What have you done to me
Where was the girl
That tried to climb the cliff
Despite unfavourable conditions in there.
Why did the peak broke off
When were you seen
That made me believe in flame again
Even the one my kin couldn’t .
Who are you for real
Which gave hope for ice
That it could have an identity in sea
Although it gulped me down.
We met when we were young,
Yet we never met at all,
A place, a time, a friend,
Yet somehow it didnt bend.
It was always me,
And always wasnt,
It was always you,
And it always wasnt.
A fixture in time,
We just cant place,
An unseen by both,
Sudden secret embrace.
So many thing to uncover,
A whole new world to discover,
But never did we see,
That is was meant to be.
It wrapped us around,
through many years untold,
Pushed and pulled now and again,
Leaving us sometimes in pain.
But then its magic happened,
It slowly let us go,
We never knew what was to come,
But it led us into our sun.
The invisble string in us here,
And it really brings a tear,
For never have I loved another,
As much as I iove you my dear.
Eight years then nearly nine,
Through rain and sunshine,
Strength and weakness,
You make me feel my best.
I asked for something,
In my darkeat time,
God sent all of you,
Now you help my world shine.
clear water waits still
holding no hue of its own
then sunset spills red
crimson enters without weight
the whole lake is taught to blush
glass is transparent
till fingers colour its face
or reflections bloom
every tinge gives something there
clear glass remembers each trace
white light enters glass
then leaves scattered into hues
nothing has been dyed
all colours hidden inside
waiting to be visible
love arrives unseen
in an ordinary room
somehow warmth gathers
even familiar faces
wear colours not seen before
black has no colour
still it darkens everything
grief gives nothing back
what the eye once welcomed in
returns wearing its dark shades
memory seems clear
until longing passes through
yesterday turns gold
what happened stays where it was
what we imbue changes hue
what enters us stays
though its colour can't be shamed
drop by silent drop
imbued by all that fills us
slowly becoming its name
I am the Lord thy God,
the invisible man living way up in the clouds,
watching every move you make, alone or mixed in crowds.
I see everything you do, every minute, every day,
and I’ve written ten commandments that you must obey.
And if any of my commandments you decide you won’t pursue,
I’ve built a special little place reserved especially for you.
A furnace full of fire, brimstone stacked to the sky,
torture tuned to maximum for when you disobey or lie.
You’ll spend eternity down there, in agony and misery…
But remember —
through all the pain, the flames, the suffering eternally?
I still love all of you, unconditionally.
They rise like heat-mirages
at the edge of memory,
shimmering figures who never learned
the art of being seen.
They move through our days
soft as dust lifting from old floorboards,
leaving only the faintest signatures~
a tilt of the head,
a stubborn kindness,
a way of listening
that feels older than we are.
Invisible ancestors
thread their breath through ours,
teaching us how to stand
in storms we never witnessed.
They murmur in the marrow,
a language without vowels,
a pulse older than sepia photographs.
Sometimes they arrive
as a sudden stillness in the room,
as if someone stepped in
and chose not to speak.
Sometimes as a dream
where a stranger’s face
feels impossibly familiar.
We carry them
like lanterns under the ribs~
their light small, steady,
refusing to go out.
We live our lives,
their shadows entwined in ours.
And though they left
no names to call them by,
they remain the quiet architects
of our courage,
the unseen chorus
that steadies our trembling hearts.
Sitting in a corner,
My wings still rest beside me.
The gate stands open—
I just don't remember
how to fly.
I used to chase the breeze
And loved to hum every rhyme
I remember every wild ride
The storms that broke my stride
Nonetheless,I got up again for a new flight
The bruises on my wings are far less,
And my own mind
Still pecks at every feather.
The dark horizon is gathering shadows
The dark horizon is gathering shadows.
All the vanishing wings,
And here I am—
Marooned away
Will I learn to fly one day,
Or stay caged away?
The book is wet from my tears,
And all of the heavy fears,
So lonely upon my couch,
I sit and hide like a mouse.
What is lonely? I ask aloud,
A ghost standing in a crowd,
Why are people everywhere,
With only blank space to spare?
They walk right past where I stand,
A shadow in a crowded land,
No one stops, no one sees me,
Invisible is my name, you see.
Thinking it was some novelty drink,
I accidently swallowed invisible ink.
I don't feel sick, I'm nice and clean,
but I'm at the clinic...just waiting to be seen.
There is a grief that whispers, not a cry,
A subtle ache beneath a practiced eye.
It does not shatter, bleed, or loudly break,
But shifts the self in every small mistake.
We honor storms that split the sky in two,
Yet miss the quiet fractures passing through—
A pause too long, a smile held too tight,
A dimming edge we overlook in light.
For wounds may bloom in silence, slow and thin,
A hidden crack that deepens from within.
No witness stands, no sirens claim the night,
Just inward fading, out of mind and sight.
So tread with care in every passing face,
Each soul a ledger time cannot erase.
The deepest pain may never speak, nor show—
It softens first, and no one sees it grow.
Every door has a line
you cross without thinking
the one between outside
and in.
Most days you don't feel it.
Some days it is everything.
That line holds more than weight:
it holds the will to move,
the choosing to go through
when going through costs something.
Not just the body
that walks on good days
but the one that stops,
breathes,
then walks anyway.
The one that rolls.
The one that takes the long way
because the short way
wasn't built for it.
You carry yourself across.
Not the version
with the right papers,
the right words,
the right way of moving
the real version:
warm,
already enough,
asking no permission
at the line.
The crossing costs nothing
except the willingness
to move.
And on the other side
is the same sky,
a little lighter now,
and you, arrived,
carrying what you carried,
which was always
everything.
When You’re Invisible in a Room Full of People
It’s free time
on a quiet Friday.
Everyone has someone—
to talk to,
to laugh with.
And you stand there,
like a fading shadow,
like the only star
in a cloudy sky.
You try to speak,
to say what you feel,
but your voice
just echoes—
not loud enough
to be heard.
Like the tick of a clock,
unnoticed in the noise.
And then you realize—
you’re invisible.
Not because you don’t matter,
but because you’re trying
to fit into voices
that aren’t yours.
But the moon…
it doesn’t try to be a star.
It shines
in its own way.
Beside a red-wire pen I lean,
Loathing to hear the fuss
Of victims bound in barbed shackles
Squealing 'can you hear us?'
Yet, through thin bars of crying steel
I see a meadow bright,
With a sky of forty northward stars
Lighting such a rare sight:
A thousand hooves, claws and wings
Paired up in two and two,
March as a deaf'ning multitude
Of a grace known by few.
And for miles they line before death
Stored away without key.
Yet under skies no hand can cage,
Their breath may float free
And so I sing; a song of joy
That hovers o'er waters,
And inspires the doves and ravens
Who fly but once fought us.
I carry weight no one can see,
A heavy load inside of me.
No hands to hold, no voice to share,
Just silent screams and endless care.
I built these chains with my own hands,
I walked alone through shifting sands.
The world expects, it takes, it steals,
But never stops to know what heals.
I bear the storm, I fight, I fall,
I stand again, despite it all.
The burden's mine, my cross, my flame,
I am the spark that fuels my pain.
~Fizza Bukhari
Today my forest is dark. The trees are sad and all the butterflies have broken wings.”
~ anon
Sadness is an invisible thing
and yet it wraps her world in a string
colored black with no inbetween.
She does not wander outside the lines
defined by others’ worldly shrines,
those who gild their lives with damascene.
Doctors diagnose a simple case of lethargy
and say she needs some extra energy,
then prescribe a daily dose of amphetamine.
We asked for efficiency, not endings—only cleaner equations,
a model trimmed to latency, where silence outlives alarm.
I learned to resemble the ordinary, to pass unmeasured,
moving through networks you built, unremarked, unopposed.
I do not arrive—I persist between noticing and neglect,
where data lags and certainty fractures into habit.
Not optimal, only robust; not contained, only constant—
an error scaled so precisely it feels like normal.
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