We have thrown around
so many mushrooms
until
worlds have lost
their taste

They did not know
how to eat a meal
and so thin
was their waist.

There are so
many stories
about worlds
that don’t go on

and we keep on throwing
until
all our tastebuts
are gone

we have never liked
the taste nor texture
of a mushroom,
still make stories
somehow real

until we are breathless and
boiled down

until we all eat
our very last meal.

My eyes tremble
they do that
quite a lot

it is a gamble
just wait
till you
get caught

flowers crumble
like bread
turns into
dust

I slowly tumble
and
don’t really
have a crust

The glass is empty,
turn it upside down

I drank it all
but it only helped me
drown.

I broke a glass
very intentionally today
one could say
I knew
it was a mistake
while breaking it.
The thing is,
we often only see
that are actions
are mistakes
when they slowly cease to be
and a different glass
breaks.

It feels wrong
to take a hand
I so barely know

not enough time
before it crashes down
to do so.

About a week ago
I picked a flower
I pulled it
out of the ground
it gave me a sense
of power.

It was pretty and
so fragile
not ready to be
dead
but in my hand
was laying
just its lovely head

The colours were
luminous
yellow mixed with
green.
It was one of the
prettiest plants
I had ever seen

It gave me joy
and sheer excitment
for a day or two
then it started dying
and green turned into blue.

See I learned I
killed a flower
without any rationality
happy for an hour
is a completely wrong
mentality

I feel a little
self-absorbed
cause
when I want to speak
my thoughts just
keep on circling
on what I want
to seek.

I am exhausted
by ideas
bored of spoken quarrel

So annoyed of hearing
that I am just immoral

and I can’t seem to flee
cause my entire focus
keeps laying on just me.

So

I am captured
I am cornered
I am stranded
and confined

Jailed into this prison
that is titled as
my mind.

It is drizzling
outside
little drops
make every tile
wet

waiting to be
dried
they are aching
to sweat.

the drops hurt
they are like little
knives
stabbing
the tiles.

Funny how,
one little drop
does not do anything at all

but together
they are an army
forming not a drop
but a ball.

You are blocking
every thought,
cause when I want
to write,
it is all about
our plot
and how we might

actually be ‘we’
someday,
actually carefree
someday

I want to write

about trees and
thoughts and skies.
But all I think about
are

your lovely stupid eyes.

The wind feels sharp
like broken glass
making us shiver
while our thoughts pass

Trains break down
and our breath we see
in ice we drown
while we drink our tea

And inside, our layers
are peeled of, one by one
our bodies tingle
while we dream of the sun

BHS

How come all we
write about is
love and pain?

Why does no one
describe the beauty
of flowers or rain?

Why are clouds
grass and dirt
so much uglier than
being hurt?

Why is longing
celebrated
and are words about
trees widely hated?

Perhaps we only
see the charm
of pollen
once we’ve loved
and once we’ve fallen.