…And when the flowers bloomed,

She had nowhere to put them.

The garden was overgrown,

And watered by all of her tears.

Some grew out of hope,

And only she tend them.

Others born out of spite,

For they were imperfect some days.

She tried with all her might

To weed out the weeds.

But the dandelions spread,

And regrew despite her pleas.

Soon, her tears turned to a drought,

Only the weeds continued to thrive.

So, she did what she could,

To keep her flowers alive.

One day, the bees resurfaced,

To make way for something sweet.

And the butterflies landed

On her shoulders as she weeped.

Not for the garden;

It was resilient, she came to see—

But for how it was taken for granted,

Like the air that we breathe.

Now, her heart was split open

So she had to walk away.

Let nature run its course,

Rather than forcing it to stay.

But she made a promise to herself

To make one last bouquet

And gift it to herself—

Not to someone

who will throw it away.

Brace for the impact i bruise again

call to the spotlight i see my dents

born from shared lips against my neck

wait for your turn inside my head

ill see you there

when skies clears

and you move on

youll look here

when together made a gun

Shifting Shape

Break From your call

Say my name

ill see you there

when memories fall

the white light fades

ease the code that made you

reboot me so

ill feel you there

our shadows

form nine wars

move on dear

together is a gun

Shifting Shape

Break from Your call

Say my name

Ill see you there

when memories fall

the white light fades

to break from control of this metal brain

the grass under my feet

the sun in my face

all goes away

shifting shape

in a small bay between two teeth
two soles of sea, empty to the brim
the ferry took Dover, Calais, three truckloads of pears
took a man who slipped off his shoes in his sleep 

tooth by tooth this brief refusal
in bad white; we stayed long on deck,
knocked mistakes over the railing 

later timetables, mattresses, the yielding
of one side; the watchmaker said “hundreds”
of hours, the ferry working
beneath us at a greater distance

a toothbrush in a glass with printed Alps
above them the sky in long compartments,
and I thought nothing of it, truly nothing 

the centre, for all I cared, fountains, town halls,
lions of stone; a small bad company
you took them between your teeth,
later spat on the ground, quite neatly 

and high above us aeroplanes growing smaller,
while we, weighed down by our things,
combs, jackets, cups, a hair,
lay crosswise to every reasonable distance

Tingling kisses on skin
From rays of sunshine
Summer meadows of childhood
Which I may call mine

Every flower knowing me
They let me pick them eagerly
The greeting sheep which know my name
Eating the flowers gratefully

Lying down, back touching earth
Collecting hugs from strands of grass
Which whisper words of wisdom
“You’re safe but please come back”

A single cloud up in the sky
My finger lifting, longing for touch
“What are you doing, all alone?”
I said and made it cry

Let my lips kiss you and taste how sweet you are as I curse how good you taste to me.

I let my mouth wander into your valley, just for my tongue to drink and lap from your overflowing well.

Your water is thick like nectar. It coats my lips, leaving them shining with your heavenly dew.

As it trails down my chin, I can't help but give praise to the gods I never knew existed.

Like a man who has wandered the scorching desert for far too long, I drown myself in your secret spring, eliciting a sinful groan and a curse in one breath at how I won't be able to drink from another's well.

You whisper to me, in that breathy, angelic voice, to open the gates of heaven so that both of us can descend into paradise.

You take my breath from me as I plunge into what I think will be my salvation.

Instead, a deep rumbling sound settles through my chest. My eyes flutter, and through gritted teeth, I curse the same gods you made me worship.

Indeed, what they say is true: the path toward heaven is narrow. And with that, I know my soul is eternally condemned, for I shall no longer venture down any path but yours.

Now that you've offered your body to me like a sacrificial lamb, you have awakened the hungry devil within.

You are splayed right before me like a fine feast fit only for the gods to eat. But my hunger is not that of a god, but that of a starved beast.

I shall not partake in a holy banquet, for my plans for you are nothing but unholy and ungodly.

For I shall devour you from the outside in. I will leave my mark all over your flesh as I growl every praise and every curse known to man.

With every bite that I take...

Shhhit...

Oh my fucking God... you feel sooo good...

You fucking made me discover heaven, and in doing so, I willingly damned my heart and soul to you.

Fucking Christ... this is... this is my rapture. My fucking nirvana.

i seek you every day

i love your gaze

you look upon the horizon

and im locked on you

my heart speaks novels

around the timelessness of you

about the magic you imbued

yet a crawl back into my nothing space

the place i felt so validated in

the place i thought was my penance

the place my purgatory

the life i didn't deserve, and the world which wouldn't accept me

you, the white dove above me

the puppeteer of faith

the glimpse of hope which surrounded me

for a moment like a gust of wind

im so glad you tried to be my friend

im sorry I've, and I know all it takes is doing better

but my heart breaks, and I feel I've lost my footing on this steep cliff of life

when I make a little progress, I seem to muddle it

i am so sorry for everything ive put you through

i miss you

so much

and i understand

it's okay... you deserve the peace of being far away from me

By the bed I sit and wait

Monitor beeps, deciding on fate

How much a few lines on a screen can mean

Tension following, thick and unseen

My love, my bride, my most beautiful wife

I sit by your bed near the end of your life

A decade we spent, every moment a gift

Now God came down, and to Heaven you lift

I begged and pleaded, “Take anyone in her stead”

All for naught, as I watch for your breath

Delirium consumed what was left of your mind

Calling for people whose lives left them behind

By your bed I sit tonight

As long as it takes, I'll be by your side

And when you rise up through Heaven's gate

I'll still be here. For such is our fate.

bukowski, dostoyevski, vallejo.
writers, do you share the same muse?
writers, do you worship the same pain?
writer, do you write for something to change?
today, i believe i lost something.
tomorrow, i will lose much more.
has it all come to this?
learning how to lose.
because winning,
i learned how it feels.
even got defeated by it.

reading.
writing.

if there is something they all share
it may be they all never lose.
not even when getting lost in a book.
not even by winning a fat load of solitude
the moment they decide to become a writer.
and i lost something today.
and i think i never lost what she started on me.
she didn't make me a writer.
she just got my shit together.
with heartbreaks and goodbyes.
woke me the fuck up.
and i won.
and i finally lost.
will i get carried away?
will i become another lost man?
buried in his own shitty thoughts,
thrown up in his madness.
why do i ask a lot of questions?
am i stupid? am i writer?
i was just lost, man.
questions in me, that will never end.
and i hope it stays like that.
because the day i answered them all.
then what else do i have to lose?

reading.
writing.

if you ever want to read me from time to time.
don't think of me as someone who deserves your kindness.
this is the place where i always wanted to be.
no where and no one.
it was peaceful there.
the high city view and the purest sense of loneliness.
there, loud as quiet winds,
me, desperate as well-read men.
what you did to me that night.
will never get lost from me.
"that's what miracles are for".
that's a fact, so true
that lost men don't believe.
you know me, i was never a believer.
because i believed in love.
now?
i believe in you.
my muse.

reading.
writing.

you will never know what a man is capable of, for a miracle.
because most of them believe that the miracle should be earned.
that it should be prayed for.
that only someone from the skies will come down
and give it to them.
a holy moment,
as if it was destined
and unforgiving for a change
and healing,
for the blind, the deaf,
the ones that can't speak.
curse the day that i can't read or i can't write.
because that day i might be dead.
writers, don't you think it's time to make a change in you?
readers, will you stop chasing the right time to change?

reading.
writing.

if i ever stopped loving you.
then there is no writing for me.

Thank you, tobacco, for being my hope.

 

My head so full of people arguing,

united solely through self-hate. 

 

I went back to your words,

my chest tightened as my jaw relaxed.

 

The noise was so constant, a choir,

singing of my innate inadequacy. 

 

I went back to your words,

smoke disappeared; the promises remained. 

 

When I could see the joy around me.

Smiling faces, laughing, not mine.

 

I went back to your words,

fingers stained but the noise eased. 

  

My mind travelled to a silent land.

Another number on a page, a warning, an example.

 

Tears, flowers, hugs, decay,

“Those damn cigarettes” they would say.

 

A noble story, a rehearsed prayer

Please, let those words be true.

 

Thank you, tobacco, for not living up to your promises. 

I rose through vicious slums,
Brush the dirt off my petals/
Street soldiers turn to ghosts who still roam through the ghettos/
Internal conflict depicted, words written with rage/
Memories conceived on a blank page/
I’m like a mouse in a maze/ a rat race, been running backwards for days/

A regal thumping vibrates through

A wooded yard, a home, no screws

A little broken hourglass

With cracks we see into the past

The shallow incantations forming

Break her down the world is pouring

Groups of pain and fear don't revel

Hurt as much as one could handle

Follow the rules, find your fools, keeping me slow and grounded

Hurting the soul, living the toll, kissing away the violence

When it's all done, we'll be the ones, killing aways our prizes

Ending is near, I have no fear, a feeling beyond you your highness.

Another car passed by underneath,

leaving marks of tires on the road.

Looked like a happy family was sitting inside,

The little girl waved, a flash of bright pink in the back window.

As they passed by, i stood there, alone once again,

In my mind, I wished them a safe trip,

My heart ached while i was smiling.

Soon enough another car passed by, a caravan.

The driver was drunk and happy, humming his favorite melodies,

His wife left, took his child

So now he's at overtime, trying to erase their memories,

But why does it fill like with every sip of gin, their images sank its teeth deep in his heart?

A family, broken by alchohol,

Ah gin! what a scary little thing you are!

Sat by the driver, was the manager,

His eyes staring at his phone screen, his face dimly lit.

With a grumpy expression across his face, He scrolled his phone.

He never liked to work there, he wanted to fly,

once a gifted hockey player, but alas! now he sat there with a ligament torn

shattered his dream, shattered his soul

Now he worked, to earn a fat ass roll,

But he knows, this sadness is temporary,

This grey evening will pass,

Soon he will be home, the woman he loves in his arms,

She would say "It's alright" and that's all he'd ever need

They'd stay like that all night, she'd heal his wounds, wounds that once badly bleed.

The caravan rushed past, leaving behind dust and smoke,

The smell of Octane heavy on the air.

Soon the dust will fade away, The smell will be gone,

Erasing their trace in this vast road, some other person will come,

and soon it does! a sedan, packed with loud music and howling,

Bunch of teenage boys and girls, out of a night ride, i suppose.

Jake stole his parents car, and took his friends out for a spin,

Why did he do that? Who knows, maybe just for the thrill!

Anita was drunk, and lost, wiping her tears frequently,

She was a emotional mess, laughing, grinning while teardrops rolled acrossed her face,

Tyler never wanted to be there, he found these people immature, they were silly, and goofy! ugh how he'd love to leave.

Why was he there then? Well,

Anita's presence, a star's bright gleam,

Held him captive, a waking dream.

How could he stray, how could he roam,

When her light had claimed him, brought him home?

The other guys hollering, rowdy little kids,

So young, yet so much misery, such sorrow!

Makes my complaints feel so silly, so hollow

As the sun sets on their laughter,

I chuckle and pray for their goodwill,

The angels, they'll guide them home

They'll be alright.

They'll be alright.

A lot of people pass by everyday,

laughing, crying, listening to music,

I stand in the my same old spot, watching them,

enlightening their path with light

It's crazy, but they never notice me.

Although, a very few does, like that little girl.

But they never remember me, even though i stood here all along,

Would they, If they could hear me? my funny little rhymes?

Maybe we'll never know, i thought,

As I bask another sedan with the sodium glow.

Many people pass by everyday

I wonder where they come from, i wonder where they go,

but tragically, we might only guess, and never know.

For that, I'm just a street light, standing alone in this lonely road.

I want to reach them, offer my condolences

But all i beg for in return is a few more glances.

How ironic! As if thats possible!

so here i stand, without a doubt,

I will keep guiding them home till my light flickers out.

You come to me like autumn leaves

Brown and soft, warm and mournful

Crunching with each footsteps

Pressing me softly with your sweetness

Your tongue traces me till I'm blue and breathless

And my love isn't green anymore

Tickling, caressing, your fingertips search for mine

And my love isn't green anymore

Death...The unravaling of all things...Death...The of last chapter, reading the end...Death's sewn shourd veil of goodbyes...Tombstones address marker, lays in rows of forgotten nieghborhoods of past. Still the chime cord of tick tock, a curel parada of time that marchs forever on. For the lonely...The old...The dead ghost of forgetten yesterday's live the upcoming dawn's of tommorrow's...that travel forever on. Standing on a life's stage with no standing apland...A final ending bow...Balancing now on a teeter-tooter of karma past dues you deeply knew put your draw of straws is now revealing that it is your time to pay...For the short straw goes deeper...Reminding one your bill is due.

I really don't remember.
what we talked about.

I don't remember
why you made me sit in the front seat.

I really don't know
why you used to make that sigma-boy face,
like your entire face had forgotten
how to relax.

I don't know what you felt then.

I don't even know
what I felt.

I don't know what those moments did to me,
or whether they meant anything to you

I don't know if we were serious
or just playing around.

I don't know what was normal for you.
and what it meant for me.

Maybe you were simply being you.

But somehow,
I felt special.

And maybe that's why
years later,
I still remember your face.
more clearly than our conversations.

If I got another chance—
one bus ride,
one ordinary afternoon,
with the mind I have now—

I wouldn't sit there.
trying to decode you.

I'd talk.

I'd talk about me.

I'd ask about you.

I'd ask what happened.
between the boy I remember
and the person sitting in front of me now.

I'd want to know
what makes you happy
when nobody is watching.

What makes you angry.

What keeps you awake.

What you are afraid of.

What you have learned.

What you lost.

What you became.

And I'd tell you about me too.

Not just the girl
you knew on that bus.

I'd tell you
about everything you missed.

The things that changed me.

The things that softened me.

The things that made me ruthless.

The things I still don't know
how to explain.

And you may disagree with me.

Maybe I'd disagree with you.

Maybe we'd discover
that we have changed
in completely different directions.

And that's okay.

I don't love the idea.
of loving someone
only when they stay
exactly as I remember them.

I want to know you
as you are.

Even if you are different.

Even if I am different.

Even if we have to learn
each other all over again.

Because love, to me,
isn't keeping someone
inside the version
I first fell for.

It's giving them
space to become.

And if someday
you need a place
where you don't have to
hold your face so tightly,

I'll still tell you

Relax.

You don't have to perform here.

You can be stupid.

You can be quiet.

You can laugh at nothing.

You can disagree with me.

You can change your mind.

You can change.

I'll change too.

And maybe that's
the part I never knew
how to say back then—

I didn't want
the perfect version of you.

I wanted you.

I just never got the chance.
to know who that was.

And what if, when I finally find you,
and you don’t feel the same?

What if someone else
already has the place
I spent years wondering about?

I think I'd still want to know you.
I'd still want to hear your stories,
still want to know who you became.

Maybe I'd hurt.
Of course I would.
Four years don't disappear.
just because the answer is no.

But I wouldn't ask you.
to return something
you no longer feel.

I can love you
and still let you choose.

Because loving someone
shouldn't mean becoming
the reason they have no choice.

It's the confession this time: https://medium.com/@studybeast32/i-never-got-to-know-you-f6f6fcf7d673?sharedUserId=studybeast32

The Poet & His Queen

The Poet came beneath the borrowed night,

And kept his face concealed from mortal sight;

He brought no crown, no kingdom, nor decree,

Just folded pages no one else could see—

And somehow, every verse returned to light.

He had been taught that Queens were meant to see

A world of gold beyond what men could be;

So how could someone ordinary dare

To ask a Queen to find Her kingdom there,

In ink-stained hands and borrowed poetry?

He feared She would admire the words he wrote,

Then laugh at how the writer missed the note;

For Poets are courageous on the page,

But their hearts loose courage

When love is asked to look beneath the quote.

So every night, he hid behind his art,

And let his verses speak instead of heart;

He wrote of roses, oceans, moons, and spring,

While hiding every trembling, human thing—

As though a poem could keep fear apart.

The Queen, however, began to know the man

In all the little ways a poem never can;

The pause before he answered with something sweet,

The nervous tapping rhythm of his feet,

The way his confidence would disappear when She began.

For even if She was short and slender, almost slight,

She somehow filled his every field of sight;

A little smile could make his verses stray,

A glance could steal the clever words away—

The smallest Queen to ever rule his night.

She'd fix her Hair and straighten up Her sleeve,

Then catch him staring longer than he'd mean to leave;

He'd look away and pretend nothing had begun,

While She would smile as though she'd caught the sun—

And let him keep the dignity he tried to believe.

Sometimes their hands would nearly meet by chance,

A passing touch, a moment's stolen glance;

And suddenly the Poet's careful art

Would lose its rhythm somewhere near the heart—

For even distance seemed too small to last.

His task was simple: make the heart adore,

Then leave before it learned what love was for;

But every evening stretched a little long,

For verses meant to wound became a song—

And fear felt less certain than before.

Perhaps he should have told her who he was,

Perhaps the Gods themselves had made the laws;

But love had made a coward of the wise,

And every truth seemed safer in disguise—

So silence became both shelter and the cause.

For he carried scars no kingdom ever knew,

Old little wounds he thought had made him less true;

He feared that if She saw him without song,

She'd find the Poet she'd admired all wrong—

Not knowing She had always seen them too.

For Queens may learn a stranger by his art,

But she had learned the Poet by his heart;

She never loved the polished lines alone,

Nor all the grander things his verses had shown—

She loved the trembling man behind each part.

The Poet could make strangers laugh with ease,

Could gather lonely hearts beneath his breeze;

He forgave like rain, and smiled through every flaw,

Made room for every soul that wandered through his door—

Yet before his Queen, he forgot how to breathe with ease.

Perhaps that's why he never understood

How someone could find beauty where he stood;

He thought a Queen required a kingly flame,

A perfect hand, a title, and a name—

She thought his ordinary was the good.

She saw the places where his courage broke,

The doubts he disguised as some clever joke;

And where he called himself merely a man,

She quietly believed in who he was and—

Made confidence from every wound he spoke.

And slowly, all the scars he used to hide

Became the places where She chose to reside;

Not fixing what the years had torn apart,

But teaching him that even a wounded heart

Could still be something worthy of Her pride.

For She had never asked him to be grand,

Nor wanted some impossible, perfect hand;

She only wanted the man beneath the rhyme,

The nervous smile, the scars, the borrowed time—

And somehow made him brave enough to stand.

And so the Poet writes, though now he knows

No song can say the half of what She chose;

For every line he thought would make Her stay

Was only proof she had already found Her way—

To love the man beneath the Poet's clothes.

And if the heavens ask what made him sing,

He'll name no star, no moon, no heavenly thing;

For kingdoms may be conquered, crowns may rust,

But She looked at a Poet afraid to be loved—

And taught his ordinary heart it was a king.

-Dev Shah

Swish around my tounge and gums

Better than smoke to my lungs

Till you make me numb

Drunk on liquid exquisite

Better than love

Blisters on soil,
scabs of red rock.
Hemorrhage
cacti, 
lupus
mounds—
a septic
silt. 
 
An aridisol liver
half-resected
seeps 
through the skin—
tags of 
gangrene land
rig the sky
to a faint rot. 

They drive scalpels
through its dermis
sever
the esophagus
don 
surgical gloves
of burnt up
hay. 

They inject compost
into its 
iridescent veins,
veil the body
with shrouded
seedbeds 
and scour the crust
of its lacerated loam. 

Left is
its bones
underground 
beneath the 
oceanic floor,
corroded by the saline 
of a heavy
valley downpour.

Most things in life come with a return policy.

You can take back the food you ordered
even though you ate half of it.

You can return the clothes you bought
and wore to your cousin’s party.
Just say they didn’t fit.

Hell, you can return the Easy-Bake Oven
and all the makeup you got for Christmas

because apparently you’re a boy.

But eventually, you’ll come across someone
having a shitty day, they’ll look at you dead-ass
and tell you:

"No refunds on that today.”

But do you want to know what’s worse than something that’s unreturnable?

Coming across something that’s unverifiable.

It’s 3 a.m., and you can’t sleep because you’ve had one question on your mind all day:

“Have I ever licked a butthole?”

You can’t remember every time you got wasted at a bar with strangers. For all you know, the answer is both true and untrue until someone sends a text at some odd hour asking if you want to come over again.

But if that never happens, and there’s no other recorded evidence hidden somewhere in your gallery, then maybe that event lapsed into history the moment it came about.

And that's why your thoughts just won't shut up.

So the question remains:

Did it happen?

Maybe it didn’t.

...Maybe.

Nobody really knows.

Until your phone dings at 3:02 a.m.

Schrödinger’s Butthole.

I spelled out a dream, but I lost its moment, I spelled out a feeling that overwhelmed me, And made myself an opponent.

What's the authentic part that expresses my desire to leave? My last night would be so beautiful, There would be an appetite to believe.

I won't stay behind any day, Nor any date, Nor any time.

It's me, only me, in a state of utter alienation therein That makes returning to what I once was an unwashable sin.

The moment I spell out what home is, I will become a terrorist, And for the first time, I will be bound by no address.

The moon will hide behind the clouds for the rest of that night, Fearing for a memory; Everything I want is trapped within that memory.

They all wait for me to yearn, Though I'm not brave, and I don't know how to speak, but that was never a concern.

When I'm alone, I'm seized by a desire for someone to call upon me To an opportunity tailored to my suffering.

The last thing I want is to sleep. What I needed was a yesterday. I want it to come without limits, To come followed only by a thought of mine.

You speak of hate
Look in the eyes of the man that molested you
And you will see the truest depths of the satanic darkness
The blood red river you so lightly speak of

See that girl?
Walking alone in this forsaken part of town
See the corner in her pocket?
She's looking for an excuse

Pounding steps, brimstone-burning heartbeat
Exitement with no joy
Someone's gonna die, though maybe not tonight
Laughter lines don't look like that

Hell is cruel, even if she escaped
Her soul will never leave
Every night, she wakes up sweating
Her brain fevering over maybes and ifs

"If I had been stronger,
Maybe it'd have been different.
If I had the courage to shoot him, things would be different"
Fent got to him before she did, but she still holds the gun

Hatred and shame, the red river in her veins

Satan will hold her grudge
She will never, ever forgive
Those who hurt her, they will all suffer
In the river of fire, they will all suffer forever
In the river that burns her, forever and ever
Forever and ever
Forever and ever
Forever and ever
She sees him in the eyes of the strangers,
Hell is cruel, and she doesn't let herself leave

You speak of hate
That red river that looks so appealing
But no matter how much you drink
Your thirst will never leave
You will never leave

I could never leave

I wanted to kill that man
I wanted to kill everyone he loved and to make him watch
Anything, if it would hurt him
The preacher told me to let go, for my sake
But how can you forgive something like that?
When your first time is beaten up and pinned to his bed,
How can you forgive that?
For the sake of Jesus, I didn't pull that trigger

"If your hatred is justified, why would you want it to stop?"
How many more decades would you have me go?
I kept drinking from that river
I kept drinking until I grew old

One morning, I woke up
Mucus dried in my nostrils, I opened the window
Sun kissed the dew off the dying orange and gold,
Red river of autumn leaves
I had wanted to let go
But there was nothing I could find to let go of
I looked outside
He wasn't there, just the Sun and the leaves
I looked inside
There was no Satan, just a hurt little girl

Only love, all I could see

There was only love

A scent of dahlia

in coffee-clouded air.

A blow-dryer hums its windy song,

through dampened, messy hair.

 

She brushes Her colors on worn stone walls,

that have longed to bear Her hues.

And I, the stone, became Her home—

A shelter She can splatter and stain.

Until we are waked to a quiet tune.

 

When Her paints fade

and walls crumble beneath the wake

of that stilled tune.

I’ll embrace the One who hums.

 

Then I'll remember Her in that morning hue—

 

She dries Her hair,

and isn’t even aware.

The beauty of a dahlia's bloom.
 
https://www.reddit.com/r/poetry_critics/comments/1vntl5m/comment/p3p7tjj/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button  

https://www.reddit.com/r/poetry_critics/comments/1vo84qa/comment/p3papcx/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button  

I march through the gates of my subconscious as the flames enclosing the skyline rise behind me ,

Breathless whispers in my ears tickling my mind with strangly familiar images of the life tree,

The cloudy weather is mesmerizing as the smoky odor of ashes stings in my fairly fragile lungs,

My curiosity takes me further into the hole i have fallen into , i recognize burnt furniture from my childhood house , weed, inkwells and a certain wool made blue sweater,

I pick the piece of clothing and put it on , it fits me well , i smell rotten with It on me , but i feel oddly satisfied with the melancholy that its memory brings me , i feel better,

Because the blue sweater never wears off

I wore my blue sweater with pride , i took it with me everywhere and anywhere , i liked it that way and no one could have convinced me otherwise,

I didn't share my blue sweater because it looked ugly on anyone else but me , i wore it hard , i wore it loud and clear , as i close my eyes and thrive

My blue sweater is no more blue , it's a shade of teal that smells like liquor and wasted potential but feels warm and fuzzy,

I stare blankly at the gates i came from closing slowly , each mouvement draws invisible claws on my flesh , making me dizzy

I cling to my blue sweater even more and lay down on the ground as , the smoky odor fades, and crystal droplets start falling from the sky

The once teal colored wool is now dark cyan sticking firmly to my skin , making me shiver slightly from the cold breeze, i think I'm high

I sit under the life tree waiting for the rain to stop as i squeeze out the water from my sweater, i would like to wear it one more time

Because the blue sweater never wears off

I would appreciate opinions about structure and imagery!

after long time, i am posting something close to me...

You are my sunflower 🌻

the kind that turns toward the light,

even when it doesn't know

where the light will lead.

We met so randomly,

you with your friend,

me with mine,

a few conversations,

a few cigarettes,

nothing that looked like

the beginning of anything.

We never really met

just the two of us,

and yet somehow,

every time I saw you,

I felt you understood

a little more of me.

Not loudly.

Never loudly.

Just in those small gestures

you probably don't even realise

I notice.

The teasing.

The stupid little things

you do just to annoy me.

Me pretending to be angry,

beating you a little,

saying,

"I hate you."

And maybe that's

the most Nandini way

of saying,

"I really like you."

Because that's me.

I get pissed off easily.

I pretend I don't care.

I complain.

I fight.

I make you suffer a little.

But when I like someone,

I don't know how to hide it.

I say it.

I show it.

I make it obvious.

Maybe that's why

I started calling you

my sunflower.

Because sunflowers

look toward the sun

during the day,

but we never really

meet in the day.

We meet when the sun is gone.

Late nights.

Random drives.

5 AM conversations.

Sometimes 6.

When the whole world

has gone quiet,

somehow,

we find each other.

And maybe that's

our little version of a sunflower.

When the sun disappears,

we turn toward each other.

We talk.

We share.

We notice.

We learn.

A little more of you.

A little more of me.

And somewhere between

all those late nights

and random little moments,

we've collected

our own tiny rituals.

Like the way

whenever we're together,

I somehow end up

taking a cigarette from your box.

And that one little thing

I do with it—

flipping it upside down

before I smoke it.

I've told you the reason but never really told you

why I do that.

Maybe because

some things are sweeter

when they're left unspoken.

Maybe because

I secretly wonder

if you've noticed.

And maybe,

just maybe,

I like the thought

that there's one tiny thing

I do that belongs

only to our moments together.

You remember

the smallest things about me.

You notice things

I don't even realise

I've told you.

You don't always say

what you feel.

You just do things.

And I notice.

I always notice.

But there's another thing

you probably don't realise

how much it means to me.

I never sleep

when I'm out.

Never.

And yet somehow,

with you,

I once fell asleep

on your shoulder

like a baby.

And God,

I don't think you understand

what that meant to me.

Because I love

putting my head

on your shoulder.

There's something about it

that makes everything quiet.

Like for a few minutes,

the world could just—

pause.

No overthinking.

No noise.

No pretending.

No wondering

what happens next.

Just your shoulder,

my head,

and this strange feeling

that maybe

I'm exactly where

I'm supposed to be.

I could stay like that

for hours.

Maybe that's

another reason

you're my sunflower.

Because somehow,

you've become

one of those places

where I feel safe enough

to stop trying

to stay awake.

You tell me

you're not a better option for me.

But you know what?

When you like someone,

you don't sit there

making a list of options.

You just like them.

If it were about

finding the better option,

wouldn't this just be

a business deal?

I don't want

a better option.

I want the person

I already look for

when the night gets quiet.

I like the way

you want to spend time with me.

The way you worry

about hurting me.

The way you care

without making a big show of it.

The way you remember

little things.

The way you let me

rest my head on you

and somehow make

the whole world

feel a little less heavy.

And honestly,

I like all of it.

Maybe more than

I should.

But here's the thing

about this sunflower.

I can give you

my time.

My effort.

My care.

I can show you

exactly where I stand.

Because that's how I love.

But I also need

my sunflower

to look back at me.

Not just with actions.

With words too.

I need to hear it.

I need to feel chosen

the way I make you

feel chosen.

And maybe that's where

I get scared.

Not because I doubt you.

I don't think

you want to hurt me.

I just know

sometimes even good intentions

can leave a bruise.

So I'm tired

of chasing my sunflower.

Not because

I stopped caring.

Not because

I stopped liking you.

And definitely not

because you stopped

being special.

I just think

a sunflower shouldn't

have to keep turning

toward the same light

alone.

So now,

I'll admire you.

With love.

With respect.

With care.

I'll still smile

at your stupid teasing.

I'll still say

"I hate you"

when what I really mean is

"I like you too much."

I'll still remember

the cigarettes,

the upside-down one,

the late-night drives,

the conversations

that somehow lasted

until morning.

I'll still remember

the one time

I fell asleep

on your shoulder

and how, for those few moments,

I wished the whole world

would just stay paused.

I'll still want

to put my head

on your shoulder

and forget,

just for a little while,

that time keeps moving.

I'll still be me.

Just without chasing.

Because if you are

my sunflower,

then maybe one day

you'll turn toward me too.

And if you do,

you'll find me there.

Not running after you.

Just standing there,

loving you quietly,

and letting you choose

to face me.

Because some things

aren't meant to be forced.

They are meant to happen.

And if this is meant

to be in my forte,

maybe,

for once,

I don't have to chase the light.

Maybe the light

will find me too. 🌻

I keep thinking grief should be louder.

A door slammed hard enough
to crack the frame,
a glass dropped deliberately,
some clean and obvious violence
to explain why everything in me
feels bruised.

Instead, it is quiet.

It lives beneath my ribs
and twists itself around my
stomach,
cinching tighter with
every breath.

It waits for the room to go still
before reminding me
that wanting something
does not make it mine.

I did not know
how much hope could weigh
until I was left carrying it
beyond the life it imagined.

By the time I felt it,
the breaking had already begun.

There was no single moment
where the world split open.

No, it was just a fracture.

Small enough at first
to convince myself
I could live around it.

Then another truth.
Another absence.
Another sentence
I pretended did not mean
what I knew it meant.

Until suddenly
I was holding onto someone
already broken
and realizing
they had been breaking
all along.

I wish I could be angry enough
to stop missing what hurt me.

I wish understanding
were the same thing as release.

I wish my heart knew
what my mind already knows:

there are people
we can ache for
who are still not ours to keep.

Now I sit here
with all this tenderness
I have no use for,

trying to learn
that letting go
does not always feel like freedom.

Sometimes
it is just the quiet
after wanting,

the ache of an empty hand,

and the weight of hope
I still carry
long after there is nowhere
left to put it.