I know I am going to die,
but I do not know at all when.
And will my life be satisfied and complete?
But it will not matter anymore then.
(09.04.2026)
There is no
real need
for people
to be mean
to innocent
people they
do not even
know and
a line must
be drawn
when many
people we
care for
are being
targeted
just for being
Black or Brown
while they are
out and about
and it always
makes me frown
at the
computer screen
and that vibe
gets me down
which is why
I choose to
detach mentally
from it all
and log out
so that I don't
feel spiritually
drained for
these petty
online conflicts
are not even ever
worth the clout.
I thought I already had someone who admired me - who valued me exactly as I am. But it was all just a blurry cloud.
Being empathetic is a vulnerable choice. You don't have to make yourself into armor, or into light, for someone else. In the end, you'll be drained, destroyed, devastated - only to learn you were never more than a backup plan, a pit stop along the way.
You'll drain your own light just to guide them, even while you're the one who's lost. Funny - you knew it from the very start, that they would never even look back to see if you were doing fine.
Do we have to earn being loved?
Do we have to constantly prove our worth? Isn't it exhausting?
Isn't it tiresome, carrying this many unanswered questions - the fundamental questions about you?
Have you ever heard of a constant craving for dessert?
Well, I'm glad you're one of those. Because otherwise, people crave constant approval and validation just to feel loved.
It's a privilege to be loved, says a heart that's always gone unloved.
My heart wants to light up like a garden-
no walls, no burden, no warden.
What's the most fake thing you've ever encountered?
It's not the lie,
nor the mask,
but the appearance.
In the end, we all just wish for ourselves the premium membership of love-
always on the seventh sky,
always the dove.
Part Four
One day, I want to be someone's moon - just not one of the stars. No matter how much a star shines, it's never enough. There is only ever a moon, stealing the stars' beloved gaze. Stars are compared and counted. The moon is simply worshipped. Stars ache to outshine, to overcompensate.
But for what? Being a star was always enough. It just needed to be reminded. It just needed to be loved.
Even something remarkable starts to feel invisible next to something that doesn't compete - that simply exists differently. It sits like discomfort, like a jigsaw piece forced into the wrong spot.
Part Three
Some people love you so much that you feel you don't deserve them - that they deserve better. Will I ever be the person someone thinks of that way? Thought of as a blooming flower of happiness in a desert of melancholy?
Do the things that make you happy, they say, so you can sleep tight. But you mean keeping up with others' expectations, making them happy, so you can sleep tight. Yeah. That's why I sleep tight.
No matter how much one cries for love, it's never enough. Your eyes may grow tired and stop crying, but the heart never will. It will beg for water, like flowers do in a hopeless desert.
Some things are perfect even in their imperfection. I'm sure I'm jealous of that kind of luck.
Have you ever worn your silence like an after-effect - the bruise left by someone's hurtful words?
If yes, then
Congratulations. You are a brave soul. There are people who never do that, because they don't want to lose even the hurtful words. It's the only undivided attention they've ever gotten. They're not afraid of the words. They're afraid of the silence that follows - the silence where no one is comparing them to anyone at all.
PART TWO
The moon is always perfect, no matter what shape it wears. You can't blame the moon for never letting the star shine. Even the star was busy gazing at that beauty, burning itself just to glow. Maybe it's because you are the side dish, and not the main.
Nothing compares to the evolution of trying - every person hoping to shine like the moon - and still, in the end, losing even the chance to be a star.
Even time doesn't change you. You just learn to live with it.
Part One
They say some people have more patience than others. I'm not sure that's true. People are only patient at pretending. The right word isn't patient - it's people-pleaser. That goes for you, and it goes for me.
Someone once said that to understand yourself, you must first understand others. I am aching for this season to end. I just want to understand myself - to help this poor, tired soul.
I can't compete with your definition of a "perfect moon" - because I was never even a moon. I never the chance, nor even a glance.
I doubt I ever felt at home - at home, or anywhere else. And if I did, was I playing music out loud? Was I bay holding up a smile? Or was I, just for once, unaware of my own appearance - finally, quietly, at ease?
Sometimes you think if we remove this actor from the stage, all eyes will finally be on you. But those eyes were only ever on you because of that actor.
My dog by my side
AP: Honorable Mention 2026
Life seems as
Ever arising forms~
Included in this
Inexplicable story
Is the arising of
A separation sense
Synonymous with a
Desire for restoration
And home~all
Told in stories
Of loss and fulfillment
And already complete~~
Love is felt, like a belt it fits tight, making me feel loved and complete.
Love you make me feel happy, lifting me to a place of awe and satisfaction.
Love just like a flower, you make me feel pretty and colorful, with your affection.
Love when you speak all of me pays attention, waking up parts of me that were sleeping.
Love you are like medicine, you make me feel alive and healthy all through the day.
Lifting prayers to God, today and always.
When you feel days warmth like a blanket
The milk-white cow is grazing on a cloud,
While the barn hangs upside down, a rusty, quiet shroud.
The farmer’s boots are filled with singing wheat,
And the tractors drive themselves down the street,
On roads of melting butter, past the dreaming oak,
Where the spiders weave their webs out of chimney smoke.
The rooster crows a melody that tastes like rain,
And the wind-chimes play upon the nerves of pain.
The fence posts walk in circles, wearing hats of pine,
And the pumpkin patch is drinking ruby wine.
At noon, the sun is a bicycle without any wheels,
Spinning over the abundant, breathing fields.
A creek flows backward to a sapphire sky,
Where the catfish fly and the eagles lie,
Watching the scarecrow tell a story to the crow,
While the barn-cat naps where the mushrooms grow.
In the cellar, time is a jar of amber light,
And then in the yard, the day is sleeping with the night.
The dulcet dawn veneers my heart’s horizon with hues,
spreads the sunburst tinges of my timeless yearning,
paints a golden garden blooming with luster of my love,
unfurls the facsimile of your astral floral face, I adore.
The patina of radiant rose flushes your cherubic cheeks,
glitters with the grandeur of resplendent diamonds of dew,
rhapsody ripples in the mesmeric meadow of my mind,
my heart feels your allure, in the ether of euphoria I float.
In the vivacious vale of mind contoured by your charm,
as I carve an ardent conduit of longing to reach you,
the fervent cloud of my craving melts in a torrent,
makes my love for you a cascading stream, I swim.
Pulled by the current of your charismatic magnetism,
my possessed passion sails to the moonlit bay of bliss,
where your love weaves the lattice of stars in my sky,
with their sequins you beautify my life to complete me.
Amateur writers, they languish in bookshelves,
their mediocre musings dull, tawdry, and lacklustre,
garish fare inviting foot press dust bin or giant skip,
infused with cliché-ridden dumbstruck cant so trite,
I “CANT” grasp why such writers are that brazen,
“Amateur Writer” is not the word!
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