.
Even in dreams,
I run.

Trees silent and still its sufferings strange
But happening below unseen who knows
From electrons to cells to worms and moles
Its cries heard in the depths of earth
Its agonies pain the highest heavens
All life reached and touched and soothed
Its griefs mutually shared and resounded
And heavens weepingly reassure in every tear
That evil judged and nothing's futile
Greater yet the glory surpassing the beauty
In every branch, leaf, flower and fruit