He doesn't burn photographs
He doesn't join therapy sessions
He doesn't smoke too many cigarettes
Nor he drown himself into alcohol
He scratches his wounds daily
And never let them heal
He doesn't try to get rid of the pain
Instead he let it grow on him
He waters the seed of sorrow with his tears
He feeds it with the manure of old memories
He takes it to sleep with him
And nurtures it in himself
Till the moment when every single drop of his blood gets replaced by this pain
Until his fragile heart can bear no more
And his soul starts overflowing with emotions
That's when he dip his pen into this pain
And empty his heart on a piece of paper
He bares his soul for us to feel
He creates poetry that the world would cherish for centuries to come

.
The more I think, and reflect about life, the more it strikes how little we need to survive.
.
But then the question of my life itself baffles me still.
In the name of
Cups and Wands
and Swords and Pentacles.
How does one figure out
how one wants to ease into the world—
in what manner
what face
what costume
what identity
shall we assume
in this theatrical muse of mass-scale rehabilitation.
Searching,
for the right attire
in a tolerable personality.
To eventualize, to officiate, to become
A masterpiece—
by the hands of time
and the wheels of fortune.
So that we may be made worthy
Maybe, if you were dealt with luck.

Fortune's Fool—
How do we know which
is the correct way to go
sᴉ ǝɥʇ ʇɔǝɹɹoɔ ʎɐʍ oʇ oɓ·
in hindsight.
To hunt for a halo in the robes of glee
while you dwindle in time
Abject, at sea.

Cut the chase.
Bleed. Heal.
Await the haemorhage and its evanescence.
And when you approach the Great Finale,
Be free.
.
At any moment of time, we have one foot in the abyss while the other lapses into ecstasy.
.

The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.

She is as bright
As the sun.
He is as mysterious
As the moon.
Together
They
Are
Unstoppable.






                   (p.p) 1/17/17 12:29am

He said she was "she"
He said he loves "she"
He said he adores "she"

She says he was "he"
She says she loves "he"
She says she adores "he"

But why does she says
and he said?
Is she really "she"
and he is really "he?"

She and he were bounded by a red string
She and he were fated with lingering
attachments to a "he" and "she"
really, they were meant to be

Bounded by fate and destiny
That...they can see
a knot of friendship
only "them" can unleash

Bounded by fate and destiny
not by love and intimacy
but by morale and respect,
and friendship so unwrecked