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  • Still Loading…..

    Still Loading…..

    Do you need a break? From what?

    Stop. Stop.

    Someone screaming brake

    like I am not already shaking,

    like I am not already late.

    I was driving faster, yes,

    but still within the lines,

    freeway mind,

    speed-limit life,

    you cannot just stop like that,

    you curve,

    you lean into hard corners

    and hope you survive.

    I needed a break.

    My shoulder knows it.

    Sleep does not arrive

    unless a pill opens the door

    and pretends it is rest.

    Lists keep growing.

    Days keep going.

    Everything needs attention,

    everything needs fixing,

    everything needs me.

    If I say I need a break from work,

    then tell me

    how money falls from the sky.

    Because even when it rains,

    I stay dry.

    Thirsty.

    If I say I need a break,

    even my family

    checks my words for excuses.

    My brain runs on full gear.

    Thoughts chasing thoughts,

    metal on metal,

    supersonic train,

    no station,

    no delay,

    no end.

    I want a break from screens,

    from glowing squares and rectangles

    teaching my eyes

    how to forget the horizon.

    All I want

    is sunlight that does not judge,

    air that smells like trees,

    something real enough

    to erase the perfume

    I wear for people

    I do not feel.

    My ears need a break

    from gossip,

    from future fears spoken like facts,

    from opinions loud enough

    to drown listening.

    I keep my distance from stereotypes,

    but they keep finding me.

    I hear them.

    I nod.

    I smile.

    Arguing costs too much energy.

    They shout

    to prove they are right.

    I stay quiet

    to prove I am still breathing.

    Maybe I should stop nodding.

    My neck is tired.

    My feet want roads, not floors.

    My eyes want to drink

    the silence of a lake.

    Someone put me on a big stage.

    No script.

    No rehearsal.

    One life.

    One take.

    Everything happens at once.

    So if you ask me

    do you need a break?

    Maybe not from work.

    Maybe not from people.

    Maybe

    from the noise.

    From the speed.

    From explaining.

    Maybe

    I just

    need

    a break.

  • The Ginger That Refused Me

    The Ginger That Refused Me

    I animated the ginger rabbit

    and my soul mistook that for love.

    She said,

    I don’t have feelings for you.

    Go.

    Find your way.

    I am suited only for spices.

    Your heart lacks taste.

    Even my shadow

    refuses

    the silhouette of you.

  • Are You Allright?

    Are You Allright?

    He walked in,

    considerate,

    a smile resting,

    a nod—

    then the line

    that opens doors.

    “Are you alright?”

    I smiled back.

    Someone was listening.

    I started talking.

    Blink… another blink.

    He reached another block.

    I could only see him

    in the distance.

    I was supposed to say,

    “I’m fine.”

    The most affordable lie.

    Later,

    I paid someone

    by the hour

    to listen.

    First—

    forms.

    Boxes to tick,

    asking how I feel

    before I can speak.

    I walked out

    feeling misplaced.

    I asked her,

    why not talk in a garden?

    These walls

    are closing in on me.

    She gave me water

    in a plastic cup.

    I used it

    to end my thirst.

    She said,

    “We must keep things confidential.”

    I wouldn’t mind

    if bees and butterflies listened—

    their humming sounds

    more honest

    than the silence

    I’ve carried for ages.

    Everywhere I go

    feels like cages.

    Sometimes

    to understand life

    you don’t need sages.

    Life doesn’t jump out

    from hedges.

    Solace returns

    when gratitude grows.

    Anger was nothing

    but an excuse

    for my tongue.

    Sometimes a heart

    just wants

    another heart.

    If I’m not wrong.

    Maybe I’ve slept too long

    and need

    the vibration of a gong.

    I can be the umpire

    if life plays ping pong.

    Some people

    only need one good song

    to hear every day,

    smile,

    and not wait

    for smiles in return.

    Now it feels

    like I’m back on track.

    So if I ask you—

    “Are you alright?”

    I will make sure

    to look back.

  • Employee of the Month

    Employee of the Month

    Ten jobs.

    Different rooms.

    Different faces.

    Never stayed long enough

    for the floor

    to learn

    my name.

    Some exits

    had no goodbye.

    Some wore misunderstandings.

    Some exploded into fights.

    Some limped out as plights.

    Some flexed

    with might.

    When my thread was cut,

    someone else

    was already

    flying a kite.

    I worked hard.

    Still couldn’t be the Ace in the deck.

    Same cards,

    same shuffle,

    never the one

    they played first.

    Some called me good.

    Some called me retard.

    I’ve walked like a trekker,

    backpack full of patience.

    Once ran from a man

    holding a knife,

    questioning my existence

    because I spoke

    to his wife.

    A bird leaves one branch

    for another.

    That’s survival.

    But there were times

    I couldn’t even decide

    which branch

    would hold.

    Reports?

    Perfect.

    Work?

    Perfect.

    Future?

    Doubt.

    Mind?

    Restless.

    People?

    Good enough for “hi.”

    I never learned

    a graceful way

    to say goodbye.

    I wrote about celebrities.

    Worked for artists.

    Worked for myself.

    Hired some lads,

    learned the hard way

    You can’t carry

    other people’s excuses

    on your back.

    Then abroad.

    Every finger

    pointed inward.

    Language broken.

    Confidence thin.

    Strength questioned.

    Compelled.

    Weak.

    Two years.

    One job.

    And today

    Employee of the Month.

    No fireworks.

    No victory speech.

    Just the year

    finally noticing me,

    tapping my shoulder,

    saying,

    Here.

    You stayed.

    Something small.

    Something earned.

    Something to cheer about.

  • The Day Kisses Learned to Fly

    The Day Kisses Learned to Fly

    She asked him…

    how much do you love me?

    He said,

    infinity…

    and beyond.

    And the kisses continued.

    Not on lips.

    In the air.

    She grabbed all she could,

    clumsy, greedy, smiling,

    and pressed them into her heart.

    But some escaped.

    They landed

    on the cheeks of women

    walking down the street.

    They blushed.

    Stopped.

    Looked around.

    Who touched me?

    An old lady chuckled.

    Something warm

    remembered her chest.

    Two lads rubbed their cheeks,

    checked themselves

    in a car mirror.

    They tried to scrub them off.

    Too dangerous.

    Can’t take kisses home.

    Doubt ruins dinner.

    Some kisses rested on birds.

    The birds felt a poke,

    chirped their lungs out,

    and flew back to the nest

    as if love had teeth.

    A few landed

    on the window

    on top of the double-decker bus.

    Dusty glass.

    Perfect canvas.

    People stared up.

    Who climbed that high?

    Maybe a naughty driver,

    imagining a beautiful passenger,

    confessing love

    without saying a word.

    There’s a rumour

    the kisses are still flying.

    Hope you caught one.

    I’m already smiling

    here.

  • Life Is This Simple

    Life Is This Simple

    I can come back again

    with baggage of love.

    It may look heavy,

    but it isn’t.

    It is light as cotton,

    stacked on a false heart.

    So you might guess

    love could be fake too.

    No.

    Love will be real.

    But there will be layers upon layers.

    The deeper you go with peeling,

    the more the layers increase.

    And then there will be a moment

    you find nothing.

    Empty.

    Void.

    But it won’t pull you away.

    You will be pulled

    by its subtle force.

    Emotions grow strong there,

    like aged wine.

    Then the whole galaxy

    starts looking small.

    You begin believing

    the sun

    just left one of his parts.

    It feels more than universal art.

    Dreamers fly with you,

    and deep down,

    another dream.

    You zoom your entire life out

    out of curiosity.

    And then you realize

    oh,

    life is this simple.

    Just don’t get caught

    in the entanglement of thinking.

    People move around like atoms.

    They bounce into another orbit

    and disappear.

    Your body is aging,

    but your memory is still stuck there.

    Oh memory, so strong,

    it won’t let you go.

    You are not in space.

    You might be automated.

  • Super Glue

    Super Glue

    Super glue.

    They say

    one drop

    can fix anything.

    Not heal.

    Fix.

    Press.

    Hold.

    Don’t move.

    That’s how it starts.

    A small squeeze.

    A little faith in chemistry.

    Two broken edges

    told to behave.

    Stay.

    Stay like this.

    No questions asked.

    No room for swelling.

    No allowance

    for heat

    or time

    or hands that tremble.

    Super glue doesn’t listen.

    It sets.

    Hardens

    before you finish explaining

    what happened.

    It doesn’t care

    why it broke.

    Just that it did.

    And for a while,

    it works.

    Look.

    Whole again.

    But touch it too long

    and you feel it.

    That stiffness.

    That quiet ache

    where movement used to live.

    Because stone

    is only loyal

    until pressure remembers its job.

    Even the strongest bond

    gets tired

    of pretending it’s alive.

    And when it finally cracks,

    it doesn’t break clean.

    It takes a little skin with it.

    Super glue.

    Strong.

    Fast.

    Certain.

    Good for objects.

    Dangerous

    for hearts.

  • Aged, Not Melted

    Aged, Not Melted

    They call me cheesy.

    Maybe.

    I don’t pour myself on people.

    I learned early

    how spillage gets punished.

    I know how to flirt.

    Properly.

    Timing.

    Silence.

    The look that stops just short of a promise.

    I also learned the price.

    So I queue.

    I stay in my lane.

    I don’t take what isn’t handed to me.

    That’s not innocence.

    That’s restraint with a memory.

    Sometimes I imagine

    a quiet university

    where hearts are books

    and no one lies in the margins.

    You read slowly.

    You don’t tear pages.

    Then the bell rings.

    The world returns.

    I still want.

    I just don’t reach.

    Some days

    that feels like dignity.

    Some days

    it feels like grief.

  • What Do I Complain About the Most?

    What Do I Complain About the Most?

    What do you complain about the most?

    They turned a country into hell.

    My life… into an Alcatraz cell.

    At least that’s what I say

    when I can’t find my socks

    before going out.

    I look under the bed.

    Inside the drawer.

    Behind the door.

    And then…

    there’s the cat.

    One sock in its mouth.

    Running toward the garden

    like it just won a championship.

    I chase.

    I negotiate.

    I lose.

    Now I wear odd socks

    like a part-time circus clown

    in a town

    where they cut down the trees

    and replaced fresh air

    with fresh perfume.

    My job sucks.

    Management are ducks.

    Quack.

    Quack.

    Quack.

    All day.

    I put cotton in my ears

    just to survive the pond.

    Bought a shirt last week.

    Looked perfect in the changing room.

    Now?

    It hugs me too tight.

    Maybe it shrank.

    Maybe I didn’t.

    Maybe it’s the belly fat

    whispering,

    “healthy diet.”

    Why is everything so dim?

    What happened to the light?

    I try to keep calm

    but sometimes the house

    feels like a boxing ring

    and every day

    wants a fight.

    Food doesn’t taste the same.

    Too salty.

    Too fast.

    And who put that long hair in my plate?

    Long enough

    to travel a hundred yards

    if given a visa.

    My plant was supposed to bloom five flowers.

    Only three showed up.

    I water it every day.

    Still, it negotiates.

    The neighbours bray all night.

    Sounds like donkeys

    paying rent next door.

    Potholes in the road.

    Maybe I should plant flowers in them.

    At least something

    would grow.

    Blackheads.

    Pimples.

    Creams that promise miracles

    and deliver… silence.

    Leaders that promise change

    and deliver… speeches.

    And after all that—

    after the socks,

    the ducks,

    the potholes,

    the perfume air—

    I say

    “I really don’t have complaints.”

    These are just everyday things.

    Tiny storms

    in a very ordinary sky.

    Maybe I complain

    because life is still… ordinary.

    Because the worst thing today

    was a missing sock.

    Maybe I complain

    because I have the luxury

    to notice.

    And maybe…

    that’s not hell at all.

    That’s life.

    Still blooming

    three flowers at a time.

  • Those Were the Days of Sixteen

    Those Were the Days of Sixteen

    Those were the days…

    when I was sixteen.

    Sixteen.

    An age where love

    doesn’t knock.

    It just climbs through the window

    and rearranges your heartbeat.

    The bloom of love was sprouting.

    Letters upon letters.

    Poems upon poems.

    Ink was cheap.

    Courage was expensive.

    She didn’t care.

    Or maybe she did.

    Maybe she smiled

    at some of my rhymes

    secretly…

    out of my sight.

    School?

    School was just a medium.

    Coursebooks were excuses.

    Mathematics on the desk…

    poetry in my head.

    I watched her

    from the side benches.

    Always from a distance.

    I never got to sit beside her.

    She was always surrounded.

    Her bodyguards.

    Not muscular.

    No gym memberships.

    Just synchronized frowns

    sharp enough

    to keep boys like me

    in our assigned seats.

    That was alright.

    Beautiful flowers

    stay between thorns.

    But truth is…

    they were good girls.

    They never pricked me.

    They just followed

    the sacred constitution

    of best friendship.

    Ironically,

    they were the ones

    who carried my messages.

    Cryptic messages.

    Codes only she could decode.

    And crush…

    what a dangerous, beautiful word.

    They cross your path.

    They crush your dreams.

    They bridge your heart.

    They seize your feelings

    like emotional pickpockets.

    Whenever the teacher asked a question

    my hand was the first in the air.

    Not because I knew the answer.

    But because

    I needed to exist

    in her line of sight.

    Even if the answer was wrong.

    Even if a stick corrected my confidence.

    I wanted to be first.

    First pick.

    First love.

    First love…

    is a sweet trick.

    The heart plays games

    and calls it destiny.

    First Valentine’s Day.

    I brought greetings.

    Small gifts.

    Bought with money

    saved from skipping lunches.

    Hunger in the stomach.

    Hope in the chest.

    And then…

    Torn apart.

    Right in front of me.

    Paper falling like defeated birds.

    And strangely…

    it was beautiful.

    Because it was her hands.

    Tender hands.

    If someone must tear your feelings,

    let it be the one

    who planted them.

    Painful enough to be sweet.

    Sweet enough to be painful.

    Strong enough

    to let emotions run wild

    like untied shoelaces

    on a running heart.

    Now when I remember those days…

    I don’t feel embarrassed.

    I don’t feel angry.

    I feel sixteen again.

    And somewhere inside this grown body…

    that boy

    is still standing up first

    when love asks a question.