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To Have Slow Mornings.
Oh to have slow mornings,
To see enthralling sights without warnings,
And to forget the past and end all this mourning.
Oh to see the world get along just fine,
To see parents and loved ones embraced so tight,
And to end all this benign bickering, and stop the fight.
Oh to have nothing to do today,
To waste the night by dancing away,
And to have my body move on its own, half awake.
Oh to hear a word from you,
It's getting late to confess, I'm getting cool.
And all this passion will die out, and I'll forget all we had soon.
There's no one the truth would hate more than me. She's tried to grab hold of my arms with soft guidance. She's yanked me several times when she'd had enough of my defiance, and she's seen me fight for him who wouldn't fight for me, standing at a distance.
The truth has never, in her existence, eluded me—but I have eluded her. She's never been one to play hide-and-seek. She's always been as bright as the sun, while the black shade of the moon, hidden from the sight of the world, has always been me.
A friend came by today,
or maybe just a visitor.
Loud, yet somehow distant,
sparkling from the outside,
making me feel bright.
I thought we'd connect,
create something together,
but instead, I felt myself dissolve—
pulled into a space
where I couldn’t breathe...
a warmth that burned
but never healed.
The glitter faded,
and what was left
was a silence
that lingered too long...
I love death
not because I’m sad,
but because life feels untrue.
Every day feels heavy,
and tomorrow hurts to think about.
Death doesn’t ask or care;
it just takes,
and I’m okay with that.
I’m not broken or lost
it just sees me
in a way no one else ever has.
~Poetic soul
The wind today
is a scalpel,
cutting through the layers
of my skin.
I build a house of words,
brick by brittle brick,
but it collapses
the consequence of silence too stout
for paper walls.
I dream of drowning,
the sea cradling me
like a lost child,
its salt singing lullabies
I cannot escape.
They rewrite history
with me at the centre of every storm.
I am the rain
that drowned their crops,
the sun that scorched their earth.
Even the seasons turn against me,
and I wonder
if I disappeared,
would they blame me for that too?
I was asked to describe myself—the question I dreaded the most.
What do you call a ship consumed by a storm,
A chest full of pearls and rubies,
Never to see the light by the coast?
A handful of sand from the gods' steps,
A bowl of liquid from the witches' cauldron
That molds and morphs with everyone it encounters,
That fits the shoes of everyone who summons.
I’d rather hunt for the evil that rose from Pandora’s box.
I’d rather tame the Southern wind,
Fish out a meal from a dragon’s claws,
Than try and find a name for me.
●SHAPES●
When happiness settles in my chest,
I become more of a circle,
rolling slovenly on grass field,
hitting a tree standing in my way
and making a return trip
away from the tree's shade.
When gloominess
wraps itself around my skin,
I turn into an ellipse,
my thoughts stretching far
from the centre of my desires.
Struggling to return as whole,
as a circle again.
Then the self-doubt reigns
and I adapt into a triangle,
a Bermuda Triangle,
attracting every sailing ship
of optimism.
A tangled mystery of my worth.
And then the greed for perfection
unleashes inside me,
shaping me into a square,
symmetrical,
every joint aligned with care,
carrying myself at right position,
at right angles.
I'm less of a mercurial man
and more like pleasant shapes.
Oh, bruised pen,
how you fracture under my grip,
your ink a testimony
to the weight of a restless heart.
You are not a tool,
but a martyr,
bearing the burden of stories
too cruel for the tongue to speak.
I press you harder still,
as if the depth of my despair
can be measured
by the stains on the page.
And when you break—
as all things do—
your shards will write
the final verse
on my heart.
Now they look at that demon's skin as if they once weren't angels forsaken of compassion,
they shed such disdain upon their trailing shadows as if they never expected to see it owning its kind.
#dark
#agony
Free birds don't stay, they know the truth,
Clipped wings or fins, they want no more.
High in the sky, they sing and roam,
But even there, there's no safe home.
THE UNCERTAIN WRITER
The page is wide and open,
Scattered are my thoughts
like leaves in wind,
each one too faint,
too fleeting to catch.
I search for the thread,
Placed right in my hand
but before I notice
it slips through my fingers...
I sit, waiting—
for what, exactly?
For clarity to come in a wave,
or for the silence to reveal its truth?
The mind insists on forming,
but the heart is hesitant,
afraid of breaking the stillness
that holds the world together.
Perhaps this is the art,
To linger in the pause,
to embrace the uncertainty
until it shapes into a meaning
I don't need to force the words,
but to allow them to rise like breath,
slow and steady,
until they settle
creating something meaningful.
Maybe the struggle is not to write,
but to become—
to be lost,
so that you can be found.
Let me give it some time,
And I will know,
what I was always meant to say.
And the cities you grew up in are foreign. The lights have darkness, the streets have loud sadness. Always looking for what's gone while something newer or better is in front of our faces. Resistance is a sign of spirit. Is it fear or self-hate that makes us not fight for the truth?
And history is being made before our eyes, whether for the greater good or built on top of the blood of children, we can't learn to live with change that influences us to change in a gray way for finding comfort means being insensitive and hating it means you're rebellion in a king's world, awaiting for the day they ask for your thoughts and then execute you.
Someday, the ink will dry,
the pen will rest,
and the pages will gather dust
like forgotten relics
in a decaying shrine.
No one will remember the nights
I carved my soul into metaphors,
or the mornings I tore myself apart
just to stitch together something beautiful.
They will not recall
the tonnage of the silences I broke,
or the flimsy truths I tried to clasp
in trembling hands.
The lines I wept into existence
will fade like echoes
in a room no one visits anymore.
Someday, someone will stumble
across a stray poem of mine,
wedged between old books
in a secondhand store.
They’ll glance at it,
their eyes skimming the words
as if they were reaching for meaning
but too afraid to hold on.
And then they’ll put it down,
and I will vanish again,
like a whisper
that never learned how to stay.
But maybe that is the way of poets
to burn bright and briefly,
to bleed onto paper
and let the world take what it will.
Maybe the point was never to be remembered,
but to leave behind pieces
that helped others feel a little less alone.
Someday, the ink will dry.Читать полностью…
And I will be gone.
But maybe, just maybe,
a verse of mine will abide,
airily humming in a mind
that needs it.
And maybe that’s enough.
To Begin the Soul.
To begin the soul,
You must put down your phone.
Go outside and see the horrors,
Not through news, not through gossip,
But with your own five senses.
To begin the soul,
You mustn't sleep at all.
Walk through your town a million times,
Notice everything uninteresting,
And make it interesting.
Now you have your own thoughts.
To begin the soul,
Go to the market, and help a lady,
And if she likes, take her home.
See where it goes. If she leaves,
let her go. If she does or doesn't,
Whatever, you now know the touch of affection.
To begin the soul,
Read a book, inspect a painting;
Copy the words, plagiarise the colour,
Put it on your own canvas, your own page.
Strip yourself from any entertainment,
And then you know what true creativity is.
To begin the soul,
Leave your room, it does you no good.
It's not safetylike you think, it's succumbing.
Make your house the lonely street,
And see where it takes you,
See the way you seek to survive.
To begin the soul,
Go to a bar, sit with the oldest
you can find, and go against everything they say.
Debate, argue, fight. If not you
don't agree with yourself, fight yourself.
For now you know what you believe and value.
The sky above
stretches endlessly,
yet I clip my own wings,
afraid of the heights.
Where peace could find me,
I summon storms,
turning straight roads
into endless detours.
It’s not fate,
nor the heavens to blame.
These ruins are mine,
shaped by my own hands.
The thought of healing feels distant,
almost cruel.
Even breathing now
feels like a weight too great.
I remain trapped,
not by others,
but by the fire
I refused to extinguish.
Taking all the smoke in,
each inhale drags me deeper,
until nothing remains but ash.
My home will be calm,
No yelling, no shouting,
No doors banging or glass breaking,
No mean words or threats.
It will be gentle,
Warm like a cozy hug,
It will keep my loved ones safe,
No fear, no hurt, no worries.
I come from a place that’s broken,
But I will build something whole,
I’ll sing in the shower again,
Cook with a happy smile,
Dance in every room.
I will heal,
And my home will show it.
~Poetic soul
While they learned to live,
I learned to hold my breath,
like the air was too far away.
Their lives were soft like flowers,
with sunshine and calm days.
Mine was a hard path,
full of rocks and sharp edges.
When they dreamed of flying,
I learned how to fall,
how to get up again,
even when it hurt.
They got love like a warm fire,
always there to make them feel safe.
I got love like a tiny spark,
just enough to keep me going.
But even a stone,
that gets stepped on over and over,
can still be smooth and strong,
if it’s given enough time.
~Thoughtless
Has Anybody Seen My Heart?
I swear I left it somewhere,
maybe on the shelf
between yesterday’s regrets
and tomorrow’s excuses.
Or was it in the back pocket
of my jeans,
the ones I wore
when I thought I could survive this?
You know, the ones with tattered rims
and dreams stuffed into the seams.
I’ve checked everywhere.
Underneath my bed,
behind the pile of plans
I meant to follow through on.
I even looked in the junk drawer
where things go when you don’t know
what else to do with them.
But it wasn’t there either,
just a mess of tangled feelings
and keys to doors I no longer open.
I asked the mirror,
but it just stared at me blankly,
as if I were some stranger
pretending to belong in my own skin.
I think it’s mocking me now,
watching me dig through
old conversations and half-finished goodbyes,
wondering if I left it with someone
who never deserved it.
Did I drop it along the way?
Maybe when I was rushing
to be someone I’m not,
tripping over expectations
that weren’t even mine to carry.
Did I accidentally trade it
for approval,
or sell it for a sense of belonging
that came with a receipt
stamped “non-refundable”?
I checked my inbox,
scrolled through every message.
Did I send it off in a text,
hoping someone would respond
with a piece of themselves?
Did it slither through my fingers
when I said, “I’m fine,”
for the hundredth time
and no one thought to ask,
“Are you really?”
Maybe I never lost it.
Maybe it just got tired of me
all my poor decisions,
all my self-inflicted wounds.
Maybe it packed its bags one night,
and now it’s out there,
trying to hitch a ride to someone
who won’t use it as a doormat.
But if you see it,
you’ll know.
It’s patched in all the wrong places,
stitched together
with promises I never kept
and apologies I never got.
It beats a little too fast,
like it’s afraid of being caught.
But it’s mine.
So, if you find it,
tell it I’ve been looking.
Tell it I’ve been trying.
Tell it I’ll do better this time.
“Tell it I’ve learned—home isn’t where it’s safe, it’s where it’s understood.”Читать полностью…
When the world begins to crumble, fall into smithereens, and when my mind keeps telling me to fight back, I do the opposite. I resist, reserving my energy for escaping. As I stay, and the falling pieces begin to hurt, I let them hurt me more. What doesn't kill you makes you a victim of an attempt to be murdered. That gives me fuel. I will never surrender, but I like the feeling of it. Putting my reserved energy for escaping into work, my left leg insists we stay and expect the crumbling to end. I say now we leave.
Leaving has always felt like home. Not the type of leaving you do with an intention of coming back, but rather running away, and being lost. If you ever come back, you lose. Ironically enough, I am not familiar with winning. I finally leave. Me, the leaver, the runawayer, the departing darling with no sense of direction. Leaving is my destination, the end of an era. Anything after leaving, I don’t want to think of.
But what if I end up coming back? When the world begins to crumble, would I leave again or stay and resist forever? Wouldn't the falling pieces pulverize my whole being, put me in the middle of the wreckage? Because then, I wouldn't have what it takes to run again. Then, when shit goes down, I would go down with it, letting the chaos consume me, drowning deep in it until I finally dissolve into it.
I fear.
This watered-down city,
made of boys with bass voices that don't reflect their minds,
of girls with soft-spoken words but hardened spirits,
of the dying cultures our ancestors failed to pass,
of us constantly trying to prove something to everyone but ourselves,
of the starving souls with full stomachs,
of needing the needless attention.
I'll stay indifferent to romanticizing depression,
to toxic and toxicity,
to hates and hatred,
into lighting a lamp in the abyss,
into loving,
into living—actual, real living.
I find that there's only about enough in our control to push us back to reality,
and there's hardly any of us that haven't been forsaken.
But why must we forsake our own selves, wallowing in self-pity?
— Myra
No more do I know what's right or wrong, now that every countenance flexes off the same smile as the edge of a knife.
#dark
#grief
The History That Lies
______________________
The monuments speak,
their stones boasting of kings
who conquered the world
while their own hearts rotted
in golden tombs.
The poets write of triumphs,
never of the screams
beneath the crown’s weight.
Do you hear it?
The pages rustle,
whispering truths too bitter
to ink.
I stood before a statue,
its marble face cracked by centuries,
and asked it:
“Did they sing your name out of love,
or out of fear of the sword?”
The wind passed through it—
no answer,
just dust where pride used to live.
History is a mirror that never forgives,Читать полностью…
reflecting the victors
but never their sins.
Every writer's pen surrenders one day,
I fear, what if mine falls silent the same way?
An ocean of emotions may swell in my core,
yet the pen stands still, denying the shore.
I finally understood.
What is more beautiful than simply to be?
Today, I started hearing things that were new to me.
I changed my chair and sat in a place I’d never chosen before.
Then, I stepped outside, leaving behind the routine I’d worn.
To my work, I’m sending a note.
A sick note.
Because, in truth, I am sick—sick and tired of everything, except.
Except for the new things I began to hear,
The fresh sounds that broke through the old and the drear.
This morning, I heard birds singing,
And I finally understood—they weren’t harmonizing.
They were brawling,
Quarreling among their kind.
Which sparrow has the biggest tail? Let’s bet!
And among beaver, I heard their chattering.
"Whose the biggest log is?"
Among the elephants:
"What trunk will be erected longer?"
And in the peacock's court
Who can fan out the most magnificent plume, unasked?
You have been taught to keep your mouth shut,
to swallow your grief like a bitter pill
and call it resilience.
They say you are strong,
but the truth is,
you are afraid.
afraid that if you speak,
the walls will crumble,
the floor will give way,
and you will be left standing
in the ruins of yourself.
So you smile.
You nod.
you say, “I’m fine.”
and the world believes you.
I have a soul to conquer the world,
A voice that yearns to be heard.
I have a pen to write the stories
That need to be told, that must be stirred.
*For once, let me be them*
For once, I want to be my mother.
To feel the ache of her heart when I am harsh,
And the quiet joy she holds when I am sweet.
For once, I want to be my father.
To feel the weight of my endless needs upon his shoulders,
And the warmth of my care when I am thoughtful.
For once, I want to be my brother.
To feel his frustration when I seek his ear too often,
And his contentment when I truly listen.
For once, I want to be my sister.
To feel the sting of being forgotten in my busy moments,
And the delight of shared laughter that bridges every gap.
For once, I want to be my friend.
To feel the weight of my unending stories,
And the comfort of being their anchor in turbulent times.
For once, I want to be my teacher.
To feel the disappointment when my attention strays,
And the satisfaction when I meet their expectations.
For once, I want to be the people around me.
To feel the sting when I pass a careless judgment,
And the quiet warmth when I offer a gentle smile.
For once, I want to place myself in all the shoes
Of those who walk alongside me,
To feel what they feel, to bear what they bear,
To love better, to care deeper, to think kinder,
To simply be better.
For once, I want to step out of myself
And into the world of others,
To laugh as they laugh, to cry as they cry,
To smile as they smile.
Let me, just for once, feel it all
Not as myself, but as them.
To truly see, to truly grow,
To become someone who loves better, lives better.
The Fire’s Regret
The fire regrets its birth.
Born of friction,
fed by hunger,
it consumes all it touches,
turning love to ash
and homes to graveyards.
Its dance is unkind,
a cruel celebration of destruction,
a laughter that sears the air.
Yet in its dying embers,
it weeps—
its light soft,
its heat surrendering,
its fury spent.
In the end,
even flames cannot escape
their own mortality.
Rose of Longing
From the depth of the heart
Grows a delicate work of art—
A single rose crocheted from
The golden yarns of yearning and love.
Up the passage of pharynx it climbs—
The flower moved with graceful rhyme.
Out the dark tunnel it comes,
But the wall of dentes holds it up.
Inside the crimson cavern, it's patiently waiting for the moment
To be let loose like a raging ball of cannon—
When the awaited beloved finally comes,
To her embrace the rose's petals will at last undone.