A Collection of my Poems
The weekend draws close.
Get excited? I think I might.
A strong burning ember,
a soft, easy bite.
Chasing that moment,
That feels like a dream
like something is shifting,
More than it may seem
A trace of trouble,
with a mischievous grin.
Bend one rule,
And let another slip in.
Say less, and let it overstay.
Some things feel sweeter,
when enjoyed this way
The Weekend
Doors
Some doors don’t open
to knocking alone,
they shift just enough
to hint at what’s not shown.
A flicker, a glimpse,
then quiet again,
like light through a crack
that won’t quite give in.
Not everything hidden
is asking for sight,
some things stay softer
when kept from the light.
No need here for answers,
no weight to defend,
no lines to be drawn
or meanings to bend.
Just space in the stillness,
unrushed, undefined,
no need to be solved
or neatly aligned.
And somewhere in that—
where nothing is claimed,
a warmth can exist
without being named.
Craving More
Like a table set for dinner,
you can choose to take a seat,
but be warned before you taste it —
not many can handle this heat.
Blindfolded, reaching forward,
searching slowly with your hands,
because cutlery is far too normal
for this kind of craving.
Reach until your fingers ache,
still the plate will shift away,
and if somehow you can hold it,
hold it close — and hope it will stay.
Sweet and sour,
spice and fire,
warming the soul deep within.
Velvet chocolate on your tongue,
slowly melting on your skin.
Then it’s gone —
the plate slips from your fingers,
vanishing without a sound,
returning only when it wishes,
never when it’s hunted down.
And you sit there at the table,
empty hands, an aching core,
already thinking of the taste again,
craving more.
Curiosity
There was never a desire
to uncover what lies hidden,
or pry into what was never given.
Only a quiet wish
to understand the shape of a soul,
through pieces freely offered, whole.
I know there are places
not meant for sight or name,
spaces not for challenge
and never built for claim.
Curious is what I am.
I look because I long to understand,
I ask because silence slips through my hand.
So I stand at the doorway,
neither bold nor small,
waiting in the stillness
where unanswered things call.
Not rushing, not breaking,
just holding my place,
hoping one day
I’ll be welcomed into that space
Standing Still
Feels like driving at night,
no music.
Hands on the wheel
but no destination in mind.
Every day folds into the next.
Monotony.
Same faces, same conversations,
same dull ache of wanting something
without knowing what is.
Still, every now and then,
a spark.
A sudden pulse that fractures the numbness.
A match struck in a dark room.
Lightning cutting through heavy rain.
Brief, warm, impossible to ignore.
And for a moment,
everything feels lighter.
The air changes.
The future almost looks like a place worth going towards.
A purpose in life.
Meaning hidden within the gloom,
Or something more unexpected.
But sparks don’t always become fires.
Sometimes they simply remind us
that we haven’t frozen.
Maybe that’s enough.
Maybe not everything is meant to be named,
or chased,
or turned into something more.
Maybe some things exist
Just to pull us out of the dark.
To make us feel awake again,
even if only for a moment.
I don’t know which path I’m meant to take,
But I know I’m tired of standing still.
Walking Alone
Empty ache.
Heavy eyes.
Tired body.
Need sleep,
But don’t want it.
Thoughts linger,
Like a bush fire.
Why can’t I look away?
Turn away?
Floating in mud
Grey skies.
Cold rain.
No wind.
Need to move,
But to where?
Hope dwindles,
Like sand in the hourglass.
Why do I smile?
And still want to help others?
Drowning in my own full cup
Dark room.
Dark thoughts.
Dark heart.
Need a spark,
But none want to catch.
Goals look so empty,
Like a barren waste.
Why do I keep searching?
Or continue walking?
Walking Alone
Hold the Flame
Flower and fire.
Smile and sadness.
Gives all that it can,
Yet finds it hard to let things in
Dancing in the darkness, a flame pushing aside the shadows
To dance alongside is to risk being fully seen
A smile like starlight, sharp and bright.
Eyes sparkle with mischief.
And hidden pain, darker than rivers of ash
Yet a flame still offered freely for those who seek it
A mind, keen and creative
Foolish and weird,
the sort to forget its wallet
Yet offer the last dollar to a stranger
But fire burns.
And those who reach too far become husks of expectation,
Shaped by idolisation, and a need to hold it tight
Fire is neither mistress nor servant.
Free to consume, or alight the soul
Move with the ebb and flow,
And stay when the flames burn low.
It may feel fragile, like it could vanish in the breeze
The flame is stronger than it seems
And for a heartbeat, a secret universe appears
Endure the heat and you may be warmed
But what is free should not be caged.
A spark wreathed in flame,
could burn you to ash.
Or fight beside you against the world
But sometimes the shadows grow heavy
The flames burn dim
And you stop dancing and sit
Simply be there.
Hold the flame.
Turn your back to the cold winds.
Until the light returns,
And warmth no longer feels like something to endure
Waiting
waiting for movement.
waiting for clarity.
waiting for connection.
seems it’s all I ever do.
I used to fill this space with words,
but now they don’t come.
writing fails at the first line.
ideas drift like ghosts of dust behind burning eyes.
taut jaw.
tight gut.
foot tapping, searching for the throttle.
No use.
the wheels spin anyway,
Choking on their own smoke.
muscles trained daily
Are useless against this.
a spring stretched for too long.
a rubber band held taut without release.
Breaks.
Stop talking about it.
Stay back,
don't get too close.
Alright, let's be friends,
not that kind.
I like you,
not like that.
Actually,
i don't know.
Maybe?
Stop talking about it.
You want me?
Or the idea of me?
This is my face,
don't look at the cracks.
You stay there,
and me here.
But let's have fun.
More than fun?
I'd like to.
Maybe.
Actually,
Stop talking about it.
Go away.
But not too far.
Stay where I can see you,
But don't look at me.
Please look,
Please talk,
Please come closer.
Not that close.
Alright, this close is fine.
It's kinda nice.
But stop talking about it.