-
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
….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.
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.
-
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.
-
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.
-
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
-
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 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 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.
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