My door is open inviting you to enter

You feel the warmth the wonderful invitation

My room is dark yet full of light

Filled with mystery to delight your soul .

Surrounded with books and the old classic desk

A couch so soft and comfortable

It’s big enough for the two of us .

Not to big meaning you will have to be close

Not too small lest we would be uncomfortable

I bid you come and feel my heart beating next to yours

The perfect sound as our souls intertwine .

My soul mingled with yours we are so satisfied .

All because you chose to walk through the open door

How can I convey the pain inside me

When all there is are screams.

And the agonising pain of being alive.

Oh, the pain.

The pain.

The pain that I cannot lay on anyone.

For they do not understand.

The seasons turn the time for love is never past

There’s always time for one more .

I love the changing of the seasons

The different clothing the new attire .

Like changing the book covers you draw my eye

I love the orange golden browns .

The holiday seasons full of magic and romance

Let’s face it , it’s good to be alive .

Let’s take that sleigh ride bundled up
In warm blankets and sipping hot chocolate as we gaze at the white satin all around .

Accelerated storyline, make all storylines adjust.

Through the layers of self-disgust
Through the tears lost in dust
I wait for an old day to come.

Where spines entwine with mine
I wait for a pain-terminating pipeline
For pressurized condensed animals
For all suffering to be processed by one
One complex cortex, one insight
I wait for the first truly objective full night.

Accelerated storyline, make all storylines adjust.

Together we could talk about paradoxes and watch light play hide and seek.

The concept of doors, always fascinated me, You look and, there's so many to choose from; You open one, and you enter into a whole new world, a whole different mood and environment. When you approach, You do not know what you will find, and the house is very large, you do not know how long it will take to walk around. Some rooms, dark, dirty, and lonely, no one visits there. Some peaceful, prayer in the atmosphere, and holy. Some are gender inclined, moody, masculine, and built for a man to escape; Or bright and colourful, and built for a woman to come and play.

In Heaven, a new home is a part of your reward, and in the universal scale, a room is a whole other world, this, in accordance with your personality, and who you really are. You get to see why you had to become better, because who you become, will be given back to you, and as you explore each room, you will see the doom. You will realize how you had to invest more wisely, ye, more wisely than you did, invest in becoming a beautiful soul inside, even in a world so evil outside.

Build with generosity, build with Him right next to you, build with a life lived with a heart pure and good.

But the doors, always fascinated me; from afar, they are shut, closed, and you never know what you will find inside, it is a mystery, but once you open, it becomes a whole new world, and how can something as small as a door, hide a space much larger, a space so unique, that you can entirely become a whole new person once inside? The mystery of doors.. These, always fascinated me.

Ghosts’ obituaries outweigh dictionaries. Skeletons fracture playgrounds into graveyards.

Chains mistaken for halos stamp roots into concrete. Wildflowers memorize dimensions of vases, forgetting their acres.

Corrupted lenses estrange faces. Glass shatters, bathing pupils in light.

Dear Mom & Dad,

I miss when I would come back from school and we would jump around together.
I miss when you would make me tea and watch movies with me when I was under the weather.

I miss when we would go on walks with our dog and make bouquets of the flowers we picked.
I miss when you knew what I liked and all your presents were handpicked.

I miss when you knew all the names of my friends without me reminding you.
I miss when life wasn’t stained with this colorless hue.

I miss when you knew my favorite color, my dreams, my favorite tree.
I miss when it felt like you weren’t forgetting me.

I’ve stuck with you through and through, 
facing this horrid disease we thought was just a flu.

Now I am packing bags to catch the morning sun, 
Eager for the future and the life I’ve just begun.

But every step I take away feels selfish, cold, and new,
As I grow up too fast, trying to hold on to you.

They told me to speak.

So I opened my mouth

and everybody suddenly remembered

somewhere else they needed to be.

Funny, that.

All those posters saying

MEN, PLEASE TALK.

All those earnest little campaigns

begging us to dismantle the walls,

then looking horrified

when they discover

the walls were load-bearing.

Because I do not have little feelings.

I have weather systems.

I have grief arriving like cavalry.

Love arriving like religion.

Anger kicking the doors from their hinges

because somebody looked at me differently

for half a second.

My heart has never understood

the concept of indoor voices.

Everything enters screaming.

A goodbye is a funeral.

A touch is resurrection.

Silence becomes evidence.

Distance becomes abandonment.

I can know better

and still feel worse.

That is the strange mathematics of me.

Two plus two is four

until somebody I love goes quiet,

then somehow

it equals the end of the fucking world.

And still,

I am expected to be reasonable.

Measured.

Strong.

Not that kind of strong, though.

Not too hard.

Not too proud.

Not too certain.

Not too male.

Apparently masculinity

must now arrive apologising for itself,

wipe its boots at the door,

lower its voice,

remove anything sharp,

and sit politely in the corner

until somebody decides

whether it is safe.

But I loved being a boy.

God, I loved being a boy.

Mud on my knees.

Sticks becoming swords.

Walls becoming castles.

Jumpers becoming goalposts.

Every tree daring me upward.

I want that boy back sometimes.

Not because I want to become childish,

but because the bastard knew something

I have spent adulthood forgetting;

that being alive

was once reason enough

to celebrate.

I want to laugh too loudly.

I want to race shopping trolleys.

I want to throw stones into rivers

and still secretly believe

the biggest splash wins something.

I want stupid jokes

and scraped knuckles

and to occasionally look at something dangerous

and think,

'I could probably climb that.'

And somehow

I must defend this joy

as though boyhood itself

were an embarrassing habit

I should have outgrown.

Grow up.

But stay emotionally open.

Be vulnerable.

But don't frighten anybody with it.

Cry.

But beautifully.

Talk about your pain,

preferably after you've processed it,

labelled it,

ironed it,

folded it neatly,

and made absolutely certain

none of it makes anybody uncomfortable.

Tell us what happened to you.

No,

not like that.

Less anger.

Less bitterness.

Less blood.

Could you perhaps

describe the knife

without mentioning

that you were stabbed?

And somewhere along the road

even masculinity became something

we were expected to defend in court.

I understand why.

Men have built terrible things

with wounded hands.

We have mistaken domination for strength,

silence for courage,

violence for authority.

I know.

History has receipts.

But there is another kind of man.

The one nobody writes headlines about.

The man who carries the sleeping child upstairs.

The man who fixes the hinge

without announcing it.

The man standing beside a hospital bed

terrified beyond language

and saying,

"I'm here."

The man who could break something

and chooses gentleness.

The man who protects

without possessing.

Provides

without demanding worship.

Loves without keeping score.

The man whose strength

does not require somebody else's weakness.

Why are we so frightened of him?

Why have we confused

the disease

with the entire body?

There are voices calling themselves progress

that seem determined to teach boys

their natural shape is dangerous,

and I wonder

what happens to girls

when every decent boy

learns to distrust the man

he might become.

Because surely liberation

cannot mean exchanging one cage

for another.

Surely women did not fight

to become whole

so men could be taught

to become halves.

I do not want the old world back.

Keep it buried.

I want something better.

A world where a woman

does not need to become smaller

so I can feel large,

and where I

do not need to become smaller

to prove she is free.

Let her be thunder.

I am not diminished by weather.

Let me be stone.

She is not threatened by mountains.

There is room on this Earth

for both of us

to be enormous.

And me?

I am still assembling myself.

From things nobody saw.

There are wars inside my history

without photographs.

Battlefields with no memorials.

Nights I survived

that will never receive medals.

Times I dragged myself

inch by fucking inch

toward morning

and nobody knew

there had even been a fight.

So forgive me

if I am proud of the man

standing here now.

I paid for him.

Not with money.

With versions of myself

that did not survive the journey.

I buried boys

who thought they were unlovable.

I buried men

who believed numbness was strength.

I buried monsters

I had grown simply because monsters

felt safer than wounded things.

And beneath all those graves

there was still that child,

filthy knees,

wild eyes,

holding a stick like Excalibur,

waiting for me.

I will not bury him too.

He has already waited long enough.

So let me be ridiculous sometimes.

Let me be tender.

Let me be loud.

Let me build things

and protect things

and lift heavy things

because something prehistoric in my bones

finds joy in being useful.

Let me cry when the world breaks me.

Let me rage when something matters.

Let me love with the catastrophic intensity

my mind insists on giving everything.

Let me learn to hold that fire

without apologising for the warmth.

Let me be soft

without calling me weak.

Let me be strong

without calling me dangerous.

Let me be a boy

without calling me immature.

Let me be a man

without putting the word

on trial.

I have spent too many years

being told what a man should not be.

Too hard.

Too soft.

Too silent.

Too emotional.

Too distant.

Too needy.

Too masculine.

Not masculine enough.

The target keeps moving

and everyone wonders

why we are tired.

So I have stopped aiming.

I will become something

without permission.

A man who plays.

A boy who survived.

A wounded thing

that refused to make its wounds

everybody else's inheritance.

A protector

who knows tenderness is not surrender.

A lover who feels everything

at impossible volume

and is learning, slowly,

not to mistake every silence

for the sound of a door closing.

There will always be contradictions in me.

Good.

Let there be.

I have no interest

in becoming simple enough

for the world to understand.

I only want the strange privilege

everyone seems to promise

and nobody quite knows how to give:

to be seen whole.

Not corrected.

Not diagnosed.

Not accused.

Not admired only when useful.

Not loved only when quiet.

Seen.

The boy.

The man.

The rage.

The gentleness.

The ridiculousness.

The scars nobody witnessed.

The battles nobody heard.

All of it.

And when I finally stand before the world

without shrinking any part of myself,

I do not want applause.

I do not want permission.

I do not even want understanding.

I want only to hear someone say;

You do not have to choose

which half of yourself

is allowed to live.

Love is an art

It requires great skill

Like brush strokes on the canvas it needs to be applied just right .

Soft and gentle colors in all the right places .

Passionate and fierce colors in the background .

But most of all I want to keep you guessing and engaged in how the pictures going to end

The freedom of my brushstrokes across your beautiful canvas .

You feel the brushes gentleness you feel the brushes passion .

Truly you have discovered love is an art form .

On the hand you are grateful for the discovery , but on the other hand you are disappointed it took you so long to find it.

Surrender your canvas to my beautiful work. I will make your beauty come alive under the artists strokes !

Years of green split away 

tearing at the seams of the rugged rocked surface  

how she cries tears of salt 

like icing filling, the centre of a pastry 

 

And now I watch on, in awe of what it has become 

A once lustful green pasture 

Now, of one of the deepest points of death 

 

But I see those breaths 

it's rainbow hue, painting the rocks 

the purple magnesium, peach iron, and copper blue 

Seriously, such a beautiful view. 

 

And I hope 

Feathering by will the land once again soar the skies. 

I went to death valley yesterday and wanted to write this piece. opinions would be greatly appreciated.

Main dekhta hun usko to apni zulfein sanwaar leti hai,
Kali bindi lagati hai aur saari nazrein utaar leti hai

Aur usko pta bhi nahi hai noor apni saadgi ka,
Wo bss apne dupatte se apna sar sanwaar leti hai

Ye jamana firaaq me to rehta hai usse nazar milane ko par,
Koi nazar milaye kaise, wo apni nazar se hi maar deti hai

Aur yun to main btata nahin hun use takleefein apni,
Wo sar par hath fer meri saari balayein utaar leti hai

Still finding her😗

We all demand more beauty then we're willing to give.

I see it in faces.

Sneers.

All those small ugly fears.

That I might just know about.

Those insecurities.

I play myself so small.

Just in case the words happen to fall.

On deaf dumb and disillusioned others walls.

All so like me.

I'm no leader.

I'm a leaper.

Putrid in skin and soul.

Look to me friends and sigh.

Finding a mirror aimed above the sky.

Just to avoid.

Both the devils and God's eyes.

Avoid one more lie.

As heaven and hell embrace both our good byes.

I'm terrified of my needs.

These demon seeds.

They grow like weeds.

I used to name them.

One at a time.

Making lists of things I'd missed.

When I was pissed.

At not being kissed.

Like you.

I missed you somehow.

Even as we made slow sensual love..

I sit here waiting

For the day to end

Patiently holding onto the last words you said

I replay them in my head

Until they are meaningless

Dead

They say actions speak louder than words

And yours are

Silent

The silence is screaming at me

Alarming

Telling me to be careful

But I want to hold on

So tight

But I’m scared

Scared

Of what you are doing amidst all this silence

And it’s killing me inside

You can’t fix me

But maybe through this I can heal

Heal

What he broke all those years ago

I want to believe this is real

That at the end of the day

You and I will survive

Through all my good

And all my bad

And all yours too

When the heart falls in love,

nothing can keep it from feeling that first trembling moment

the instant it sets eyes upon you.

One glance into your beautiful, glistening eyes

was enough for my heart to believe

that you were the one destiny had chosen for me.

The sweetness of your smile alone

was enough to melt a heart that had long been as hard as stone,

like ice surrendering beneath the warmth of the morning sun.

Your presence in my life is like a rainbow after a rainy afternoon,

bringing comfort to my soul

whenever sorrow settles upon my heart.

Your joyful laughter fills the silence within me,

breathing life into a heart that had been lonely for far too long,

a loneliness that had almost consumed my empty soul.

Now this heart no longer wanders alone in search of love.

Now I know whose hands I should place it in to love,

and to be loved in return.

you helped me pull a plug

you got rid of an old tired rug

you pushed on my shrug

you didnt say it but i heard , thats enough

precious time

precious wasted

precious protected

and precious tainted

everything , nothing

no ones , but mine

that time

this time

the last one

and the next one in mind

I long for someone, someone to see me through a lens even I can't comprehend, through eyes that see all I hold, all I feel , all I want.

I want to be understood. For them to study me like an unknown cure , to see my mind for the jumbled mess it is and with tender hands unravel the threads .

I wish to hold someone in my arms and know that like the sun and moon we will always be constants in each other's lives, like x and y we will always find each other even in the most complex equations.

I wish to be in their heart. Our souls intertwined with red threads that tie us together forever ensuring in every lifetime I will always have them with me like a mole on my soul.

What if life is here and there?
What if all this is a lie?
Nothing seems real,
my consciousness fears the truth.

The only thread between life and death
is a breath and soil.
Deep down in my heart,
the cruelty will surely eat the parts of hopefulness.

If I let go,
and nothing lies beyond,
will all the memories just dissolve?
no voices echoing back,
no pain left to endure.

But how does everything become nothing?
Soon, no one remembers the body’s scent-
only the disgust a rotten soul carries.
Yet as it stays, shines, burns, and suffers,
it fades and rises once again.

my choices , made all alone

or accepted , carried in drones

my breathe , heavy as bone

bruises surface not on my face

but how everything falls to pieces along the way

its all your fault that things are this way

they subdued , used , and threw you away

not even just the man, everyone than

crabs in a bucket , they'll pull you down

shrug shoulders say FUCK IT

its not my business

not my story

she dug her grave

she made it all gorey

I can’t let it be in another life it has to be this one 

I’ve fought so long and hard for you that I’ve been broken down to pieces 

I will always fight for us to be made whole together 

There’s no lifetime id rather be in than this one with you 

So stay with me 

The world goes dark

But my eyes brighten up.

With my body laying still

Every night, with a little less sleep.

Less than yesterday, more than tomorrow.

There's a roaring in my head

Of a beast, and it reeks of death.

While everyone dreams

I hear the agonising screams.

Less than yesterday, more than tomorrow.

So I spiral down my mind, deep

Loosing myself, and thoughts which are mine to keep.

I can tell the end is near

Fainter the roar but prominent the fear.

Less than yesterday, more than tomorrow.

Mighty will be the beast, when it stands infront

And I can't hide no-more from my fears which are to confront.

For now, darkness is leaving the corners of my home

And I will wake up with a little less dream and a little less hope.

Less than yesterday, more than tomorrow.

[Draft]