People always manage
to surprise me—
not with goodness,
but with the weight of pretense.

Their masks don’t fall;
they polish them instead.
Smiles stitched tight,
words rehearsed hard,
yet the silence in their eyes
betrays them the most.

I do not wait for the unmasking—
for I already know.
One mask covers another,
and still another.
And behind them all,
they’ve forgotten
their own true face.

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Bread for the flesh,
battles for the mind,
and a hymn for whatever’s left.

-

Slower.
I’m breaking.
You watch.

-

I could tell the world about love, but…

-

A tree falls in the forest.

-

Your name fades slowly.
Like late sunlight in August,

I warm,
then cool,
then forget.

-

A store is most identifiable when it’s closed —
because only then does its name stands out.

Yet its true value is only understood when it is open,
when it functions, serves, breathes.

People follow the same architecture.
Our identities often go unseen in motion,
and only in stillness are we named.

Until, finally, we close permanently —
and only the signage remains.

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The world is ever changing, as always —
scaring, scarring, schooling, scaling.
It’s a cycle.

We consume so much of everything,
we are not us anymore.
Everything drains.

We forget who we were.
So we consume more.
Some old, some new.
But it must go on.

Otherwise, our beds feel like coffins,
and hell invites walk-ins.
Nobody is talking.

We choose therapies on screens.
The medicine is overdosed.
We still don’t doze.

The world is ever changing, as always.
Art no longer evokes emotions.
It’s the change that does.

We screenshot our joy
and forget to feel it.

We touch nothing
but still feel touched.

Hope is bookmarked,
but rarely opened.

Consume.
And be consumed.

-

birds that cannot sing.
Just perching on branches, quietly.

-

Dreams?

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