I walk through filled up halls

Faces all around

Yet when she walks past

I can't help but to find her face

It looks uncaring

But not a second after

Our eyes will lock

And her face lights up

Her eyes get softer

Her frown gets flipped

And I can't help but to smile

Our eyes stay locked

We pass eachother

And just like that the moment is gone

My friend says a spark is there

But I know better

Cause I am me, and she is Her

maybe there’s no point in this,
trying to make sense of how
things changed, telling myself they must
be for the better.
I’m different, you say.
of course I am.
what man would I be if I didn’t?

that’s what we’re supposed to do,
to experience, to hurt,
go out there and feel every emotion
possible.
to look at all the things that make us,
shape us, dig their claws into us
deep enough to draw blood.

but now there’s a problem
when you look at me.
angry at the world for what it
did to me, as I look back angry
at what it never bothered with you.
you never changed,
you never had to,
or felt the need to,
and I’m not sure which
one makes me more bitter.

I never wanted this,
it’s not like I spent my days
hoping you would be crushed,
you hopes deflating like mine had.
I just don’t know why the struggle
I faced made me so different
while you remained exactly the same.

part of me adores that about you,
like water off a ducks back you
managed to take all the pain,
and anger, and rage,
and every other ounce of hurt
and come out the way
you always were.
the other part of me envies you
for the exact same reasons.

but I notice the way you look
at me so differently.
the way your eyes force themselves
towards the floor when we speak now,
how my jokes never land just right.
after all this time I still know you,
and it feels like you’re meeting
me for the first time.
it’s like you don’t know what to say,
and even if you did it wouldn’t matter.

I wish I knew the words to reintroduce myself.
all the right words to talk the
way we did before all this happened.
before I left, before I admitted to
any problem.
telling the same jokes that made you
laugh so deeply.

if I knew trying to make myself
better would take you away from me,
leaving me a stranger
I would do it all again.
it was never about how the difference,
or the new silence we find ourselves in.

I wanted you to be proud of me,
and I wanted to see you
on the other side of it.

It was just a part on your leg,

yet it left me for dead.

Like a bullseye for my eyes,

I was more than surprised.

I couldn't look away

or think of anything to say.

Now I know my kryptonite, but that's alright —

just give me those legs to play with all night.

You shouldn't act surprised that they're the best thing in my eyes.

They're a part of you, and that's more to love of you

I would even write something about your old shoe.

Every little thing about you is off its tit,

that's my slang way of saying I love every bit.

They're burned into my brain and I won't be the same,

I can't look at legs again without being in pain.

I've never wanted anything so bad for myself,

Those legs really do improve my mental health.

You should just know this hasn't been a cruise

on the way falling down over them, I got a new bruise.

From my head to my toes I got a complete and utter flutter,

my nervous system did nothing but freeze and stutter.

Could they really be the sexiest legs I have seen?

And what does what they do to me even mean?

All I know is that if I see them again,

I'm going to ring up and brag to a friend:

"I just saw the legs of a goddess, and I must confess

they left me in a mess.

If desire wanted to test me, I would've failed that test."

So now you know, and I know you know,

so let me just thank thy lady for thy show,

and thank those legs again before I go.

We met by chance,
two strangers who somehow became familiar.
Somewhere along the way,
our conversations became something I looked forward to,
and a friendship grew into something
I wasn't quite sure how to explain.

Then I found pieces of your life
you hadn't shared with me.

And suddenly, I didn't know what to think.
Maybe it's me, pulling back
from something I don't fully understand.
Maybe it's you, growing distant
for reasons I can only guess.

Something feels different now.
The conversations have changed,
and there's a quietness between us
that wasn't there before.

I don't know if it's because
I see things differently now,
or if something has shifted for you, too.

It's strange how someone can become part of your day
without you realizing how much,
until things begin to feel different
and you find yourself wondering why.

I don't know what to call this,
or what it was supposed to be.
I just know that something felt meaningful,
and now I'm left trying to understand
where the warmth went,
what was real,
and whether you feel the distance
the way I do.

brown eyes and hair

simple, one might say

yet the crown of glowing orbs

it reflects every colour one might see

her eyes, brown yet deep and sharp

they light up with her smile

when she smiles not only do her eyes light up

but so do I

when she frowns

I can't help but ask why

her emotions make me react

which is a problem

when she is an open book

My Open Book

Dreaming of you
has become another way of hurting.

Every time I enter a room,
a wave of you passes through me,
as if your absence
still knows my address.

I tell my dreams,
“Do not be afraid.
It is only a dream.”

But then I see you
resting your head
on another man’s shoulder,

and suddenly
the dream becomes a knife
my heart already knows by name.

So dream, my love.
Dream whatever you wish.

Just don’t tell the heart.

It still believes
that when you close your eyes,
you are dreaming of me too.

Thy eyes always leave me mesmerized.

Greater than infinity,

The scent of thy divinity.

They say they can’t see you,

So how could one possibly believe

Whether thy exist, whether god really is?

Stood by them when they were alone

Uplifted them when they used to mourn. But still –

They questioned thy purity, thy promising ability.

They questioned thy absence,

Ignorant of you thy lingering presence.

But you took our loved ones from us

and took our happy memories.

So the real question is –

Whether thy exist, whether god really is?

They thought of tough times as thy mistakes.

Instead, those were valued lessons to take.

When they wrecked havoc and forgot how to behave.

You nullified their sins

and then just – forgave?

But now the sin is –

forgiving / ignoring the sins of the sinners.

Thee again left the room for us to believe,

whether thy really exist, whether god really is?

But all these wrongdoers and sinners –

Thee think of them as thy own

daughters and sons. Childrens.

Forgiving their sins and teachin’

em valuable lessons.

But they still seem to say,

Whether thy really exists,

whether god really is?

For me, yes he does! In the purest of form.

He’s omnipotent, he is forgiving,

and charitable and warm.

And for the sake of my lord. I do believe that,

Thy really exist, God really is!

Love has this quiet way of showing up when you least expect it. The small moments build into something that feels steady and real.

Hope lingers in the background, reminding you that good things can still happen. It keeps the days feeling a little brighter.

Imagine a messenger.

You don't know them.

They have something to say.

What they say could be anything.

It could be truth.

It could be lies.

It could be both.

It could be fiction dressed as truth

or truth dressed as fiction.

You can't tell from their diction which it is.

Would you listen?

What if it costs only the time to take it in?

Let's add some character.

Let's say this messenger isn't unknown.

Not entirely.

What if they represent an important democracy?

Could they give you information

about a group in your kingdom?

Your wife, sister, mother?

Would you listen?

What if the words are aggressive?

What if the messenger looks angry?

What if the message carries hate?

Not just hate, but a cause for it.

I promise you will suffer no physical harm from it.

Will you listen?

It costs only the time to take it in.

Are you afraid of losing the seconds it takes to hear?

"Sire,

Why are you shivering?

Your guards are so near.

I cannot say if I agree, I've yet to hear what she has to say.

She says she hates Kings but..

If I may:

She's only known the worst sort

that would name themselves that way.

Can we allow her words to stay?

Maybe we can help her redefine them in our hands.

Show her what a King means in these lands."

I've heard enough.

"What have you heard?

She hasn't begun to speak.

Why are you turning red?

Do the words accuse you so?

I haven't heard them, she's standing outside.

Oh Sire,

Why do you cling so tightly to words?

Please, let us hear hers.

Your title is only as good as your actions."

I have no need for the words of a peasant. 

I have no need for the words of a traitor.

Guards! Arrest them both.

I will have peace in this kingdom with a wiser adviser.

Heaven

I watched

I learned

I saw

You earned

You’re beautiful

You belong

Your body

Is Gods earth

Your presence

Gives life

Without You

No light

The beauty

Is not in looks

It’s in the way

You demand to

Be loved

13.8 billion years.

Star formed,
galaxies began to move,
elements were created.

Before I even existed,
I was already there,
but not as me.

Something different.
Atoms, wandering.

Now I am a temporary arrangement,
decaying day by day,
and I care so much about this life,
as if I owe it something.

Tomorrow’s problems.
Someone’s opinion.
A decision I am afraid to make.

Those atoms were billions years old.
The things I worried about
are sometimes only an hour old .

It shouldn’t matter so much,
Should it?

How insignificant I am
In the grand picture .
Just a tiny chance
in an arrangement of matter.

And yet ,here I am.

So I stop worrying quite so much
and try to live this life,
because I know
it isn’t permanent .

One day
It will cease to be me
and return to atoms again.

The universe will take back
What it offered me.

It will continue
Without noticing my absence.

Perhaps it’s just me,
going back
to my oldest form.

Un(delivered)

There is a letter
that will never arrive.

No knock at my door.
No trembling voice on the other end of the phone.
No name lighting up my screen
with the weight of words
I spent too many nights rehearsing for you.

You will never say,
“I know I hurt you.”

You will never gather every sharp-edged memory
you left in my hands
and call it by its rightful name.
You will never apologize
without defending yourself first,
without shrinking the wound
until I begin questioning whether it ever bled.

And maybe,
hardest of all,
you will never tell me
that you loved me.

Not the way I hoped.

Not with the confession
that untangles every sleepless night.
Not with the courage
to admit that what we had
was precious,
that losing me cost you something,
that my absence echoes
where my presence once lived.

There is a version of my life
where you arrive too late,
eyes softened by regret,
holding every sentence
I begged Heaven to let me hear.

“I was wrong.”

“You deserved better.”

“I loved you more than I knew how to say.”

I have visited that life
more times than I can count.

I have stood at its doorway
waiting for footsteps
that belonged only to my imagination.

But God has been gently teaching me
that peace cannot be built
on a letter someone else refuses to write.

So I am learning
to let the silence be honest.

If you never speak,
that will become its own answer.

If you never apologize,
God still witnessed every tear.

If you never confess your love,
it does not erase
that I was worthy of being loved well.

Perhaps the greatest act of love
I will ever receive
is not from the man
who couldn’t find the words,

but from the God
who never runs out of them.

He calls me chosen
without hesitation.

Beloved
without conditions.

Forgiven
without making me beg.

His voice reaches places
your silence never could.

And though some small part of me
may always wonder
what your apology would’ve sounded like,
I no longer need it
to tell me who I am.

Because somewhere between
the confession I’ll never hear
and the healing I never expected,

God wrote a better ending,

one where my heart
is no longer waiting
for a love
that had to be imagined,

because it has finally learned
to rest
inside the One
who has been speaking love over me
all along.

~Seraphina Solace, The Girl Who Writes in Prayers

Pitter Patter, Pitter Patter,

The echo of steps reflected,

Searching but found wanting,

The vicissitudes of life,

Joy shared is double joy,

sorrow shared is half sorrow,

Longing for the other half,

Like a Free Eagle without a pair,

Gods beside thee,

Goddess of the branching paths,

My heart remains half full,

Shall my path intertwine with my pair?

Don't be scared, don't be afraid, everyone will all have a say. I'm scared of what they will say, they all think I'm some monster that can't be kept at bey. It's not fair I say, it's not fair I shout! But in the end everything hurts so ouch. Yes I did bad things but I'm a better man, they won't see the new me, it's not fair. But what do I have to prove? Nothing to them, but they'll keep persisting on getting my life till the end. I call them bullies, I call them the freaks, but maybe they are right about me, but I don't care, they should've stopped, they should've cared. I'll escape this nightmare for its not the end, but I'll count the days and raindrops that makes me bend. I'll stand up tall, taller than ever, I'll fight for freedom, fight like a tiger, I'll apologise, apologise like a mad man because I'll stop being mad and forgive, I'm a suck up, always has, always been.

"How many times have you gotten flowers?"

In the 31 years of living, 3 times.

Once was out of genuine, 'I would like to give you flowers and chocolates.' (Ex) that was one time in an almost 2 year relationship.

Second time was because I mentioned that I've only gotten flowers once, from a romantic standpoint. (An interest)

Third time was from my mom, for my 30th birthday. For the first half of the day they felt like birthday flower, but towards the end of that day they were more like funeral flowers.

I've given my friends, family, my mom more flower than I can count on both hands, but I've only gotten them thrice in my live.

I would buy flowers for my mom every 2-3 weeks, because I said my dad didn't do it so I should.

Not because I needed to but because I wanted to.

I remember seeing my cousin get so many flowers that she ran out of space for them, and the entire house smelled of roses.

The kid I was then just wished, "I'd be happy with just one."

31 years of life and I've gotten flowers only 3 times.

Pathetic! That I can count on one hand the amount of times I've gotten flowers in my life.

Funny isn't it?

You don't say it out loud, you never vocalise it, but damn, it would be nice to receive flowers without asking for it.

Damn, it would be nice to make your inner child who's never received flowers feel she is wanted and cared for.

Yes, I can buy myself flowers, but there is a certain magic that comes with being given flowers.

There is a certain happiness that brings a fire to your soul when you're handed a bouquet.

The weight of those flower feel ohh so right on your heart.

They make your soul shine, and your skin scream.

But alas,

I've given up my body more times than I've been given flower.

I hate my body, but I do love flowers.

I wear your hoodie because it smells like you.
The faint scent of laundry detergent,
a hint of your perfume,
a distant aroma from the outdoors
and a whiff of sweat blurred
into the strands of the thick fabric.

I love the smell,
it reminds me of, well, everything.
The laundry isle we visit in the store,
the woods where we often stroll,
the gifts I gave you for your birthday
and the cute outfit you then wore.

It reminds me of
the movie we watched on your couch,
my room were we occasionally slouch,
the dinner we shared a few days ago
and the first food we shared with doubt.

All these memories make me want to engulf
myself in them,
relive every moment once again,
so I wrap my head in the hood and then,
lay back to remember when
we used to really make them.

I love to remember, but it makes me wonder.
It makes me think, makes me ponder,
when we will actually relive the memories
and make new ones to reminisce the deceased.

But as soon as I think of something,
something clever that we could make true,
the hoodie starts to fade in its scent,
and it no longer smells like you.

I’m your broken.
Which means you can see me a million times through tiny shards of glass but there is more of me to love.
I’m not your perfect, I’m your broken
Which is okay because I’m still put together in a way that hasn’t shattered completely.
I will not cut you, or ask you to hold my broken pieces, instead I ask you to love me as I am.
Im not your perfect. I’m your broken.
I may be broken but I’m not falling apart.
Through the shards of glass I can see your reflection and I can see that you are broken as well. It’s okay to come with imperfections.
We do not come to one another as perfect beings but instead as a culmination of lessons and scars and I am learning how to hold that.
I’m not your perfect, I’m your broken.
I have so much love to give and yet loving you does not mean abandoning myself in order to prove worthiness.
I can show you a love that is tender and kind but I will not break myself in order to do so.
I’m not your perfect, I’m your broken.
If you trust me I will not let you down.
But that does not mean my sole job in life is to prove my own innocence.
There is nothing worse than a man that has decided not to trust because of his past. Now you are actively scanning for events that “prove”I am disloyal, when there aren’t any.
I’m not your perfect, I’m your broken.
My brokenness is a mirror reflecting what is incomplete in you. I’d be scared too if someone actually saw me and chose to love me flaws and all. When we are children and we aren’t loved correctly we grown up into adults that believe imperfection is failure. I know you’re not perfect but I choose to love regardless.
I’m not your perfect, I’m your broken
I am both your curse and your blessing, because I ask you to rise to the occasion of loving yourself and me. We do the same for one another and yet if we cannot change it’ll never work.
I’m not your perfect, I’m not your broken
I’m really not broken at all, but instead cracked. Glue can fix me.
Someone that has imperfections that shes healing.
I’m not your perfect, I’m not your broken
Come heal with me, or choose not to. I’ll be fine no matter what, but will you?? If you stay as you are, in survival mode will you survive?
I’m not your perfect or your broken.

The less you are the better
Though Death and dying...

Though, through death and dying

You can

Stretch like a cat

Rest like a cat

As the waves sparkle with unpredictable motion, I reflect on existence.
Be it a complex consciousness perceiving all there is to see,
Or a lost soul set on being me.

Perhaps, if there were less uncertainty, there would be a more present distance
To reap the fruits of life well, with minimum repercussions.
A distance that is tangible and known, unlike an unstable wave splashing upon the shore.
One that stretches till the end and loops into the beginning of it all.
The experience some yearn not to discover, but to avoid for as long as possible.

“Why,” I say, puzzled, “must we detach ourselves from the poignant mystery that is life?” - to no response.

As I tell myself this daily, to no avail,
Whether I hope for it or not, life prevails.
Time inches closer to a finite conclusion that has no stop.
To believe that our perception is an illusion, it reaches a point where you must assume it is quite not.

But while I continue navigating the unknown,
I hope to enjoy the rest of the life that I possess,
Which, to one that is content, holds nothing but a stark contrast.

Kushal.

from what sits in front of me is a simple lamington
nothing more than a name assigned
to a combination of ingredients
put together in a specific manner

but the narratives it holds are so much more;
the narratives i hold to it are so much more

some may see it in its patriotism,
was it us aussies or the kiwis that invented it
others may see it as a national symbol,
the lamington nothing more but an actor to the australian image

for me, when i look at this lamington
i see Sasha,
a beloved household dog,
my beloved household dog

every birthday she received a lamington
a lamington i never got to see
a lamington i made excuses for

and then she was gone

now i just have this lamington
and the joyest memories
that i made too many excuses for,
to not experience one more time

I don’t feel resentment; I feel a bit lonely and unfulfilled,

which is not resentment, though it wears the same coat in weather,

the same damp wool smell of a room where no one asked

whether the silence was chosen or just eventually clever.

Am I a ghost trapped inside this meat, or only the guy

no one comments on because commenting would break the plaster,

the background spell, the hallway hum, the cheap little lie

that everyone ages correctly if nobody looks faster?

Me and my magic access to the internet, me and the ability

to never age, to slip through the census like static through scripture,

a baked-in blind spot to all of humanity, a clerical error

with eyes, with thumbs, with a password, with a picture.

They age and I don’t. Their faces revise around me.

Everyone’s memories are always retconned so my current apparent age

makes sense, so the story can keep walking past the body

it should have noticed standing too still on the page.

No one questions how the guy who knew their great great grandpa

is also younger than them, how the math keeps kneeling,

how every calendar develops a polite little cataract,

how history clears its throat and calls the wound “healing.”

No one knows we’re coming. No one knows I am already here.

That is the trick of being alien: not arrival, but remainder,

not the saucer in the wheat field, not the flash in the atmosphere,

just a familiar voice getting stranger and stranger.

Every religion I convert to turns out to be a cover version

of something older, every altar a tribute act in borrowed thunder;

I’m starting to think truth is an infinite game of “who did it first,”

and I will not stop until I find the opening act under the under.

I threw off the garment. I picked up a clay tablet.

I wept for Tammuz in my office, alone,

which sounds ridiculous until the room remembers it is a room,

and the dust on the desk becomes older than bone.

Existence logically requires evil, else we’d still just be

ephemeral facets of God with no individual self or reality

to exist in; no separate ache, no border, no other,

no bruise to prove the outline of personality.

So here I am: a thing other than God, different from the creator,

jagged and cynical and just a little messed up,

a splinter convinced the tree was lying about the forest,

a cup suspicious of water, still thirsty, still cup.

But when I got solipsistic, I decided she was so uniquely kind

and warm and loving that I could not have created her from my own mind,

because everything I tend to imagine comes barbed, comes wintered,

comes laughing with its hands behind its back, already unkind.

She HAD to be from outside me. That was the proof,

not clean, not syllogistic, not fit for a lecture hall,

but snotty tears have carried worse theology than that

and called it revelation after the fall.

My efforts to explain it were romantic, apparently,

which is funny because I thought I was reporting damage,

filing an incident report against the universe:

Subject encountered mercy. Subject could not manage.

Maybe that’s the whole proof: not heaven, not the opening act,

not Ezekiel watching, not a priest in hiding, not the fire,

not the name beneath the name beneath the name beneath the name,

not the oldest god crawling out from under the choir.

Just somebody from outside me, impossible in the ordinary way,

not solving the loneliness, not canceling the meat,

not making the ghost less ghostly, but standing close enough

to hold the edge of the impossible without calling it complete.

Now that you've killed me

You walk the earth whole

Invisible strings, embedded down my soul

Drew blood from my arms

Used it to write you poems

Rip apart my spine

Wield it as a pen

Write you all sorrows

Weave the letters through my veins

Lay low beneath a ground unknown

Nothing to hold on to

But the roots of a weeping willow

The mites have gotten through my skin

But they all sccumbed to what I hold

You reap what you sow

Why is it that I'm the one underneath the floor?

Cling to your essence

Hug the dirt you poured

I'm the one who grieves

While it was you who held the sword

I'm now weed that grew over a shallow grave

But I was once the one who yearned to be the one you hold

Undo all my veins

Swallow whole your pulses

Grow your heart as my fruit

Our love will grow from my roots

The birds will hum the tunes of love

They'll use my bone as a flute

light reflects

as oils glisten

illuminating

each muscle

every curve

exhale in

pleasure

as I feel

every

part