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  • The Thing That Sat With Me

    The Thing That Sat With Me

    Describe an item you were incredibly attached to as a youth. What became of it?

    A square box

    with a bump on its back

    a little too heavy

    a little off track

    Tom smashed a Jerry

    handed it to me

    cartoon cracked magic

    curiosity free

    I wired it up

    let the silence ignite

    asked a typewrighter

    Can you make this light

    The screen learned to glow

    sharp happy snappy

    It turned into power

    and I turned scrappy

    It came with a drawer

    wide mouthed and brave

    where round little biscuits

    would quietly behave

    It breathed out heat

    like it worked overtime

    blinked once

    blinked twice

    said

    Now its your time

    Click after click

    my fingers would race

    joy doing parkour

    all over my face

    Each sound a promise

    each tap a key

    unlocking a version

    of future me

    Then days ran faster

    years hit the gym

    its brothers grew thinner

    sleeker more slim

    Muscles to circuits

    weight learned to flee

    progress on a treadmill

    chasing speed

    It made me a fighter

    trained how I think

    taught me to stare

    and never just blink

    Then one day it wandered

    as all things do

    to another house

    another view

    But what it installed

    never left my skin

    not software

    not wires

    but how I begin

    Life with it

    wasnt use or a hobby

    it was art school

    disguised as a hobby

    Now its children are lighter

    smarter more snappy

    I dont call it a computer

    I call it

    lappy

  • My Mission

    My Mission

    What is your mission?

    My mission

    is to make a mission

    out of another mission,

    where the mission never ends,

    keeps moving,

    like a loop

    that refuses to stop.

    My mission is fission,

    breaking life into reasons.

    No lies.

    No treason.

    Just being part of a society

    where joy blooms

    every season.

    My mission is to meet Tom Cruise

    and ask him

    what his next mission is,

    because nothing feels impossible for him.

    Maybe

    it’s the same for me.

    So I don’t take on

    missions that feel impossible

    to my soul.

    Some days

    I might fly like Superman

    to save a child

    from a falling skyscraper.

    Other days

    I appear like Deadpool,

    sticks in hand,

    stopping someone

    trying to rob another person.

    But there are other men

    saving this world.

    Maybe I should extend my support

    to a parallel one.

    My mission is simple.

    To be

    a parallel man.

    I stay beside you.

    I protect you.

    I talk to you.

    I keep you company.

    I never leave

    when loneliness arrives.

    And jokes apart,

    don’t be a nuisance

    to those who choose solitude.

    Even silence

    deserves respect.

    My real mission

    is to see a world

    where beauty overflows

    from the soul.

    Where compassion is everywhere.

    Where hatred has no space.

    Where forgiveness rules.

    As long as I live,

    if my writing makes a difference,

    even a small one,

    if it brings a smile

    to a reader’s face,

    then I am just being myself.

    Just a little grace.

    Maybe

    I am already part of

    someone else’s mission.

    And if so—

    I support

    your mission.

  • Oh, Long Life

    Oh, Long Life

    What are your thoughts on the concept of living a very long life?

    Oh long life

    I can stretch you like rubber,

    or let you shrink

    like woollen clothes

    forgotten in a tumble dryer.

    There are things to admire.

    There are things that look dire.

    But deep inside,

    life keeps burning,

    different kinds of fire.

    I hate it when people call me a liar.

    Once you sign a contract,

    you belong to a buyer.

    There are worldly trips on my timeline,

    but holidays are pushed, postponed, denied.

    Offices sweat just to give one.

    How much youth

    do I have to waste

    to understand their complications?

    If wealth could buy youth,

    I would’ve worked like a dog

    and slept like a log.

    But life is long,

    I keep thinking,

    and suddenly

    it’s short

    the very next day.

    I wish I had fulfilled her wishes.

    Will I ever reach there?

    Wisdom doesn’t follow you,

    it chases you

    one lesson after another.

    Desire has no ending.

    Expectations keep growing.

    Dreams stack like unread messages.

    Life keeps going.

    Beautiful bodies

    become relief for sore eyes.

    You get into one chase,

    then another,

    then another day.

    You don’t notice

    when your hair turns grey.

    I pluck them now,

    one by one,

    but the day will come

    when grey outnumbers normal.

    And I’ll ask,

    have I gotten old?

    The mirror becomes your enemy.

    You shatter it.

    Buy another one.

    Same thing.

    Maybe I can still do something good.

    Help gentle souls

    get back on their feet.

    Food.

    Roof.

    Heat.

    Life keeps moving.

    Reels after reels.

    Memories buffering.

    I’m sitting in a rocking chair,

    smoking the air of my youth.

    Oh long life,

    I’m still living you.

    Thank you.

  • What Could I Do Differently?

    What Could I Do Differently?

    What could you do differently?

    Once, my teacher’s DVD player froze

    during listening practice.

    She asked for help.

    I stepped in.

    Pressed a button.

    It froze forever.

    The class laughed.

    I might have broken something.

    But for a moment,

    everyone smiled.

    Since then,

    I’ve learned:

    sometimes the difference

    is not fixing,

    it’s staying kind

    when things go wrong.

    And I still practice that.

    ⸻

    Once, walking down the street,

    someone asked me for directions.

    I pointed toward a hill

    I didn’t even know existed.

    I hope he made it home.

    I hope I’m not cursed.

    Now, when I don’t know the way,

    I say it out loud.

    And I still try to point

    with care.

    ⸻

    Once, someone asked me,

    “How are you?”

    I said,

    “I’m fine.

    Taking wine.

    Better not to ask time.

    My broken watch shows

    half past nine.”

    A girl in the park laughed.

    She walked up.

    We exchanged IDs.

    Since then,

    I answer differently.

    Not perfectly.

    But honestly enough

    to let a moment breathe.

    And I still do that.

    ⸻

    Once, I met a man in his fifties,

    wearing an orange robe,

    barefoot,

    his face glowing

    like it knew something I didn’t.

    I asked him for a coffee.

    He stopped.

    Looked at me.

    Smiled.

    Thanked me

    for asking.

    The difference

    is not the drink.

    It’s the pause.

    The permission to be human together.

    Now, when I meet strangers,

    I don’t rush past their light.

    I invite it to sit with me.

    ⸻

    Once, on a bus,

    my favorite music playing,

    heater on,

    world soft and warm,

    an elderly woman with a dog,

    and a mother with a child,

    stood there.

    The bus was full.

    I stood up.

    “Please, take my seat.”

    That moment taught me

    comfort is lighter

    when shared.

    So now,

    I stand more easily.

    ⸻

    These aren’t stories

    about what I did.

    They’re lessons

    about how I live.

    So now,

    no matter who approaches me,

    I carry

    a smile,

    an understanding heart,

    and ears that listen.

    Nothing to prove.

    Nothing to take.

    Nothing to fake.

    Just showing up

    a little more awake

    than before.

    And yes,

    I’m still doing it.

  • If I Had A Freeway Billboard

    If I Had A Freeway Billboard

    If you had a freeway billboard, what would it say?

    If I had a freeway billboard

    I would leave it empty

    so imagination could step in

    a pause

    for eyes tired of color and command

    an empty slate

    light as feathers

    on the freeway of life

    moving

    through sun

    through rain

    curiosity lingering

    about what might come next

    no slogans to borrow

    nothing to copy

    nothing to paste

    just wind passing

    metal frame breathing

    cars carry their own stories

    unread

    uninterrupted

    a moment without instruction

    no arrows

    no promises

    only the road

    stretching

    and the mind

    loosening its grip

    thoughts slow down

    like traffic after rain

    nothing is asked

    nothing is sold

    and somehow

    that is enough

  • My Heart is Open

  • What Trees Say When No One Stays

    What Trees Say When No One Stays

    Two trees stand close,
    close enough to feel each other’s presence.

    They speak
    after the footsteps disappear.

    When the green grows thick,
    people slow down,
    look for a moment,
    then move on.

    One tree says,
    my leaves are gone.
    The wind passes straight through me.
    I feel exposed.
    I feel bare.

    The other tree replies,
    being bare
    is still a way of standing.
    Still a way of existing.

    The first tree says,
    beauty was spring.
    When light rested on us,
    when clouds were drawn closer,
    curious,
    unafraid.

    Beauty was rain
    that felt like bathing,
    like starting again.

    Now
    it only feels like waiting.

    The other tree answers,
    the clouds never stopped coming.
    They only changed how they arrive.

    Sometimes as rain.
    Sometimes as snow.
    Sometimes as quiet dew
    that stays until morning.

    They stayed longer than people did.

    Whatever human eyes choose to see,
    whatever they pass by,

    the sky keeps watching.
    Light keeps returning.

    Sometimes softly.
    Sometimes with thunder.

    These are not mistakes.
    They are seasons.

    And like trees,
    human lives move through fullness,
    through loss,
    through stillness.

    So when no one stays,
    when nothing looks like spring,

    what might still be standing with you,
    patient,
    seen,
    and waiting?

  • If Tiresome Has a Name

    If Tiresome Has a Name

     If tiresome has a name

    ….that is me.

    Tired of listening to the news

    that doesn’t make any sense.

    Talking loud, saying nothing,

    repeating itself like it’s afraid of silence.

    Tired of making fun of my own feed,

    scrolling like a clown

    in a circus I never bought tickets for.

    Tired of changing tires

    of my own mind.

    It keeps running without control.

    When I press the brake,

    it doesn’t stop.

    It parks

    right where addiction lives.

    Headache music,

    louder than holy chanting,

    buzzing in my skull.

    I put my phone away,

    but the chant walks in on its own.

    Same tune.

    Different mouth.

    Algorithm knows my weakness.

    I search once,

    it follows me everywhere

    like a stray thought.

    Last night I searched for a bag of gold.

    It was never mine.

    Now experts keep teaching me

    how to lose money professionally.

    Gold apps.

    Rich words.

    Empty pockets.

    Sometimes I think

    I don’t have patience.

    Sometimes I think

    I’ve had too much of it.

    I close my eyes.

    Nothing closes.

    Images run.

    Memories chase.

    No finish line.

    You live with it.

    Work like a donkey.

    Smile.

    Miss one step

    and someone’s already pointing.

    “It’s alright,”

    I tell myself.

    But comfort never arrives

    like a celebration.

    It comes quietly,

    late,

    if at all.

    I am tired.

    Not sleepy.

    Not bored.

    Tired.

    I don’t need motivation.

    I don’t need advice.

    I need a long vacation

    from noise,

    from knowing,

    from being switched on all the time.

    If tiresome has a name—

    you already know it.

  • Retro Vibe (The Room Decides)

    Retro Vibe (The Room Decides)

    Retro vibe.

    Retro vibe.

    Retro vibe.

    Come, friends.

    Don’t ask why.

    Tonight the room decides who we are.

    The door is locked from the inside.

    Excuses are prepared for the outside.

    If they ask, say you were celebrating

    someone else’s life

    while quietly escaping your own.

    Music plays low

    not because it’s weak

    but because it knows patience.

    My flow isn’t sharp,

    it doesn’t rush.

    Still, my face carries a glow

    like I’ve forgiven myself

    for not being impressive.

    I dance inward.

    No witnesses.

    Compared to the world,

    I remain comfortably strange.

    A hairbrush becomes a microphone.

    Confidence borrows my hands.

    I look into the mirror

    and the mirror doesn’t laugh.

    It says,

    “You’re believable.”

    Bass taps the floor.

    Dim. Dim.

    Juice sweats in my palm.

    My feet remember joy

    before responsibility learned my name.

    A voice from another room says,

    “Come inside.”

    I reply, calmly,

    “Not tonight.”

    Tonight I choose myself

    without explanation.

    The wig is bad.

    The dream is not.

    Even badly dressed,

    I shine.

    Come closer, friends.

    This room is enough.

    Lights off.

    Disco on.

    If you’re the hero of your story,

    fine.

    Tonight,

    I’m the author of my own quiet chaos.

  • Gravity Is Sometimes a Ladder

    Gravity Is Sometimes a Ladder

    Does it hurt

    when someone pulls your hair?

    Of course it does.

    Pain doesn’t need permission.

    But when they start pulling my legs…

    That’s fine.

    I’ve learned

    gravity is sometimes a ladder.

    If humiliation is their shortcut,

    don’t rush.

    I know the route.

    I’ve walked it barefoot.

    I can push myself down

    with better accuracy.

    And still,

    I know people

    who can lift me back

    without asking

    why I fell.

    No matter how hard they tackle,

    no matter how dirty the field,

    I keep the ball close.

    I don’t look at the crowd.

    I don’t explain the rules.

    I dribble

    my life

    forward.

    Until something solid

    finally stops me.

    Don’t confuse silence

    for weakness.

    Snatching me from myself

    takes stamina.

    My heart doesn’t slip.

    My mind doesn’t fold.

    But understand this

    If you pull too long,

    too hard,

    too often…

    I don’t break.

    I change.

    Not the movie kind of crazy.

    No white coats.

    No dramatic music.

    Just the quiet kind

    that stops caring

    about pleasing you.

    I collect moments.

    Some taste sweet.

    Some stay bitter.

    I don’t separate them anymore.

    I scatter them like rice

    for pigeons.

    They eat.

    They leave.

    That’s the agreement.

    When they come back,

    I don’t count faces.

    I don’t track wings.

    I don’t ask

    who deserved what.

    My kindness is not a strategy.

    It’s a condition.

    Their happiness matters.

    Even when they don’t know

    what to do with it.

    I don’t study birds.

    But people?

    People return

    wearing new masks,

    testing reflections,

    hoping one fits.

    Some never plan

    to be seen.

    Still,

    Let one soul

    recognize another.

    Even the selfish ones.

    At least

    they’re selling fish.

    They just refuse

    to teach

    anyone

    how to fish.