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  • Torch Between Tides

    Torch Between Tides

    Railway tracks.

    Sea.

    Tides.

    Wave.

    Tell me

    is it me

    or you

    we’re trying to save?

    Carry a torch.

    Light the cage.

    Some doors don’t open

    till you age.

    If you think you’re history,

    name the page,

    where you lay your bones,

    your fear, your rage.

    If I squeeze my thoughts,

    they drip like paste,

    ketchup red

    from a crowded brainspace.

    My mind is packed,

    no room, no space,

    ideas collide

    then melt into waste.

    I can’t imagine

    you chewing my heart,

    but if you do,

    don’t tear it apart.

    Will I live long enough

    to ask your taste?

    Did it feel real,

    or easy to waste?

    If yes…

    oh yes…

    you passed the test.

    You saw my mess

    and called it best.

    Thoughts grow wings,

    escape the nest,

    circle my skull,

    never rest.

    No matter the spell

    you try to use,

    I bend, I break,

    but I still choose.

    I still rise.

    I still quest.

    I still try

    to be my best.

  • Bloom Together

    Bloom Together

    You look beautiful, my dear…

    said the barren tree

    with branches like empty hands

    reaching into the blue.

    Beautiful…

    you, dressed in pink laughter,

    while I stand here

    wearing winter.

    The blooming tree smiled.

    You could almost hear it in the leaves.

    Oh no…

    it is your service.

    Your silent standing.

    Your patience through frost.

    I am lucky

    to bloom beside you.

    The barren tree tilted slightly.

    Was that sarcasm?

    Or sympathy dressed as spring?

    A soft rustle.

    A petal loosened itself into the air.

    You will bloom very soon.

    Do not worry.

    Seasons are not permanent landlords.

    They visit.

    They leave.

    Together,

    we will bloom.

    Together,

    we will fill the hearts of passersby

    with fragrance.

    And if even one tired soul

    carries our scent home

    in the folds of their memory…

    Tell me, my dear,

    will we not be

    the luckiest couple

    in the world?

    The barren tree laughed.

    A dry, wooden laugh.

    I was only teasing.

    I know…

    we bloom on the same clock.

    When the wind carries our fragrance

    and it reaches human hearts,

    it will not just be scent.

    It will be sweetness.

    It will be hope.

    It will be proof

    that even what looks empty

    is only preparing.

    Some trees are blooming.

    Some are waiting.

    None are abandoned.

  • It Will Be Beautiful

    It Will Be Beautiful

    Travelling to the bottom of my heart,

    not walking,

    not floating,

    falling.

    Trying to land on emotions,

    where words do not speak,

    they shower,

    like flowers

    that do not ask for permission.

    If my emotions dry,

    and I have to crash,

    oh man,

    it will be beautiful.

    I have seen people

    walk with a smile,

    strike you on the way past,

    then say sorry.

    And somehow,

    that smile does not hurt.

    It flows towards me.

    That will not be a crash.

    That will not be trash.

    That will be the bang of the century.

    The hang of the century.

    The moment

    when time pauses

    just to watch

    me feel.

    Oh man,

    it will be beautiful.

  • Advice to My Teenage Self

    Advice to My Teenage Self

    What advice would you give to your teenage self?

    Brother,

    you have a lot to see in this life.

    Some of it will bruise you,

    some of it will bore you,

    some of it will teach you

    that happiness isn’t loud.

    One day you’ll crack the quiet code of kindness

    and suddenly the world will feel lighter.

    Until then,

    be kind to yourself first.

    That dream you saw,

    the one you never told anyone about,

    believe it.

    It wasn’t random.

    Start working on your art.

    Show your skills.

    Let people see you.

    Connect.

    And please,

    don’t stay home killing houseflies.

    You may think you were good at it.

    You weren’t.

    They just got bored of you,

    fell one by one onto the floor like tired actors,

    saying,

    “Alright, take the win.

    You didn’t defeat us.

    We surrendered.”

    Listen.

    She left you.

    It hurts.

    But you will move on.

    Move like a river,

    new every day,

    never apologizing for flowing forward.

    You’ll think,

    maybe I should join politics,

    work honestly,

    give my years to loving people of this country.

    Ambitious?

    Yes.

    Impossible?

    No.

    But don’t fall in love with preaching.

    Or advice.

    Be good.

    Do good.

    And remember to chill.

    Stars will lean toward you.

    The moon will light up your heart.

    Fly as high as you want,

    just keep your feet familiar with the ground.

    Your soul will glow.

    Dark paths will learn how to shine.

    Relax, bro.

    You’re doing better

    than you think. 

  • Depths of Your Love

    Depths of Your Love

    You can inundate me

    with your love,

    even if I don’t want to swim.

    I will keep a life jacket 

    strapped tight,

    because I might, 

    just might,

    see you smile

    before I drown.

    Even as I go under,

    I will be alive in your memory,

    deep down.

    As my body sinks,

    I become brighter there,

    like a jellyfish,

    like shells whispering to sand.

    If your love carries me

    to the depth of your heart,

    I want to anchor there.

    I will pay rent

    in tides of good feeling.

    The day my currency weakens,

    I will rise

    to the surface,

    plucked from your pulse.

    I will bloom in the dark,

    when you are not looking,

    my fragrance drifting

    through currents,

    invisible, untouchable,

    alive.

  • Echoes of a Bored Mind

    Echoes of a Bored Mind

    What bores you?

    If you ask me what bores me

    I’ve already been boring.

    I’ve been bored by my own thoughts,

    looping, rewinding, replaying…

    sometimes I feel like the rewind button has been misused

    and I can’t afford the extra time

    to comb my hair in the morning.

    Mirror smiles, says, you look handsome today

    but even that gets old.

    I wouldn’t be bored if Socrates walked in,

    said, you are enlightened.

    I wouldn’t rely on prophets either;

    they’ve got their own shows running.

    I get bored when people try to confuse me.

    I’m already confused.

    Romantic movies,

    scripted attachment,

    detachment becomes a luxury.

    Even if someone comes

    and says I love you,

    I might run to the mountains

    and shout their name

    until the echoes are the only ones left listening,

    and my heart hollow, like bamboo.

    I’ve been here before.

    People talking in loops,

    repeating the same lines,

    unless it’s a mantra,

    I can’t take it.

    Ramen noodles?

    Seriously, because of my hair?

    Fine. If that makes people happy,

    I’ll endure the boredom.

    Politics, celebrities, sports gossip, small talk

    none of it cheers me anymore.

    Boredom has become my compass,

    pushing me to explore new corners

    of thought, of silence, of myself.

    Because maybe…..boredom

    is not emptiness.

    It’s the doorway.

  • Before the Train Vanished

    Before the Train Vanished

    the light i saw

    was not an ordinary light

    a train tore past the sea

    faster than thought or sight

    the waves caught rhythm

    shaping sound with glee

    turning motion into music

    returning it to me

    i stand close to the waves

    as far as eyes can see

    between speed and stillness

    i learn the art of be

    i cherish this life

    each breath moving free

    wherever hearts are reaching

    that place is home for me.

  • Purple Spell

    Purple Spell

    I don’t know

    what magic lived

    in her purple nail polish

    but I was spellbound,

    lost in my own violet world.

    When I meditated

    she appeared,

    draped in purple,

    cloud-feathers glowing,

    turning back toward me.

    Rainbow eyes.

    A rainy heart.

    She showered me

    with flowers of love,

    a crown of thorns

    resting on her head.

    She made a promise

    soft as breath,

    sharp as faith

    that I would never mourn.

    Never.

    Ever.

  • Chewing Sweetness

    Chewing Sweetness

    Before spitting you out,

    some people may chomp you like gum.

    But honestly,

    it’s not a big problem.

    Because the day they grow desperate

    to hold you back in their life,

    they will search

    for that same sweetness.

    And yet,

    they will end up chewing

    a different variant,

    one that keeps its flavour

    but never reaches the soul.

  • The King Who Bathed Twice in a Lifetime

    The King Who Bathed Twice in a Lifetime

    I read somewhere

    that a king, in some nation,

    bathed only twice.

    Once, obviously, after birth.

    And once

    by accident.

    He was walking over a bridge,

    and a guard pushed him into the river.

    Historians say it was political.

    I think it was nasal.

    Maybe the king could no longer mask the smell.

    Maybe the guards had tried everything.

    Incense.

    Flowers.

    Loyalty.

    Perhaps they chose one scapegoat to push him,

    so later they could say,

    “Justice was served,”

    and also soap.

    Maybe the king preferred dry wash.

    Maybe perfumes were royal,

    and water was for peasants

    and fish.

    If it were a common man,

    people would pinch their noses.

    But he was the king.

    So they pinched their opinions instead.

    Unbothered.

    Unwashed.

    Unquestionable.

    No one dared complain,

    because no one wants

    to die for deodorant.

    Maybe the guard wanted

    to save the kingdom.

    Maybe he wanted

    to save the king.

    Once water touched him,

    the castle breathed again.

    Maybe the king feared water.

    Maybe he feared honesty more.

    Either way,

    I salute the patience of the queen.

    She lived closest.