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  • Resolution: Dissolution, 2026

    Resolution: Dissolution, 2026

    People are making resolutions.

    Someone wants a new nose,

    new hair,

    fresh muscles.

    I will have a new ear.

    In the new year

    my resolution will be dissolution.

    They may call me disillusioned,

    say I am not influential,

    not doing what others do.

    Good things find their way.

    The new year is just an excuse.

    I can declare a new year in February

    and nobody will ask why.

    I can live with my own calendar.

    Four hundred days a year.

    Nine days a week.

    I can live my life with some decency,

    some urgency,

    maybe with a little trick.

    Things will change anyway.

    You will meet people

    who try to scare you,

    saying next year

    the world will turn upside down.

    We will not be hanging like bats.

    Gravity has not lost its mind.

    You will not receive news saying

    electricity is free,

    no council tax,

    mortgages paid by someone else.

    Whatever year it is,

    the bank will not leave you alone.

    Even if you die

    they will dig you up

    and ask you to pay.

    So what else would I do?

    Maybe I will practice mindfulness.

    Let people say whatever they want.

    Maybe a little tolerance,

    forgiveness.

    No need to argue.

    You cannot expect a donkey to dance

    if all it knows is braying.

    2026, deep down my mind is praying,

    laying,

    saying:

    You have to come out of your crust.

    Old skin should change.

    Cleanse your soul.

    Find your goal.

    Do not forget to smile.

    Not for others,

    but for the person

    you see in the mirror

    while holding a comb.

    My hair has not been combed

    for seven years.

    Last time was my wedding.

    Had to do it anyway

    for the pictures.

    Now I have a pocket phone

    where the camera only sees me.

    I do not care.

    Something to fix.

    Something to repair.

    Nothing much to share.

    I am a superstar

    still falling through the atmosphere.

    Oh 2026,

    disintegrate me.

  • Memory Lane

    Memory Lane

    Do they appreciate

    the way you are

    I stopped caring

    what people say

    I appreciated myself

    enough

    to last a month

    Then I came back

    stood in front of the mirror

    and admitted

    self-appreciation leaks

    All I wanted

    was validation from others

    But they arrive carrying

    different mouths

    different weather

    You dress this way

    you look smart

    No, you look bland

    No, you don’t look like

    you belong to this land

    So appreciation becomes optional

    and validation

    a requirement

    Yet nothing

    nothing we need as much

    as closing our eyes

    What else do we need

    to remember ourselves

    Memory lane

    unchanged

    The way she looked at me

    like she was already gone

    That look

    Those eyes

    Distant before distance

    Memories don’t leave

    they relocate

    Will we cross paths someday

    Nothing to do

    Nothing to say

    Destiny doesn’t need applause

    Only witness

    We must appreciate

    the way we are

    In one way

    and the other

    Two sides of the same lane

    Me

    You

    Us

    All of us

    walking

    without noticing

    we never left

    memory lane

  • Feathers Heavier Than Home

    Feathers Heavier Than Home

    I asked a bird

    if I could borrow its wings

    just for a while

    so I could fly back home.

    It didn’t answer.

    It dropped a few feathers.

    I stood there,

    holding them,

    thinking

    what does a man do

    with feathers

    lighter than his heart,

    thinner than his blood,

    lighter than his sweat,

    and all the work

    he buried inside time.

    My body is heavy.

    I know that.

    So I leave my fate with God.

    Because even if my bones refuse,

    I still believe

    my soul

    remembers how to fly.

    I’ve crossed oceans like a bird.

    Let’s not romanticize it.

    I used a plane.

    No wings.

    No sky songs.

    Just tickets, queues,

    and a goodbye

    that stayed longer than expected.

    When I landed on this land,

    I got busy in my lane.

    Survival doesn’t ask poetry,

    it asks rent.

    But tell me,

    what name do you give

    to pain

    when everyone around you

    calls it opportunity?

    I know I’m not the only one

    living in a cage.

    Some cages look like jobs,

    some look like smiles,

    some look like “I’m fine.”

    Not every emotion

    is meant to be staged.

    Yes,

    I earned something.

    Money.

    Distance.

    A tougher skin.

    But how long

    can you lock yourself in a night,

    hold a beer like a peace treaty,

    and convince your heart

    whispering to it,

    slowly,

    patiently,

    lying gently,

    “Happy days.”

  • How My Political Views Changed Over Time

    How My Political Views Changed Over Time

    How have your political views changed over time?

    I believed.

    They said.

    I thought it was a blueprint.

    Turns out

    it was a script.

    They used mics and media

    to turn lies into truth

    and truth into something flexible,

    foldable,

    sellable.

    They fulfilled their vested interests,

    manufactured faith,

    made the sightless follow,

    marched them to the cliff.

    Nobody pushed.

    That’s the part that hurts.

    They jumped.

    Mid-air,

    they realised

    we were never citizens,

    just numbers

    lined up inside voting polls.

    We thought they were good.

    Sold our souls for sweet food,

    temporary taste,

    long-term damage.

    Insipid truth

    served with big words.

    Modality.

    Technicality.

    Economic boom.

    Share market groom.

    Noise dressed as progress.

    When I grew up,

    I was the only one

    left in the room.

    Everyone else carried flags.

    My friends said,

    “Don’t worry,

    we’ve got your back.”

    But backs turn quietly.

    Syndicates.

    Manipulations.

    No, I am not carrying their bags.

    I already carry enough baggage

    just surviving.

    They shouted:

    Eradicate poverty.

    Employment opportunity.

    GDP growth.

    Smiling faces.

    Then recruited people

    who didn’t even know

    how to tie their laces,

    appointed their dogs,

    trained them to bark

    straight into our faces.

    Tycoons joined in,

    made the party look grand.

    From a distance,

    it looked like vision.

    Up close,

    intentions were bland.

    And a few good lads

    the honest ones

    dissolved somewhere

    between compromise

    and silence.

    My political views over time

    couldn’t even resolve

    my own confusion.

    So they said,

    “Let the country suffer.

    We’ll call it a buffer zone.”

    Life got tougher.

    Good people became Lucifer.

    And Lucifer smiled and said,

    “This is heaven.

    This is your world.

    Live or die.

    Laugh or cry.

    Your views don’t matter.

    Every day

    we will plant a lie,

    neatly pressed,

    wearing a tie.

    Lean towards us,

    we’ll make you high.

    Refuse,

    don’t question our actions.

    Our job

    is to divide,

    to fracture,

    to make fractions.

    So go away

    if politics is not your attraction.

    And that’s how my views changed.

    Not because I stopped caring,

    but because I learned

    who was never listening.

  • Forgive Me for Knocking Too Early

    Forgive Me for Knocking Too Early

    Forgive me

    for putting a sword

    in your nose

    because you were not

    sneezing the truth

    …and I had to poke you.

    Forgive me

    for mixing humour

    into your drink

    you were not used to it

    but I had to

    joke you.

    Forgive me

    for my impatience.

    I didn’t know

    you needed time

    to process

    me.

    Relationships don’t work

    like a bullet train.

    Some do.

    But they are rare.

    I thought my feelings for you

    would go extinct.

    That was superficial.

    Thinking

    I am special.

    Now I know

    not for you.

    Maybe

    for someone else.

    Forgive me for thinking

    you would peek

    out of your window

    when I rang you

    to come outside

    just so

    I could see you.

    If only I had waited

    for you

    to come naturally

    it wouldn’t have hurt.

    Oh…

    my impatience

    for your sight.

    Forgive me for thinking

    my memories in your mind

    would stay immortal

    that you could never

    move away

    from them.

    I only needed

    a little space

    in your heart.

    I didn’t know

    your mind was encrypted

    against my presence.

    Forgive me for thinking

    you would correct my grammar

    every time

    I misspelled

    my words.

    To err

    is human.

    Your lenses were beautiful.

    I wouldn’t have minded

    if you had only given me

    space

    to correct myself.

    Forgive me

    for forcing myself

    into your heart.

    I didn’t want to.

    But your painting

    was beautiful.

    And I thought

    I could adjust myself

    as a dot

    on your canvas.

    Forgive me.

  • The Cave Where Richness Begins

    The Cave Where Richness Begins

    What mistake was that…

    which I committed in life?

    I thought

    I was bigger

    than the image

    society carved for me.

    They used labels instead of chisels,

    opinions instead of measurements,

    and somehow expected me

    to fit inside their pocket-sized truth.

    I tried.

    I shrank.

    I smiled.

    That…

    was the mistake.

    Life is simple.

    Painfully simple.

    Until you start scratching a pimple

    that only needed

    time.

    Not pressure.

    Not nails.

    Not obsession.

    Just patience.

    But we are impatient creatures.

    We poke our wounds

    and call it healing.

    Come closer.

    Share your dreams with me.

    Not the polished ones

    you rehearse at interviews.

    The raw ones.

    The embarrassing ones.

    The dreams you whisper

    only when the lights are off

    and even hope is half-asleep.

    I cannot promise to make them real.

    But I promise this

    I will not laugh.

    I will walk with you

    until reality starts negotiating.

    They say love is blind.

    No.

    Love sees too much.

    It sees potential where fear sees risk.

    It sees tomorrow while today is still screaming.

    Love simply doesn’t have

    the correct lens

    to examine people

    the way suspicion does.

    That is not blindness.

    That is courage

    without armor.

    Someone once asked me,

    “How do I become rich?”

    I said,

    “You already are.”

    They laughed.

    Of course they did.

    So I said,

    “If you don’t believe me,

    walk into the cave of your heart.”

    Not run.

    Walk.

    Walk far enough

    that noise gets tired.

    Far enough

    that expectations turn back.

    Far enough

    that even your name dissolves.

    And there

    you will find it.

    A treasure

    that does not glitter,

    does not depreciate,

    does not ask permission

    from circumstance.

    Once you touch it,

    poverty becomes a situation,

    not an identity.

    Loss becomes weather,

    not destiny.

    And no matter

    how deprived life tries to make you,

    you will remain

    untouchably rich.

    So no…

    my mistake was not dreaming too big.

    My mistake

    was forgetting

    that I was already enough

    before the world

    gave me a mirror.

  • Dynamic, Not Dynamite

    Dynamic, Not Dynamite

    She didn’t knock.

    She walked in

    and my heart forgot its own architecture.

    No cracks.

    No warning lines.

    Just… collapse.

    Not broken like glass,

    broken like matter

    splitting into things science hasn’t named yet.

    Some pieces too small to grieve,

    some vanished,

    as if love learned a new way to escape

    through air.

    I keep asking myself

    was it dynamite

    or a time bomb?

    But no.

    It wasn’t a time bomb.

    There was no ticking.

    No countdown.

    No final second where I could have chosen better.

    It didn’t announce itself.

    It arrived

    already finished.

    Dynamite was never on my mind.

    I was obsessed with dynamic, not destruction.

    With our small, beautiful arguments.

    The kind that felt like proof we cared.

    She could fight over starlight,

    debate the sky itself,

    while I stayed quiet,

    watching the moon do what it does best

    shine

    without explanation.

    Crying was never part of my plan.

    But plans don’t survive impact.

    Still,

    I hope she comes back.

    Hope is stubborn like that.

    And no,

    I didn’t bathe in milk.

    I’m not pretending purity.

    Maybe this wreckage

    has my fingerprints on it.

    I danced with my emotions

    like I was leading a cult,

    convinced passion alone

    could hold things together.

    I thought I was smart.

    Thought love would tighten itself.

    But I forgot the basics.

    Forgot the quiet work.

    Forgot to check the frame.

    Forgot

    to tighten

    my nuts

    and bolts.

  • My People Are My Direction

    My People Are My Direction

    I don’t know

    where life will lead me

    I don’t pretend to.

    No blueprint folded in my pocket

    No shortcut scribbled by someone richer than my doubt

    I don’t know.

    But I know this.

    When the room gets heavy

    When the days forget their purpose

    My people will need me

    And I will show up

    Even if I arrive tired

    Even if I arrive unsure

    Even if all I bring

    is my presence

    I don’t know

    how love is supposed to save me

    I’ve seen love fail

    I’ve seen it leave

    I’ve seen it arrive late

    with apologies that limp

    Still

    I know for sure

    my people will love me

    Not because I am perfect

    But because I stay

    Because I listen

    Because I choose us

    over the easy exit

    I don’t know

    how things are going to change

    Some nights

    the future feels like a locked door

    with no handle

    just my reflection staring back

    But I believe

    time keeps receipts

    It will tell the truth

    about how much I tried

    how much I fell

    how many times I stood up

    without an audience

    I don’t know

    how success will recognize me

    or how failure will say my name

    But I’m learning

    both are temporary visitors

    Neither gets to move in

    I don’t know

    how kindness is supposed to help

    in a world that rewards noise

    sharp elbows

    and cold ambition

    But listen

    If you love

    and love

    and love

    and love

    Something refuses to die

    Something remembers you

    Something survives the collapse

    Maybe that’s the real victory

    Not the height you reach

    but the hands you never drop

    I don’t know

    where life will lead me

    But I walk anyway

    With open hands

    With a steady heart

    And what I know for sure

    is enough

    My people

    are my direction

  • Snowman

    Snowman

    Snowman,

    all I can wish you

    is Merry Christmas.

    I hope you understand me.

    I couldn’t shape you

    the way I imagined.

    My hands were cold,

    and my heart was louder

    than my fingers.

    I couldn’t decorate you

    the way I wanted.

    Life ran out of ornaments.

    If you heard my pain,

    your heart would melt.

    It melts anyway.

    Still,

    your quiet cuteness,

    your borrowed dignity,

    steals hearts

    from people who forgot

    how to feel.

    Merry Christmas, Snowman.

    Tell me,

    what would you like?

    A candy cane

    bent like a smile

    trying its best?

    Some families unwrap joy.

    Some unwrap silence.

    Some unwrap pain

    and call it tradition.

    The lights…

    they aren’t just decorations.

    They are attempts.

    Small rehearsals of hope.

    Like decorating the heart

    with feelings,

    with emotions,

    with things we fear

    won’t last till morning.

    I wish you could walk, Snowman.

    Knock on every door.

    Reach every house.

    Bring joy.

    With Santa,

    or without him.

    Snowman,

    my muffler is yours.

    My gloves too.

    Take the warmth

    I never learned

    to keep.

    By morning,

    you will be gone.

    The sun is never gentle

    with soft things.

    You’ll leave your clothes behind,

    fabric on the ground,

    and quiet in the air.

    I’ll pick them up carefully.

    Not because they’re useful,

    but because they remember you.

    And that…

    is Christmas.

  • Rush

    Rush

    What in the world

    is this life rehearsing me for

    again

    and again

    and again

    one moment stacked

    on the back of another

    rush

    rush

    rush

    rush to work

    rush through streets that don’t remember my name

    rush for a bus that never waits

    rush inside traffic

    where time melts into horns

    rush hour

    but I have no hour left

    I am tired

    not the sleep kind

    the soul-after-shift kind

    losing strength

    like loose change

    losing power

    like a phone at one percent

    people running with briefcases

    running with bags

    running like the day is short

    like evening is a mouth

    and something sharp is hiding inside it

    I rush on the phone

    rush rush rush

    half the words don’t arrive

    half the meanings are lost in space

    someone speaking

    from another planet

    and calling it normal

    rushing for this

    rushing for that

    carrying a rabbit in my hat

    trying to keep it alive

    while performing miracles

    with shaking hands

    everybody wants magic

    but nobody wants time

    so tell me

    what kind of spell survives

    when the air itself

    is late