Initially not ironical, a decent writer, but incidents and people refine the craft, transforming into a good writer or poet, yet a paradox emerges - an itch of pain that never heals but persistently follows the flow of words.

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I am lost in the house of my mirrors, unable to find myself. I forget and become lost, yet my bedsheet knows more about me. The stretchmarks are visible, and their voices are audible, but I'm unaware of the impact I'm having on the bedsheet. On a scorching summer day that feels icy cold, I'm consumed by tremors, unable to wrap the bedsheet around myself. I see the bedsheet reflected in the mirror, but my own reflection is absent.

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Even time must bow to dusk and dawn, for nature breathes when light is gone.

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Trapped in delusional paralysis despite being healthy, with blurry vision obscuring my world, I'm torn between a storm of despair and a glimmer of hope for survival.

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Often, in seeking self-care, we yearn for a piece of home, but instead find ourselves in a cemented building where our scars are reflected.

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Love's whispered breeze once spanned the miles between us. Now, scorching solitude kindles longing's flame, and unfamiliar shadows dance upon our hearts.

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It's a hurricane-weary day; all the trees molded into ships, eerily still like stable nuclei, defying the turbulent universe. The devastated storm left my surroundings unscathed, yet my smile conveys the weight of time, a hymn to the grief etched on my hair.

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It's a poignant paradox that everyone seeks the florist's expertise on blossoms' fragrance, yet every time, the flowers themselves whisper, 'You know not the scent of mine.

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I'm lying under the weight of my stomach, trying to sleep, but my mind is racing with delusional thoughts that shake my bed. It's midnight, and the clock's ticking reminds me of war. The darkness feels like a randomly flapping cloak. In this atmosphere, I'm waiting for the wind to carry my thoughts to my loved ones and bring back their response. But the night is scary, and I'm waiting with the stars for the wind that might arrive with sunrise

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Life is an arid desert landscape, where the scorching winds of uncertainty sweep away the dust of complacency, and the harsh jolt of reality shatters the haze, unveiling the path ahead in all its unforgiving beauty.

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