Poem
I have been stripped of my gift, Of flawless words that I could sift, Left with nothing but flesh on bones, And a mind that brims with unwanted ghouls, And whilst parts of me may wish for release, The release from the grip he has on my soul, A grip
English
Lately, I’ve been consumed by a single thought: I think I’m finally ready to write a book and publish it. Over the years, I’ve gathered snippets, stories, and reflections, fragments of moments that now feel ready to take shape. I can picture someone picking up this book
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A boy aligns his little feet with the metro footsteps, as if the bigger ones would help him go faster. But they don’t, instead they turn him into a snail. I try to mimic him because I have nowhere to be. Have you ever played that game where you
English
You move, and something in me realigns — like the tide remembering what it was made for. You are both stillness and fever, the breath I lose between the pulse and the echo. When you laugh, light burns through fog — a wound made radiant. Without you, the world keeps spinning, but
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I don't desire to lift the trophy for my aches I had nights of haunting and terrible storm those with retakes So I close my eyes to find my nightingale and offsprings of tree inhabitants And breathed in vision to search for the finest blooms, the season'
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I walked through corridors that had no doors, where the walls whispered my old names and the floor remembered my weight. A clock melted in my palm; its hands pointed toward things I could not reach, and I let them slip like sand through broken fingers. The air tasted of
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Some connections don’t need hands to hold— they live in the quiet between heartbeats, in the way your name still feels like home when whispered in my mind. They don’t fade with time; they just settle deeper, like roots that keep growing even in dry earth. Sometimes I
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Off they went to a land Nurtured by their love and struggle. They survived there till age 84 Yet it always seems like they are 48 Someday one of them left the grounds of heaven To another heaven, not as wonderful. The other one departed soon, but my memory is
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His arms found her, and for a moment, the noise in her head bowed its head in silence. She remembered the air changing when he pulled her close. It wasn’t love exactly, it was something quieter, like her heart whispering, “So this is what safe feels like.” A moment
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Walls do not stand, they grow. They climb the sky on vines of shadow and I sink. What light exists is a pinprick in a shroud, a lie told to the lost. I am not lost. I am the shroud. This darkness is not a place. It is a secretion,
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Dear twisted fate, With your promise I wiped my slate. Took the blade with a trembling grin, Twisted the handle laced with sin. I was embraced by the arms of death, Bound to the pain oozing from his breath. Shunned the torment escaping my eyes, Became the object of his
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The sunlight leans in— gentle, curious, as if it wants to know what I’ve been hiding beneath my breath. The bougainvillea sways, and I swear it listens— to the small tremors of my heart, to the words I never said because I was afraid they’d bloom too loud.