When I was born,  
I cried,  
As a sign  
Of being welcomed into a world full of sorrow and hardship.

What is death?  
Is death the reason why people are born?  
All thoughts are a result of blurred vision,  
Where society is trapped inside a cage of heavy darkness,  
Wherein dwell beasts — some who eat meat, and others who eat grass.

Those who eat meat rule over those who eat grass,  
But the day will come when the grass-eaters  
Will gain understanding and transform,  
And they too will start eating meat,  
Because of the growth of strong, sharp teeth.

What is death?  
Is death the result of birth,  
Or is birth the cause of death?

How many shades of gray can you count
Staring up at the rain clouds?
Would you be able to name them,
Give them a purposeful pallet in which to contrast against
Would they go well with marble or subway tile?
Could you see it defaulting a room to a “create-a-character” meh?

Could you assign them to moods?
Let each shade or shape of the clouds tell a story
Each one or color depicts a mental illness and how it cascades in the mind.
What depicts depression, is it the darkest gray or the lightest?
How would you label the spectrum?

What of the rain?
Could we categorize how it pours down?
If it’s by its sides is it sliding into indifference?
What about the dull droll of straight down,
Is that just melancholic, or simply a chance to shower outside?
Let the natural spritz renew with vigorous remiss
And chase away sorrow in cool or warm damp praise.

Whatever the case,
However, the time is spent in malaise
Remember the sun will return,
And so too will color.

Hey Lou—
so beautiful.
I love you.
The world forgets what that means sometimes,
but not me.
Not here.
Not now.
Lately, I sit back
and I wonder—
is there even such a thing
as good and evil?
Or are they just mirrors
for opinions dressed as truth?
People don’t fight for ideas anymore.
They fight because they can,
because someone else said don’t,
because silence feels like losing.
But I remember a different time—
a time of minds that opened galaxies.
Stephen Hawking dreamt in black holes,
Einstein listened for the whisper of atoms.
Our heroes once lit torches,
not screens.
They had questions bigger than their fame.
Now?
We chase faces.
Cases.
Shock over substance.
Talent’s in the back of the line,
waiting behind a viral clip.
We used to talk about evolution,
about meaning,
about everything unseen and still real.
Now we scroll.
Now we sell.
Now we perform.
It’s almost better to be bad
than to be brilliant.
At least bad gets views.
At least bad gets seen.
We move too fast.
Too fast to sit.
Too fast to feel.
Too fast to wonder.
Even to breathe feels like a distraction.
Reflection’s a luxury
this generation can't afford.
I come from a place
they used to call
the Empire State—
where people built dreams
out of steel,
sweat,
and belief.
where artists left proof—
expression etched on city walls
like the first handprints in the caves,
a visual history,
marking time,
influencing it.
I live in a country
where dreams were once possible.
Where greatness wasn’t just myth—
it was motivation.
But now the motive’s
a bank account.
And the dream?
It’s behind a paywall.
Nobody talks about the race,
the planet,
the soul.
They just talk about the numbers.
The hustle.
The next thing.
Always the next thing.
And yet—
in the silence between all that noise,
I still believe
someone out there remembers.
Maybe it's me.
Maybe it’s you.
Maybe it’s us.
Still here.
Still breathing.
Still choosing to care

No real wonder
How I got it
The skeleton
In my closet
I felt left out
So I bought it

Chairs were made in many forms,
for different hands, for different norms.
But one was placed for all to try,
too high, too low, too stiff, too dry.

It scratched their skin, it bruised their pride,
yet still they sat, and tried to hide.
Until it broke, with quiet despair,
not them, my friend but the unfit chair.

I let
love
cons(you)(me)