Don’t drag me in stuff
I’m not into.
Don’t brag to me about things
I don’t care for.
Your chitchat
your backbite
keep it.
Congratulate yourself
for holding the heart
strong like a rock,
cold and sharp
like icicles.
You can’t touch me
with your hand
I’ll turn invisible,
but indivisible
from myself.
I will be more than the smile
I once shed on you.
Don’t glorify the things
I never signed up for.
I’m not into it.
Leave me alone.
when I saw a man
skiing down a mountain
on youtube,
oh I remembered him
my friend.
living in his own little, happy world
maybe that world is his dream,
but he chases it
with more motivation than most men breathe.
my friend
is full of wishes
endless, flowing,
one after another,
and that never-ending list
is what keeps him alive.
hopes,
dreams,
goals,
conversations,
laughter
all climbing upward.
as certain as the height of Everest,
I wish one day
he skis down from the highest point on earth
and my heart would feel lighter,
happier,
like skydiving with God
with nothing to hold me down.
that would be enough.
my friend wants to ski a mountain,
and I’ll be there
at the bottom,
waiting,
to greet him,
to celebrate him,
to hug him,
to lift him
for the dream he turned real.
oh my friend
I would be so happy
to share that moment.
just name the mountain,
I will be there.
we will climb the hardship,
for the beauty,
for the shared view
my friend,
and the mountains
will smile with us.
I hope he always smiles too,
and remains at that height
free,
brave,
and shining.
oh dreams…
if you come,
come clearly.
i’m tired,
tired of this life drawn in tangled doodles
scribbles everywhere,
beautiful…..
but messy.
and all i want
is one clean line,
one path i can walk without tripping.
sometimes i think
why can’t i live another life
inside my sleep?
a second version of me,
the one i never got to be.
a place where i choose the people,
not where life picks them for me.
dreamworld…
you feel like a bubble
glittering, soft,
and gone the moment my eyes open.
and i wonder,
when this planet is done with us,
do we float into an eternal dream?
no alarms, no gravity
just drifting through thoughts forever.
are we dreamers like Lennon believed?
or fools
trying to translate clouds?
no— maybe not.
Freud would say
dreams speak in symbol,
in soul language,
in things we half-unders
i don’t know what i’ll dream tonight,
but i hope
when i wake,
no brother bombs another brother’s house,
no mother cries for her child,
no sky burns red.
just peace.
just rest.
just one gentle night
with no war inside or out.
just one peaceful dream.
is that too much to ask?
Just one room grew dark.
I noticed the shadows fall from my bright room,
a thin line beneath the door
where light no longer slipped through.
Someone knocked
after something strange,
just when I wondered
what could have happened.
They slept so early tonight, I thought.
Oh… it’s only five.
Sun already sinking
beautiful dusk, purple and gold.
I opened the door.
He stood there smiling soft,
and asked if he could borrow my bulb
my only one,
my little sun
that kept my room alive.
He said he had a wife,
a small princess with sleepy eyes,
and they needed light tonight.
And I — just me — alone.
I felt something warm inside,
Yes, I thought, why not share?
Let their room glow bright
I will sit with dusk,
I will sit with night.
It’s all right.
They promised a new bulb tomorrow,
promised they would return mine too
oh, if only promises were as bright
as light itself.
I stood tall upon a chair,
while he held his phone torch
steady like a second moon,
and I gently loosened the bulb,
placed it soft in his open palm.
His room lit up like morning
and mine fell into shadow.
But strangely,
my heart became
just a little brighter.
Grudges
come and go
against whom, and why?
No… not me.
I have walked away from that weight.
I am learning to hold things
with compassion, not claws.
Christmas is here
what shall we gift the neighbours?
The same neighbours, yes — them.
Perhaps forgiveness,
wrapped soft like a winter scarf.
Maybe we will talk again,
laugh again,
share a cup of tea
or pints under warm pub lights.
Or maybe not.
Still, since I am
a compassionate being (or trying to be),
I can forgive them
for not receiving my parcels
while I was away.
They couldn’t do everything.
They didn’t, and that’s fine.
I let it go.
A little grace for them,
a little peace for me.
I once read
that history is just fragments,
memories cracked like old pottery,
washed in someone else’s truth,
diluted by the angle of power.
Written by those
who stood tallest in their era
or believed they did.
The great, the crowned,
the ones with ink and authority,
bending time to their reflection.
And then another arrived,
rewrote, reshaped, re-imagined
words melted and poured
into a new mould.
Maybe it was their story,
or maybe the story we wanted
to survive.
Someone asked
subjective or objective?
Which page is real?
Which truth did history kneel to?
Whose pen carried the louder voice?
Yet one thing stands, unshaken:
They built wonders.
Civilizations like temples of breath,
rituals that still burn like incense
in the rooms of our memory.
Stone, road, scripture, rhythm
they raised them like pillars
so we could grow, learn,
admire, and continue the echo.
Perhaps they were just historians
of survival
the ones who endured long enough
to carve their name into time.
Survival writes attendance,
existence becomes ink.
One day, we too will be history
faded photographs of breath,
a story retold by someone
who never met us,
who may misunderstand
yet still create a version
to remember.
I do not know
whose favour we’ll be written in,
whose lips will speak our names,
whose truth will preserve
or distort our footprints.
But history shapes the eyes
through which we see the world
and we, my friend,
we are not outside it.
We are threads in the fabric.
We are echoes moving forward.
We are tomorrow’s memory,
slowly turning into dust
and into legend.
We are history.
Living, breathing, writing itself
through us.
It’s not funny anymore.
Don’t laugh.
I could break your teeth, you know
clean in half.
Work next to a dentist,
take commissions on every crack I make.
Who knew violence could be a career path?
Even LinkedIn would be impressed.
And she laughs.
Window-light hitting her face like golden conspiracy,
front row seat to my frustration.
No apology, no flinch
just that effortless smile
like the world has never cut her.
So I raise my voice
just enough to let the air know I’m alive.
Just enough to let her know
I’m not only the punchline.
I can fix smiles too.
Yeah.
Same fingers that tremble with anger
can sculpt something beautiful,
restore, rebuild, redesign
turn broken into brilliant.
I met Nephthys
and she said,
“Come. Afterlife.”
I said,
no…
I’m okay.
This glitchy little earth
is still better than afterlife.
I don’t know
if I can play the same games
on my consoles over there.
I don’t know
if I can still text my friends
when someone comes to mess with me.
Maybe they’ll respawn with me
in the afterlife,
but oh no
I’ve got no patience.
They say
darkness is there,
pain is there,
but life…
life is here.
Unexplored.
Still these curious eyes,
still this light taking flight
inside my chest.
Tell me, Nephthys,
what gets measured in afterlife
my deeds
or my money?
If it’s money,
I better call Musk
to pay my ticket.
Or Gates,
to open some Windows
for eternal light.
Or Zuckerberg,
who will pop up and ask,
“What’s on your mind?”
Oh no,
I’m okay.
How would I survive
without these rectangular flashing lights
calling themselves phones,
consoles,
portals?
Do I need them that much?
Maybe yes.
Is Steve Jobs up there
enjoying some beta version
of forever?
What vehicles do you have?
What food?
Or do you just
never feel hungry again?
What is it?
What is love like
when no one can leave?
I have no idea.
So let me explore this life first.
I’m not tested enough yet,
not wasted enough yet,
not finished with my glitches.
Oh, afterlife
no.
I’m okay,
I told her.
I’m absolutely fine
for now.
For later
I will think.
Deep think.
Whatever I bring home
from a day of sweat and heavy labor
all the running,
the talking,
the thinking
Whatever is placed before me
by the hands of those I love,
is special.
Be it feast or simple meal,
if it is cooked with love,
seasoned with blessings,
or just plain
I never complain
of what is rich or what is bland.
My humble stomach is easy to please.
I eat with gratitude,
cherish every bite,
for dishes served with love
are always more than food
they are warmth.
And holidays?
Ah, those are distant lands
waiting for me.
When my paychecks are done,
when I break free
from the weight of finances
Oh, how light I’ll be!
I’ll spread my wings,
and I will fly.
Let me fly.
The day I stop writing
do not turn me into a weapon.
For even in blood,
I can write.
On the blank page,
etching the syllables of silence
I can still write.
The ache of life,
the beauty of the world
weaving both into letters,
I can write.
NEPHART.COM 