Moonlit, faces shadowed,
we repent with
eyes consumed by
lust etched to our bodies,
lips, bickering when
unattached, and
skin, glistening like
the frosty stars that hover
above our reckless heads.

Yet, do not fret,
for tonight, we need not
to fall in love,
need not fall apart,
need not to cradle over
our fears of losing
and of what was once lost.

Tonight, we wait
for the crack of dawn,
for the rift in the sky.
Then, we scurry
to succumb back,
escape from our fantasy.

Tonight, for a single night,
we are allowed
to eat out our words,
to be wed by touch,
to stay hand to neck,
and breast to bone.

Unfazed by the lover’s quarrel
for, in the morning,
we are not.

So darling, stay the night.
Forget me not for just a second
and cherish this sliver
of eternity with me


I think I’m starting to fall in love

with the girl
who owns those insane eyes
that were not of baby blues
but of a golden brown hue;
those eyes that felt like they could consume
anyone in sight;
those eyes that gleamed, that glimmered,
that fit oh so perfectly with the night.

I think I’m starting to fall in love

with the girl
whose mind is as boundless
as the horizon where the sun sleeps
and the moon rises;
whose words come out
as my gospel,
as a gift from the gods and muses.

I think I’m starting to fall in love

with the girl
who casts her spell on me,
who enthralled me, enraptured me;
delight, pleasure,
weakening me
beyond any measure

with the girl
who sits next to me
and makes me feel
a little less lonely

with the girl
who’s not so much a girl
but of a lady

I think I’m starting to fall in love again,
finally, gracefully,

with the girl
who can destroy me
so elegantly

A Scene From A Movie


Her smiles,
a simulated orchestra.

The rhythm of her breaths,
an overture awaiting.

She reconciles with
her savage; isolating

the very profundity,
the very brilliance
of her cluttered insanity.



I rest upon the bosoms of solitude,
A reminder of my meager existence

Creating space in between pauses,
Shouting dissonance at the moon

I pour unrelenting majesty of poisonous pain
and wither, slowly, scrapping my sanity

I am rendered useless,

Vulnerable, like a child
lost amongst the aged wild

Hours, days, weeks, months
of forgetting what bliss might have felt like

I rest my head, ever so gently amongst the stars;
Hoping, waiting, for forgiving dreams of indulgent rapture

If I Lose You (Selfishness)

What if’s

What if I lose you,
one more time,
two more times

three, four
five more hours of dried tears
and bottomless intricacies

What if I catch your smile,
one more time,
two more times

three, four, five
six minutes of laughter,
all because of another

What if I watched you in your wedding dress,
dancing, simpering, with eyes full of rapture,

one more time,
two more times

three, four, five, six,
seven seconds of staring
at the beauteous bride
and my seven deadly sins

What if I, the selfish, diffident being,
never learns to love
one more time,

years of waiting,
three, four,
five hours of reaching on the other side of the bed
six, seven,
eight more times, I wake to the familiar emptiness, loneliness

What if I

Why not I?

To My Greatest Muse

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I honour you with books,
so as to glimpse at even a sliver
of my mind, of my lavish desires.

I honour you with words,
a venture to recreate the poetry
of your unending beauty.

I honour you my heart,
no matter how fruitless,
or careless. For,

My love,
You are the epitome
of my madness.

insecurus, my disorganised thoughts, and slight nihilism

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I am human. I am painfully conscious of my own disillusioned state. I am painfully conscious of the self-loathing monster that lives deep inside me; wrecking my perception of myself, creating boundaries that which constitute a great portion to how, and if, I let people in.

I am human. I have insecurities.

insecurity (n.)
1640s, “state of being unsafe,” also “lack of assurance or confidence, apprehension,” from Medieval Latin insecuritas, from insecurus. Specific psychological sense is by 1917.

I am greatly insecure about my hands, my cheeks, my belly, the infinite amount of spots on my back and shoulders, the way I sound, and more that would probably take too long for me to list.

I don’t fear death. Despite us humans not being able to comprehend complete nothingness, I don’t fear it. I fear dying and feeling like I’m a failure, like I did nothing to contribute even a sliver to the world. I fear being unaccomplished. I fear dying without ever creating something, anything.

I am human. I have flaws; more than you can count and more than I can admit. But that’s alright. That’s part of what makes us human.

Too often, these fears and insecurities may way us down. They may make us question our significance and worth. But if channeled right, these can actually become our fuel. They can become the thing that drives us, the thing that motivates us to try and pursue being a better version of ourselves.

I want to be a better version of myself.

I want to learn how to love myself. I want to learn how to accept who I am, who I was, and who I will be. And as much as I want to tell you how to do that, I can’t. I don’t know yet.

Another thought is that after all this, nothingness will encompass us. We become a memory to the world we left behind, whilst our own memories whither away. To the universe, whatever we do is inherently pointless because entropy is inevitable. But that’s just the universe. What we do may not matter to the universe but it matters to someone else, may it be your husband, wife, your best friend, your children, or the stranger you met at the park. You  are significant, no matter what people tell you. Even if that’s just to one person, or even just to yourself. What matters is that you’re happy. What matters is that you didn’t waste your whole life loathing and scratching at your scabs. What matters is that you matter to yourself.

(Always remember that putting yourself first isn’t selfish. Putting your wants before other people’s needs is. So it’s okay to take care of yourself. It’s okay to put your needs first.)

Why waste your time wallowing in complete and utter anguish when you can simply enjoy your time here? There might not be a reason why you ended up here, but you exist, nonetheless.

So what if I have a bigger belly than what I expect to have? So what if I have spots on my back? Who cares? Why would it matter? Why would it matter to anyone that I sound pretentious due to the fluctuating accent that I have?

So although even our influences and the memories that people have of us will perish, I choose to live my life in a way where I can devote myself to what I’m passionate about. I choose to live my life risking, loving, seeking more, learning more.

We’ll always have fears or insecurities. If you don’t, you aren’t human. But these will only turn bad if you let them control you instead of you controlling them. The universe is bigger than these little shits, always remember that.

I can’t say that I have accepted myself fully, nor can I say that I finally have the motivation and will to live out the rest of my life (as it isn’t that easy). But, what I can say is that I’m willing to try. I haven’t lost all hope. And I do believe that you, too, haven’t lost all hope because if you have, then you wouldn’t be reading this right now.

Feel free to interpret that any way you want.

Take care.

P.S. I’m sorry this went from talking about insecurities to the inevitability of death and how pointless life is then back again


I stare into my own nullity;
The Muses,
mocking me.

I arrive at the peak of my
undeviating state;
The tedious empty space.

I clock forward,
yet stumble back

and race swiftly
with no one but my stodgy,
stodgy shadow.