and naked I think i have mentioned this before. A musing from the time where i would have less restraint in saying i was young. I wanted to become a tree. The musings flowered and had a poetic nectar to it. It had to. That’s the most i want from anything always without subtraction - nectar, poetic kind. But i am just feeling my roots a little too much. Birds came, nested, laid eggs, hatched, left. Many. Branches were cut. I grew them, for i loved the shade under me. It had a

i decide having tea from outside would be a reason to step out i hear them saying - let’s just put a stall and sell tea, people will flock around and we will make some money. it’s just tea, no one will ask why it is bad, just tea. i hear some others saying, let’s make a good tea and sell but our customers and target audience should be the premium high value people, we don’t need the starving ones, the poor ones, the famished ones. people who come in car for tea, we need them.

unedited What is it like living with you? If you are someone’s everyday, what do you think is it like for them to live with you? Parents, partner, friends, how are they looking at life with you? If you live alone, what is it like living with yourself? I live with myself and I am built for it. People who lived the longest with me were not able to remain collected. I am not saying it was me or it was them or it was both sides. I am not saying it was not coexisting or equal spac

kindness, love and to know things no one else can is the shittiest superpower i can read you, all of you i can read you thinking, i can read you wanting, i can read you craving i know the taste of tears, i can play the sounds of any of your pain and all of your pain, i can hug you in a way no one else can, and i would not even need a body to do it i can hold you safe in ways you never have known i can tell you why you say the things you say, what you thought before you said w

to be me ~ i was watching this tree, it was peculiar in how it stood right there, its youngest parts on top and the oldest down. its green did not seem to mind the sun at all. maybe that’s why i really wanted it to be struck by lightning, i wanted its veins to light up, i wanted it to shriek. i wanted it to wear death, head to root, so i can love it like only i can love it. but there it was standing tall, while the sun was just a day or two away from burning it all. maybe it

i can't make it matter to me anymore Even on those days I thought of penning or saying that I am at loss of words, I, in fact was not. I could express my loss of words in poetry. Deeply in love, weathered by pain; it is dishonest to say I was at a loss of words ever. But today there is throbbing idea inside of me waiting to implode. Why word my reality at all? Is there any purpose to expression in a world such as this? Usually I feel quite sad about the absolute futility of h