My clear-skinned Cleopatra—
 you orchestrate pyramid schemes
  just to steal my heart,
and I fall
  willingly
   into your empire of allure.

–––

The notes of your lips
compose a song
   I note in silence—
the melody of your mouth
     lingering like red wine:
  mature,
    slow,
      intoxicating.

–––

Each word you speak
cups my hunger
   like a ritual.
I sip from your wisdom
   like a man who’s parched,
    yet drinks
     only in restraint.

–––

Your many faces of pleasure
    rise and fall
      like waves—
I pause, mid-smile,
   just to witness
      the swell of yours.

–––

Your touch brushes
the most sensitive parts of me,
  as your silk-cloaked body
    glides—liquid, slow—
guided
  by the current
     of your soul.

–––

And here I am—
  washed for words,
    mouth half-open,
trying not to drown
   in everything
     you make me feel.

Ballerina creases – a ballad of broken pieces,
Break me down in parts, where pain still leases.
My past lives on in inches, bruised by time,
Dancing round the reasons, moving out of line.

Features of me—like a painting left incomplete,
Still breathing, still dreaming, still finding my feet.
Out in the field, trying not to fall behind,
One step ahead of a runaway mind.

Stable thoughts, but the engine’s wild—
Horsepower pulling my inner child.
A wagon of dreams, heavy with code,
I’m stalling, I’m shifting—about to load.

Don’t sell your soul or cheapen your goal,
Even the prettiest dreams can be sold.
We don’t own it all, yet still owe it all—
Through rain and snow, we rise, we fall.

Chasing myself through a frozen road,
Where passion burns, and a runny nose shows.
They can’t see breath—or the vision you hold,
But seeing it yourself is what helps you go bold.

You’ll regret crying in my hands—
  but only because
  you’ll miss the way they held you.
Your tears slip between my fingers
like quiet reminders
  of how far you’ve run
  from the person you used to be.
And still—
I know you remember your feet
each time they find their way
  back to my door.
    Instinct.
      Muscle memory.
        Need.

You come back bare,
and I wear you like a crown—
delicate, dangerous,
  balanced at the top of my thoughts.
You are the ache I prioritize.
  The storm I drink from.
    The wound I keep pressing,
      just to feel something again.

While my friends fold hands
in prayer to Jehovah,
I’m just praying
my depression doesn’t **** me over.
Sometimes I’d rather believe in your skin
  than in heaven—
and sometimes,
  I think your mouth is the closest
  thing I’ll ever get to salvation.
So we drink.
  We touch.
Not because it heals anything—
  but because it delays
       the end.

Darling,
we drink so this love doesn’t burn out.
We drink
  instead of breaking up.
And when your mascara smudges
  under my kiss,
when your sighs leave trails
  from your stained makeup,
I taste the salt of your sadness—
hidden beneath powdered cheeks
  and perfectly drawn lips.
We kiss
  beneath mood lighting
    and half-lies.
We are mature enough to drink,
  and broken enough to
    make up
      in every way
      the word
        dares to mean.

Hopeless romantic—I want to cry. Feelings pressed so deep, they die
quiet deaths between sighs. I don’t know what you see in this eye—a
dim-lit portrait, painted in the bruises of love dye. Questions coil
around my spine, but the heaviest one hisses: “Who the **** am
I?”

When we kiss, let’s make it sacrament—a whispered heresy, tongues
speaking in wet prophecy. But you don’t kneel for any father. You’ve
made altars from broken men with daddy-issue blueprints. And I—
just another one trying to fix what wasn’t mine to mend.

My fingertip—a brushstroke on your bitten lip, painting the hunger
before it slips. You wear love like fingerprints around your throat,
scarred tender from where I once held your breath like a prayer.

You're unsure of yourself, but I make you a shoreline—soft enough to
land on, wild enough to drown in. You become my bay, my mouth’s
favorite practice ground. My wreckage. My beach.

Each kiss tastes like searching for sin between your teeth—warm, wet
confessions we never speak. A shared gasp for air in the ache between
moans, as if pleasure could ease the pressure clawing beneath our
bones.

Would we love longer, or be like everyone else, hoping to just ****
better? Could your heart even measure what my hands now own?
Your body echoes beneath sweat-glazed skin, like a haunted song I
still hum. The feelings crawl, then collapse—pulling me under. Like
a dream that bites back. One that begs to be real. But this love has
only a few moments to taste that real.

Crowded foresight —  
      thoughts stacked sky-high,  
     cluttered windows of a dreaming mind.  

              Out of mind,  
           out of sight…  
     yet somehow, I keep seeing  
     the better days of my life  
       skimming the edge  
        of a hopeful smile.  

                 That smile —  
          soft, unspoken —  
           given with time,  
        drawn from deep thoughts  
            folded in silence.  

                    . . .  

         Any life worth seeing —  
       any better version of me —  
    is shaped by what I’m willing  
          to put light on.  

               So I  
            paint my  
       foresight with  
   fireflies  and  sunbeams,  
     hoping the dark  
          makes room  
             for the  
            light I  
               keep.

The sky is falling—
ashes in slow motion,
  raining smoke laced with doubt.
I’m trying to figure things out – trapped inside
   of my mind, trying to map a way out.
Time wears you down like a borrowed face.
Money races laps around your mind—
  and we’re all so deeply
    invested in the chase.

I think locomotive thoughts—
   every train of thought heavier than the last—
but somehow, I keep losing track of time.
But what is time,
  if not something that’s never mine?
We spend every second like a dime—
  but not every moment
    is worth the time.

I dress up for someone else’s moment,
tailor my soul to suit their life—
wearing joy like it’s rented, hoping the fit feels right.
Every mistake I remember from yesterday
  becomes a brushstroke in the picture I paint today—
a portrait of someone better
  hanging up in my frame of mind.

And maybe, just maybe,
there lies the real way
to fit in.

Moments of love feel almost medical—
but my patience for it is cold, clinical.
I never meant to overdose, just chasing
comfort in a heavy dose of someone new,
to help me cope.

I try to build a house from broken pieces—
too many to count. I am the empty echo
of a heart still full, but far too loud
to be heard.

Echo...
  Echoes
     fall between the silence of our words,
two awkward breaths apart—trying
to keep it innocent, just as friends,
while our primal skins just want to skip
to the part of just having ***.

It’s the risk of falling in love—
that makes us stumble near the edge.
It’s beautiful. It’s ******* stupid.
It hurts. It’s love.
Whether it finds you first, as the one
you need— or shows up last, as the one
you never really wanted.

Sinking tears –

 feelings don’t fall,
  they crash
   like glass hearts
    meeting pavement.

Your chest?
 A sunken place.
  No bra strap to hold it up –
   just white linen,
    innocent for a moment,
      until it slips
       in front of eyes
       like mirrors
        reflecting
         every scar
          painted on your skin.


Sandcastle kisses,
 built soft –
   fragile –
     on lips that no longer
       believe in forever.

Yet you speak
 like royalty,
   saying boldly:
    “Love me for what I am –
     not just who you think I’ve been.”

Not a princess.
 Not a saviour.
  A mess.
   A wreck.
    A fallen queen.

Wearing her cracked gold crown
 like a forgotten joke –
   that still makes your heart ache
     when it returns
      in the quiet between memories.



Bones for time –
 you pick at every hour
   like it owes you something.
    Tick.
      Tick.
        Snap!

The clock breaks
   where your mind does.

You may live in the day,
   but you breathe
     in the night.

Freer beneath moonlight,
  where shadows stop asking questions –
   and silence
    finally listens.

autumn tears...
  falling for you
    all over again

we’re just friends
 in the present tense
        making amends
     like cracks filled
          with silence

tears of yesterday
    still
      water my lawn
  i’ve been banking on a love
    that never matured
          just an emotion
            on loan

tell me—
  do you rest your hand
    under your chin
         like I did
             when you’re alone?

sharp edges
    on my mind
           but it feels
             pointless to forget you

to accept you
  is to accept
            not having you at all

the drink of your love
            I could never finish—
              you were
                too tall

too much
  too deep
     too far

you poured yourself
    out for me
  and I drank
    greedy

we kissed
  like language
    like memory

and I felt the shiver
        escape your pores

so why
    can’t I
          escape your love?

What is a love turned into ashes –
Burnt by the flames of forgotten passions
Actions are so passive;
Our stories still left written out
In captions

My feelings for you are still massive,
Despite being inactive –
So when my lips spell out your name,
I start to fall in love, tasting that old
Bittersweet magic

And it’s truly so wicked, tragic
By feeling so fickle now –
But I happily accept all
That happened…

I went looking for someone to blame for all the cracks
in my name, for the mess I made — but that mirror
didn’t tell a lie. The culprit wore my face.
I don’t want your love. I don’t want your shame.
Still, somehow, you found me — tongue bitter with
the taste of your mistakes; pressed against my teeth
like communion for the broken.

Tears rose — blooming smoke, clouds of falling flowers.
A storm of soft destruction, raining petals made of regret —
but it never rained just mine. It rained yours too.

Yet you learn to grow from the things that once cut
you down. Even the sharpest wounds can become
something softer when you let them go.
Edges trimmed; old roots shed — and still, I rise.
So now, when you see me, don’t mistake me for my
damage. I am not the bruise. I am not the blade.
I am far better than the sum of my mistakes.

I'd feel like a stranger at my own funeral-
who's that in the box, dressed better in death
than I ever managed in life?
Better than my quiet attempts-those empty rehearsals
at suicide.

Was this the last chance I had left?
Even in death, my voice isn't heard-
nor the screaming ones trapped inside my skull.
Even my ghost wouldn't believe it's dead,
still hoping the lives I tried to save
might pay my way past the gates,
buy out my debts.

But what if there's no heaven waiting?
What if another kind of hell greets me instead?
What if I never see my old friends again-
never laugh without fear,
never smile without pretending?
What if I never stop
being so ******* afraid
so strangely ashamed
to feel nothing,
to be numb to even shame itself?

All I wanted
was to be born again-
not into some perfect life,
but one that wouldn't lead me
back to searching for another end.
And isn't it strange-
how only in death do we see our regrets
with such clarity?
Because there's nowhere left to run from them
once we get
to the end.

You see, I’m naturally an introvert — quiet corners, deep
thoughts, the type to overthink a handshake. But life? Life
keeps putting me on stages, in conversations that feel like
marathons for my soul. So yeah, stepping out as an extrovert?
That’s not performance, that’s survival. A daily challenge
with no dress rehearsal.

I’m a softie — but not the breakable kind. No, this softness?
It’s pressure-cooked from hard times. It knows the weight of
silence, and how to turn pain into patience. I’m not here to
pretend to be hard — I’m here to show that being real is rarer.

Now, let’s talk love. I’m a full-blown lover boy — heart open,
arms wide, playlist ready. But don’t get it twisted — I’m not in
the business of having my love used as someone else’s stepping
stone. I’ve retired from being the emotional charity.

And my smile? Oh, it’s got layers. A whole palette of moods.
Bright for the world, but the darker shades? Those are reserved.
A private gallery. Only for the ones I cherish, the ones who earn
the right to see me unfiltered.

So if you meet me — don’t just notice the calm, or the kindness,
or the charm. Know there’s a storm I’ve already walked through
to be standing this still.

There are days I try to summon peace — to call away
the late-night ghosts still pacing the edge of sleep.
As I wear the last tears like glass in my dry eyes,
fragile, but refusing to fall.

As I hold faith in the sunrise — though I don’t know
if this night will stretch longer than I can bear, or if
tomorrow will rise with light enough to meet me again.

And if lips are a quiet prize — not just for kissing,
but for kindness — then may they still speak, softly,
with the warmth of a life beginning again.

I’m just the dreamer, lost in the static of the world—
a perfect schemer trying to carve a shape from shadows,
trying to make something of my own in a place that feels
prewritten. But who really knows what it means to lose a piece
of your ******* soul—

not metaphor, not poetry— but that quiet, splintering
ache when belief begins to bleed.

And that’s the cruelest part: when the dreaming continues,
but the dreaming itself feels so ******* lonely.
When every idea echoes in an empty room, and you realize
the silence is louder than your hope.

Still— you dream. Not because it’s easy. Not because it
makes real sense. But because what else is left when the
world stops listening, and you still believe? A piece of
that dream!

I’ve got diamond eyes, but don’t see myself so clear,
All the excited boys make the most noise,
Yet depression only needs to whisper in an ear.

Words are prison bars; speaking highly of yourself
the danger of being handed a lengthy sentence–
Booked in the library of time; days sitting on a shelf.

… waiting to be read

Let me stay shelved a little longer— reading up,
leading up, dreaming of a story still becoming
Between the lines; silent – even good stories gather dust
These tales of triumph still tarnish and rust…

Don't judge by how loud or how fast it all looks—
even the best stories get forgotten in books…
misunderstood!

I. TARNISH
We procreate fate, from bones to belief,
Wearing faith like a second skin— daily
soiled, weather-worn by noise and news.

Socially religious; actions are mere talk
we preach in later posts, and not prayers.
We remember songs line for line, forgetting
words to the Word, that once shaped us.

II. INTERROGATION
Where is your faith? —asks the heart.
Where will you be in five years? —asks the mind.

And there—between tears and time— laziness
holds patience, procrastination becomes a religion.
As I wear the mask of a man knowing what he’s
doing, but the fit is too perfect –to ever feel like
Truth.

III. CONFESSION
O Lord, hear the slow-breaking cry of my soul,
lest I forget the sound of my own weeping.

My prayers, once daily bread, are now scattered
crumbs, too few, too faint to carry my mourning,
Into the morning. And you won't hear the dirge
in my less frequent prayers or their “Amen.”

I. Ignition (1st Gear)
We built this bond with bolts and wires,
not warmth. Call it a connection— but it
was code, calibrated smiles and pre-programmed
concern. You turned the key, and I came alive
Just long enough to move when you needed motion.
____________

II. Drive (2nd Gear)
We were just motorheads, revving louder than we felt.
Not riders—just parts in motion. Fueling the ride,
but never the journey. You drove me— not toward a
future, but to the edge, where metal meets rust, where
trust wears thin. Your “drive” was reserved for those
who mapped your ending in their eyes— those who
promised arrival, but never shared the breakdowns.
____________

III. End (3rd Gear)
But not everyone is there for the real ride.
Only a few stayed when the wheels locked
and the road curved off course. So if this message
reaches you— the ones who truly cared— know this:
you weren’t just passengers. You were the engine.

I. Fracture (The Splintering)
Divorce in my eyes— not just of lovers,
but of trust split cleanly in two. It’s a quiet
betrayal, where belief in others fractures
like glass in morning frost. The break isn't loud—
It’s slow, and it lingers like silence in a room
that once held laughter.
____________

II. Hope (The Gaze Upward)
Still, beneath the applause of stars,
I offer my belief in myself— a trembling gift
to their gleaming, ancient eyes. May my resilience
Be a constellation they name, not out of pity,
but awe. I crave mesmerizing remarks, spoken with
love—not just spoken of love— if only they knew
how to spell the word without misspelling it in action.
____________

III. Dust (The Reckoning)
Like mystic dust on the untouched virtues of time,
I’ve seen dreams— soiled, scattered, folded into
the pockets of regret. Not just mine. Many.
The world has walked through the fields of hope
with muddy boots. And now, in my dirt eyes,
I carry the stains— not of sin, but of seeing too
much and still refusing to look away.

Each time that I look in your eyes,
A part of me quietly dies.

But I'd give even more,
For the love I adore—
You're my heart in a perfect disguise.

In the case of searching for the right man— is it really the right
man you're after, or just the right now kind? The good-time
lover. The temporary warmth. The one who shows up late, but
still makes you hope it wasn’t too late. Never mind how long it
takes— you’re just hoping you’ll be the one he takes.

And if you start to care, truly care, will the weight of his past rest
too heavy on your heart? Will it matter what he whispered into
someone else’s ear before whispering into yours? Would you
flinch knowing another ear was the trial run, and you’re just
the version he’s learning to hold better, running into his arms.

If his pride is armed like a gun— quick to shoot you down for
standing too close— if he can’t even see your reflection, like a
man wearing sunglasses indoors, would you still stay? Would
your cheeks burn too bright with blush, to see the red flags
waving in front of you?

I’ve been blinded like that before…by charm. By timing. By love,
that felt like truth but turned out to be dressed in denial.

Darling, you are the trail of salty cheeks and all the sin that reeks.
You cried after your very first kiss—the kind that tasted like lies,
the kind that convinced you it might last. But lust? Lust is just
deceit in disguise— a beautiful trick of the mouth. You tried to
overstep the world, but stubbed your toe against life’s edge,
pushing harder than you were ever meant to move. And still,
no matter how many nightmares rip through your sleep, the
bed stays soft. And indifferent.

You wrapped all your dreams in an old cloth, thinking maybe
passion—true passion—could burn hotter than any of them. Your
love is precious, nearly pure. But the purest intent rarely carries
you far. It only cuts deeper. And the purest scars are always the
ones left by trying to love right— and too hard.

The days vanish too quickly beneath passion’s flame. The lame
try to stand tall. The insomniac finds the courage to dream again.
And I— I wear my faith like a badge, only to have it thrown back
in my face.

Still, we do what we must. We put on that brave face. We face
the morning. We press on. Because that’s what love leaves behind—
something unfinished, something heavy, something we wear like
the skin on our face.

I am the lonely portrait— a relic of forgotten frames,
paused mid-stroke, as if the brush lost faith in its worth
My skin is painted by many words; learning how to be
tough, taking down note by hesitant note— while the music
always plays in a minor key, an echo with no crescendo,
a verse that never becomes a chorus.

I speak in shadows— duelling the lovely dark that dresses
itself as company. It moves like an earthquake beneath ribs,
quiet until it’s catastrophic, gentle until it crumbles;
paramount and omnipotent.

My tears are potent, but never that important – imported;
as they arrive like a contraband emotion, smuggled in through
brief touches, but never held long enough to feel like home.
No comfort in the snuggle, only a struggle for the struggle —
I carry a thousand reflections, yet none are my own. And still,
I try—stroke by trembling stroke— to repaint my worth without
a muse, without applause, just silence and canvas and longing.

I am the painter’s sad poem— unfinished, unframed; hanging
quietly in a gallery no one walks through anymore.

I am not my own strength – nor am I my own words
I am not the sum of silver, or rich as the world,
Nor even close to a sliver of gold.

I am not my future – or any better than my own past
I am all of my mistakes made in the present,
And all of the things, hoping to come to pass
Nowhere near a love that endures without question –
Nor the calm; being a life of many, many scars.

I am the quiet battles, that tears praise my triumphs,
The stillness in inner storms, battling emotional riots –
Marvel of flesh, fragile code; built of miracle science
Living in society’s endless bias, where the little
You hope to give, is the hope that will be trampled
Beneath the heels of Giants.

A faith that’s ALWAYS under intense heat
And so many pressures; pressed and refined,
I emerge as a Beautiful Diamond.

Take the time—don’t just spend it— to watch your grind,
These dreams are brewed, steeped behind these caffeine eyes.
Still, as the sunrise scripts its golden lines, my gaze still delays
Having to put on a daily mask; trapped in yesterday’s disguise.
All of these borrowed hours lace my breath, thinned and worn,
All these seconds spent on second-guessing myself; I’m torn—
Barely paying attention to obvious life lessons due in reflection;
Skipping those lessons, now I pay with life's collection.

As for facing my many regrets, it proves facing the glass—
But not all mirrors can clearly cut clean through the past.
Truths are warped, wrapped for the present, for who peer—
Peering in, fragile as much, cracked, and smeared with fear.
We search within ourselves, as all seekers must willingly do,
Searching for a love clear as glass — one that is sharp, and true.
As peach blossoms fall, and small stones roll, know: that through
The times of picking yourself up, some dust gets stuck on you.

The world isn’t so clear, especially if man’s clarity is uninvolved;
Profiting from all our scars – given titles hanging over ourselves
So many times, that prophets need to remind us of who we are
Profits, or prophets, but it all depends on who’s worth you trust.

There’s a parachute stitched into my eyes— soft silk holding
nothing, as I watch myself freefalling into an empty space
The ringing words of love still call, like fading prayers –
as the voices of lovers trying to reconnect.

But I never was good at playing my heart. But aren’t you
expecting me to stay in character? To wear the lines you
wrote for me, in the means of keeping up this fantasy of love.
My smiles are scripted; as everyone else is helping to create
such a picture frame. The world helps paint our picture from
all the wildest of conversations; but the more they run out of
your mouth, the more they seem to taste so tame.

These tired eyes have searched in your eyes for a reflection
I can truly bend– so is the baggage claim of my baggy eyes;
visioning our broken pieces coming together to hopefully
mend.

I was your background character, your silent NPC in a game
you never knew I played, the first time. But when I stopped
watching, when I stopped turning toward you with secret
obsession – you started to feel the crush of my own crush.
Now you chase the echo of something that once held you
true—that hidden crush, that tender view, searching. But love,
my dear, truly YOU, should see how love is so **** blind.

Impatient fear— drawn like breath toward a love-sickness
too familiar; where even longing feels rehearsed.
Still, we wait. Too patient, perhaps, for the One who
might finally make us two.

But how many hearts have crowded this same dream?
How many lips have whispered their forever's into ears already
echoing with empty promises? Love, the great alien—always
arriving in disguise during first encounters, glimmering strange
and radiant, only to rot sweetly in the mouth after the kiss turns
to memory.

We taste the ache, to call it devotion...
We call the wound a lesson.

But what of those—the occasional monsters; who no longer
apologize for the shape of their hunger, who wear their
shadows like a second skin, not in shame, but in acceptance?
And what of the world, when two such creatures find each other?
When neither runs, neither flinches—when their broken pieces
match like puzzle scars?

Do we call it love then, or chaos? Do we fear what is born from
the ashes of their embrace— or envy it? Because when two
monsters fall in love, they do not tame each other. They make
a home of their fire. And the world, remains forever obsessed
with perfect edges, that it will never understand—how beautiful
the burn can be.

Only then, do you and I finally feel free.

Interluding stolen kisses, as fleeting thoughts
traverse the corridors of time; often acting less
of our true selves in a desperate bid to win the
affection of those we hope to love - to be loved
But all bets are off, once the cards are laid bare
upon the table – as the choice to remain or depart
hinges on how long you are willing and able.

But if I'm falling, dreaming, waiting... in a caged
thought; plotting, scheming, believing that one's
love should also keep its word; can it truly hold
more weight than those three burdensome words?

And I hope they aren’t words more so said, less
expressed, or expressed in public, but having no
real private impression — just making up stories
for the press, as the headline reads you've been
pressing all my wrong buttons, I'm pressed.
"I love you," if that is your declaration, I guess –
as some loves are just for period of time; acting
as an interval. But also, the ones that are so hard
to forget. But I wouldn’t remember you as a lover,
but someone who was once a friend - just friends.

Our fresh starts are merely ancient tales played out in new
roles… Drop me off at the edge of time— with the subtle
notes to the steps of love; alas, it's only a footnote. Bearing
heavy thoughts as the wearer of this crown— wear me
down; preoccupied with the relentless question of,
'where do we stand now?'

Torn in two; we are the wounds that stitched us together,
only to fall in love. I'm still scarred, only this time I chose to
bring it all on myself. Sympathized symphonies— where
all these falling tears don't fall from your eyes, but from
the heavens crying out at night.

Though time grows wise the longer it runs; why do I persist
on chasing time, as if there exists a finish line... In hopes that
loving you would grant me wisdom on how to love you better;
spending more time in this chase - or how the story goes.

The boy who chases after a wife, often neglects to transform
the title to HIS wife. Fresh starts that are merely ancient tales
played out in new roles. But who really owns up to their role
at all?

Beneath the weight of the moon, won't we
resemble all these shattered constellations

And finding a good place to feel sad; is my
reflection melting out of your eyes– a scene
of when tears cascade down your cheeks,
when I always seem so far away

As the echoes of all bygone aspirations fade
into the hue of cosmic dust; my voice fails in
calling out your name – as every fallen star
falls out of its spark, betrayed by the dark

In Time, and Again… is where we rediscover
the essence of falling in love again.

The shape of your love’s image
Makes one imagine,

The many brushstrokes –

Painting out such a masterpiece
like you, Love.

Can’t help myself from swimming
SO DEEP,

In your thoughts –

It’s really the depth of your
conversation, that keeps me afloat.

Lovers by the pen;
both in the love letters I wrote for you
and feeling so trapped inside my own head.

Our laughter –
is a yard for measuring out the depth of love
where you and I planted a garden of our scars.

But I’ll go chasing after you,
even now, like I never once owned you before
twisting all of my memories, like this doorknob.

I’m open to talk; but even more so to listen;
extra extras – alongside a good time of ecstasy
reading up on the all lessons of love, step by step
here I am, standing next to you, with extra feet.

I am the sacrifice of my own scars –
A case of my own insecurities; an awkward custody
Judged by the eyes unseen to my quiet depression;
As the voices are much louder in the silence of night

Like the walls of a lung breathing in and out,
…inhale…exhale…inhale more…exhales the most
I take in the ill spoken of me, letting out a smile of love

Part of the whole process; how I process most of my life
To contribute in the same fantasy, that everything is okay,
Or whatever…

A coat that is ready in days of being under the weather
A pulled face waiting for a fourth sneeze tickling a nose
It never really comes…

And maybe I’m also feeling so trapped –
But who really knows?

The stars aren’t so innocent;
Those surrounded in the twilight's dark
But when they all die off,
Who really witnesses their final spark?

They live in harmony, though with death –
As I stare at them following their emptiness;
If I must fall out of place, I’ll embrace that fate
Like a shooting star, taking the task with gladness;
Neither entering nor departing, a dark breath,
That quietly escapes out of my collapsed chest.

While my skin dissolves into dirt –
The very cradle of humanity’s birth;
My wet tears will burn scars upon my cheeks –
Never truly separated from things; but also,
never attaining the true meaning of peace.

                                      I’m all but a piece.

I’ve lost the art of praying for love;
Instead, I’m constantly praying for cause
Cause what’s the point of a lover’s love,
Without it coming alongside a real cause?

Cause you may say you love me
Professing your love with all your heart –
But in return; you go, and break my heart
Being the cause to my unstable mental state,
Being less of a state – more of a mental break.

So, please, apply your brakes, before you
Lay your heart bare before me – dreading
The thought of chronicling you as one of
My many, many mistakes; as your pretend
Love, served as that very cause.

Can you not hear
the murmurs of your skin tone –

Oh darling, your decimal smile,
is a testament to the value you own

Your kiss is an ode, your soul
a ballad; and your body is a poem.

How could a man articulate
your essence, if not through his words –

For these mere words fall short,
even for ones whose pride stands tall

A love letter, I find myself enveloping,
so unwilling to let go; wishing I could
have you as my girl.

The shadows gaze silently, cloaking me in divorce clothes
–splitting my mind in two. Nobody is innocent; for even
in the innocent eyes of a child, they must grow up –
Certainly no exception to this rule. At times, I find myself
draining the essence of my dreams, spiralling into a vortex
of procrastination, throwing my efforts down the drain.

Life is a canvas, and the art of existence is wrought with
suffering – the masterpiece of my story will be a portrait
painted with my blood, sweat, and tears, left as a haunting
Stain.

Yet, how we cast judgment upon the suicidal for not being
brave– praising the brave for flirting with the precipice of
risking their lives. As a true master of their courage; are
those who confront their deepest fears and still strive to
soar beyond them.

Still, I’ll walk through night as a strange person follows me;
only to discover that the shadows watching silently are
merely the echoes of my own regrets.

Asking myself where do I fall in people's eyes
–brave or suicidal...

I find myself so puzzled, in a web of my own emotions; pieces of
your skin pierces at my tears. Until those tears dry over, I remain
unchanged, still the same man – clutching at those pieces of you in
my hand. The haunting whispers of your voice blowing in my mind;
though I'm not a fan. But love can't be so coincidental, it has its cons
of density; a weighty significance— no matter, you still matter to me!
Still, when you spoke of making this love last, I pray you didn't say
it with lust.

And to fall in love is to tread softly; so let me down easy for the sake
of this soft heart. Even if I possessed the key to your heart, I would
still ask for your permission to let me in — to accept me as I am;
knowing we both sin. As your very breath, is inherited in a kiss
underneath my lungs; killing me slowly, a slow demise orchestrated
by the symphony of your love. Being the piece of oxygen trapped in
your glove —would you hold onto the memory of us, just for a little
long?

Circling my devotion around your name like a wedding ring; ruling
over my thoughts, my mind has crowned you Queen. And on this
battlefield of love; I'm fighting just to prove my love – processing
my words like processed foods; desperately hoping to nourish your
soul with every word.

It seems as though I've known you before; where in these past lives
we had lived — it feels like I've grown out of my old ways; and it
feels like you were that very seed. And if I'm to settle down, I need to
settle my old regrets. And if I'm to write out all of my wrongs, give
me some time to repent. And perhaps we'll be perfect lovers, if we
learn to love each other like friends. Yet, despite our efforts to be so
perfect for each other; we'll still remain imperfect in the end.

                                                           ­                       Beautifully flawed.

In the grand theatre of our romance,
In this courtship of our growing love
—only your parents could judge me.

In the grand theatre of our romance,
When I unveil my authentic essence
—your weeping eyes continue to love me.

In the grand theatre of our romance,
To say you're the woman of my dreams
—there’s no rest to provide you with the
justifications to profess your love for me!

Love isn’t a romantic movie…

But is dying merely a rebirth within the echoes
Of another's memory, in another's mind
Forever lingering in another’s heart –
Being this forever last touch?

Death, is far from silent, loudly resonating
Within the echoing tears of the living,
Not so cold; those cherished memories
Of you, ignites smiles that envelop us in warmth.

Though, as much as we know you now
We realize we never truly knew you at all!
Even in death, the narrative of your once
Existence, is living in another’s memories –
As a depth far beyond what we could even hold.

With a heavy heart, I exhaled a breath of longing beneath
my silent prayer – perhaps too overoptimistic. Gazing outwards,
I found myself swallowed by the paranoia of my own existence,
and chewed out by the tumultuous journey of time's relentless
exploration.

I held my reflection in a broken piece of glass; staring as the
curious, frigid gaze of a child peering into the depths of your
soul – my inner child gazed back, steeped in wistful nostalgia.

My rich brown skin, reminiscent of freshly tilled soil; labouring
through the toil while tears nourish this earth, as umbrellas lie
forgotten. Steamed by the essence of love, my surroundings
dissipate – my very bones crafted out like fragile paper, and
inscribed with the genetic legacy that tells of my human nature.

Where dreams should stand still; passionately lamenting until
they become a reservoir of still rain – the passage of time pales
in comparison to the pacing of this life. Yet, for the sake of my
aspirations, and having a hand in creating my dreams, I hope
to grasp them all one day.

If Truth & Love are an object; I’m objective to that statement;
For the girl of my dreams — I’m maybe lucid dreaming,
Or just another hopeless insomniac; a hopeless romantic!

Dreamt up love stories – mostly are their unhappy endings;
Falling in love, while quietly hoping my feelings aren’t,
The only ones to catch me; it’s all going to be so tragic!

Falling too hard now — having no means to get up;
Having no pieces of a heart left, to cope with the feeling,
Of breaking up; knowing I’ll start to act so dramatic!

These are the insecurities of being in love;
It's so rough; the one I once loved became so traumatic!

Before there was EVERYTHING
–there was NOTHING

A quiet void of endless,
POTENTIAL

And in that nothing,
–there was CHAOS

If God isn't your EVERYTHING
–then you are left with NOTHING

And to exist in such a state,
is to dwell in CHAOS!

I may be patient, but nothing close to love sick –
Mind my twisted thoughts, to the twist of my hand;
The handy character, still carrying their tender wrist –

My heart beats true, to the beat of being so tender –
But it’s so hard, learning to love those I long to hate,
And I always ask myself, “can I really do all of this”

Yet, I don’t expect the purest of love from a heart –
A wicked place; a hollow that can pompously say,
“I love you,” with deceitful lips.

Actions speak louder than words; as your actions
All carry their own intentions, that you choose not
To whisper them all – only the heart knows!

There no such thing,
As a bad poem –

It’s merely a spectrum
Of Preferences.

The frequency of a kiss, is the rate
Of us both having a matching heartbeat
Rising vibrations; as my eyes start to feel
Baked; staring too long at the heat of your face

Catching smoke, in the fire of your lips,
Smokers count the puffs out of their vape;
Tears turn into vapour; vapours slowly
Become the ashes, slowly turning into waste

Maybe we're just wasting time, as we love
To just be sitting quietly, in this comfy place
Still, this feeling here, will always feel so great.
And lately I've been staying up way too late —
But did I at least tell you that I love you; if not
I'm so, so sorry, I know now, I was a bit too late!

Cos I don't really party that much; always
Taking my time to adjust to any new touch —

Cos you gave me a touch of a new Love.

THE LAST WORDS in the taste of love –
As I summon the sweetness to wash my palate
My skin can never find much rest in the day;
A makeshift bed; my body feels like a pallet.
Growing old, means having a mix of colours
Inside of my beard; making it a face palette.

But wouldn’t I love to own a palace –
To French kiss someone in Paris,
And to be loved by both her parents.

Find me a love that is apparent;
Stealing a lingering kiss, like stealing the time
But let’s not clock in the times you tick me off –
Just tick off my check-boxes, of being the one.

And let our love be a beautiful love ballet.