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  • Depths of Your Love

    Depths of Your Love

    You can inundate me

    with your love,

    even if I don’t want to swim.

    I will keep a life jacket 

    strapped tight,

    because I might, 

    just might,

    see you smile

    before I drown.

    Even as I go under,

    I will be alive in your memory,

    deep down.

    As my body sinks,

    I become brighter there,

    like a jellyfish,

    like shells whispering to sand.

    If your love carries me

    to the depth of your heart,

    I want to anchor there.

    I will pay rent

    in tides of good feeling.

    The day my currency weakens,

    I will rise

    to the surface,

    plucked from your pulse.

    I will bloom in the dark,

    when you are not looking,

    my fragrance drifting

    through currents,

    invisible, untouchable,

    alive.

  • Echoes of a Bored Mind

    Echoes of a Bored Mind

    What bores you?

    If you ask me what bores me

    I’ve already been boring.

    I’ve been bored by my own thoughts,

    looping, rewinding, replaying…

    sometimes I feel like the rewind button has been misused

    and I can’t afford the extra time

    to comb my hair in the morning.

    Mirror smiles, says, you look handsome today

    but even that gets old.

    I wouldn’t be bored if Socrates walked in,

    said, you are enlightened.

    I wouldn’t rely on prophets either;

    they’ve got their own shows running.

    I get bored when people try to confuse me.

    I’m already confused.

    Romantic movies,

    scripted attachment,

    detachment becomes a luxury.

    Even if someone comes

    and says I love you,

    I might run to the mountains

    and shout their name

    until the echoes are the only ones left listening,

    and my heart hollow, like bamboo.

    I’ve been here before.

    People talking in loops,

    repeating the same lines,

    unless it’s a mantra,

    I can’t take it.

    Ramen noodles?

    Seriously, because of my hair?

    Fine. If that makes people happy,

    I’ll endure the boredom.

    Politics, celebrities, sports gossip, small talk

    none of it cheers me anymore.

    Boredom has become my compass,

    pushing me to explore new corners

    of thought, of silence, of myself.

    Because maybe…..boredom

    is not emptiness.

    It’s the doorway.

  • Before the Train Vanished

    Before the Train Vanished

    the light i saw

    was not an ordinary light

    a train tore past the sea

    faster than thought or sight

    the waves caught rhythm

    shaping sound with glee

    turning motion into music

    returning it to me

    i stand close to the waves

    as far as eyes can see

    between speed and stillness

    i learn the art of be

    i cherish this life

    each breath moving free

    wherever hearts are reaching

    that place is home for me.

  • Purple Spell

    Purple Spell

    I don’t know

    what magic lived

    in her purple nail polish

    but I was spellbound,

    lost in my own violet world.

    When I meditated

    she appeared,

    draped in purple,

    cloud-feathers glowing,

    turning back toward me.

    Rainbow eyes.

    A rainy heart.

    She showered me

    with flowers of love,

    a crown of thorns

    resting on her head.

    She made a promise

    soft as breath,

    sharp as faith

    that I would never mourn.

    Never.

    Ever.

  • Chewing Sweetness

    Chewing Sweetness

    Before spitting you out,

    some people may chomp you like gum.

    But honestly,

    it’s not a big problem.

    Because the day they grow desperate

    to hold you back in their life,

    they will search

    for that same sweetness.

    And yet,

    they will end up chewing

    a different variant,

    one that keeps its flavour

    but never reaches the soul.

  • The King Who Bathed Twice in a Lifetime

    The King Who Bathed Twice in a Lifetime

    I read somewhere

    that a king, in some nation,

    bathed only twice.

    Once, obviously, after birth.

    And once

    by accident.

    He was walking over a bridge,

    and a guard pushed him into the river.

    Historians say it was political.

    I think it was nasal.

    Maybe the king could no longer mask the smell.

    Maybe the guards had tried everything.

    Incense.

    Flowers.

    Loyalty.

    Perhaps they chose one scapegoat to push him,

    so later they could say,

    “Justice was served,”

    and also soap.

    Maybe the king preferred dry wash.

    Maybe perfumes were royal,

    and water was for peasants

    and fish.

    If it were a common man,

    people would pinch their noses.

    But he was the king.

    So they pinched their opinions instead.

    Unbothered.

    Unwashed.

    Unquestionable.

    No one dared complain,

    because no one wants

    to die for deodorant.

    Maybe the guard wanted

    to save the kingdom.

    Maybe he wanted

    to save the king.

    Once water touched him,

    the castle breathed again.

    Maybe the king feared water.

    Maybe he feared honesty more.

    Either way,

    I salute the patience of the queen.

    She lived closest.

  • I Was Not the Alphabet

    I Was Not the Alphabet

    They wanted me to be A.

    Perfect.

    Approved.

    Something that fit

    on a form.

    But I was B.

    Bent.

    Beginning again

    before I finished the first line.

    I tried to become C,

    containing myself,

    cutting the corners off my hunger,

    avoiding D…

    the fear

    of being done

    before I was known.

    E

    was never easy.

    Nothing essential ever is.

    So F

    taught me how to fall

    without breaking

    into pieces I couldn’t return from.

    G was labelled good,

    rewarded for obedience.

    H was crowned hero,

    loud enough

    to be seen

    but not heard.

    I carried ideas like fire,

    but they branded me J.

    A joke.

    A meme.

    Something passed around

    without being held.

    Never K.

    Never a king.

    Just a character

    they could skip.

    L lived in my heart,

    but love stayed M.

    Momentary.

    Warm hands.

    No promise

    to remain.

    N

    never learned

    the shape of no,

    so it kept saying yes

    until it disappeared.

    And O…

    O was omnipresent.

    Not in the sky.

    Not in sermons.

    Not in answers.

    But watching.

    Waiting.

    Breathing

    from inside me.

    That was the moment

    I realized

    I was not broken…

    I was becoming.

    P

    kept pushing me

    toward the Question,

    the one without applause,

    the one no one could answer for me.

    And R…

    reckless,

    sometimes ruthless,

    but flowing like a river

    that didn’t ask permission

    to move.

    I stopped fighting the current

    and learned

    to flow.

    S

    shifted my perception.

    The world didn’t change.

    I did.

    T

    teamed up with truth,

    and truth

    didn’t need defending.

    U

    taught me

    I am more

    than fragments,

    more than letters,

    more than what survived.

    V

    was victory.

    Not over people.

    Not over power.

    But over the voice in my head

    that kept whispering:

    kneel.

    W

    gave my mouth words

    that fit my breath.

    X

    turned noise into rhythm,

    pain into pattern,

    living into music.

    Y

    yapped

    just to be heard,

    because silence

    had raised me

    for years.

    And Z…

    Not an ending.

    A quiet zeal.

    No applause.

    No altar.

    Just enough fire

    to stay standing

    when no one

    is watching.

    Because in the end

    I was never the alphabet.

    I was

    the voice

    learning

    how to speak.

  • Patriotism Is Not a Pose

    Patriotism Is Not a Pose

    Are you patriotic? What does being patriotic mean to you?

    Are you patriotic?

    What does that even mean?

    Today I can say yes

    without thinking.

    Tomorrow

    they will ask me for proof.

    And right there

    I might lose the feeling.

    Because patriotism is not a posture.

    Not a pose.

    Not a uniform worn for pictures.

    I do not stand for my nation.

    My nation stands

    inside my heart.

    Even when I travel far,

    it travels with me.

    Patriotism is brushing your thoughts

    before you speak.

    Aligning behaviour

    when no one is watching.

    Respecting beliefs

    that are not yours.

    It is not cannons at the border.

    Not bullets waiting for my heart.

    My values

    must bleed into my actions.

    Kindness

    is my flag.

    Understanding

    my anthem.

    Beautiful thoughts

    my loudest slogan.

    Do not tell me

    I must become a number

    to be loyal.

    I cannot be patriotic

    if I cannot talk to my own people.

    If I keep voting for hands

    that charm like flutes

    and bite like snakes.

    If they poison us

    and call it service.

    No.

    Long status updates

    in traditional clothes

    do not make me patriotic.

    Pictures do not.

    Taking hate

    and answering with dignity

    does.

    Hate makes you small.

    Fragile.

    You cannot love a nation

    by breaking bridges.

    You cannot isolate yourself

    and still ask to be embraced.

    I wear patriotism in my heart.

    I cannot turn water into blood

    or blood into water.

    My heart pumps one thing only

    peace

    mixed with love.

    We have seen enough wars

    hot

    cold

    and sold as pride.

    Courage today

    is choosing humanity.

    These words are not new.

    I am not inventing anything.

    I am remembering

    what we forgot.

    Maybe patriotism is old.

    Or maybe

    we buried it

    under noise.

  • I Don’t Sell Dreams Anymore

    I Don’t Sell Dreams Anymore

    I don’t sell dreams anymore.

    Not because I’m honest now.

    Because I’m empty of pretending.

    People don’t buy dreams.

    They buy distance from their lives.

    And I was a good dealer once.

    What I sold as truth

    was nothing.

    Just lies stacked neatly,

    wrapped in confidence,

    paid for with my sleep.

    It worked.

    That’s the worst part.

    It worked.

    The pain I carry?

    That’s expensive merchandise.

    Showing it feels like standing naked

    in a room that only knows how to stare.

    So I locked it away.

    Not out of fear.

    Out of care.

    Some things aren’t hidden because they’re ugly.

    Some things are hidden

    because they’re still alive.

    Now I’m looking for a place

    where a heart isn’t a liability.

    They say there’s no market for that.

    They say sincerity doesn’t scale.

    They say survival needs performance.

    Maybe they’re right.

    I just want one soul

    that keeps time with my pulse,

    doesn’t ask me to hurry my healing,

    doesn’t confuse my silence

    for absence.

    Maybe I’ll sell dreams again.

    But not shiny ones.

    Not the kind that promise arrival.

    Just something honest enough

    to stand on.

    Feet shaking.

    Heart exposed.

    If it sells, fine.

    If not…..

    I’ll still be standing.

  • The Rose I Chose

    The Rose I Chose

    With the movement of your eyebrows,

    every flower grows

    in the garden of my heart.

    You can see the rose.

    Just enjoy the bloom,

    let the moment close,

    because the rose you’re looking at

    is the one I chose.

    If you want to show it to the world,

    you can pluck one and pose,

    but people won’t feel

    its fragrance in their nose.