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Woe is it to be the Unconvincing, The horses have all been led to water But none are drinking, Have you done enough, Or are you just giving up With confidence shrinking? If you have the proof that you’re right Why is no one believing? Should you just accept it’s your fault That you’re so damned unconvincing!

They gnaw at the edges of me, little sharp-toothed things with hollow eyes, crawling from the cracks in my skull to lap at the marrow of my thoughts. I used to fight them. I used to starve them. But hunger makes them cruel. So now I lay the table. Silver plates of regret, goblets brimming with old wounds, a banquet of memories too raw...

In silence, words disappear, Unspoken—louder than any sound. A heart longs to be understood, But the world is too vast, too harsh. A voice is lost in the noise— Not because it isn’t there, But because it’s afraid to be heard. A soul bears the weight of mistakes, Carrying the heaviness of regret, Trying to mend what was broken. And then—I see...

He stands alone, an obelisk beneath the sun, his hands still blackened from the tar’s old murmur, the shovel, stiff like history, resting at his side. The street is silent now, the fracture filled, its gaping maw of ruin smoothed, a sleek insignificance to all who pass. They will not notice. They never notice— the absence of damage, the absence...

In Buddhism, there is a belief in the inevitability of suffering... which is conquered only through reincarnations, overcome only by attaining Nirvana. But I believe that love is a balm- it cannot undo pain but serves as a reminder that for every act of violence, there are others - of kindness, of charity and though many are...

~ “Think of yourself as dead. You have lived your life. Now, take what's left and live it properly. What doesn't transmit light creates its own darkness.” ― Marcus Aurelius, Meditations ~ I looked back and saw kindergarten Memories playing vividly in my head Halfway done they said and I asked "Didn't life start just yesterday?" I wonder if it...

They call her a voice of brown pain, But we’ve heard louder cries, from fields soaked in sacrifice, from mothers who buried sons, not metaphors. They sold us short, for lowercase lines and over-capitalized lies— as if formatting could mask the absence of truth. She speaks of lands she never walked, names wounds she never bore, calls for borders...