Alpha heart


Alpha heart
moon child
you are the cold pink
river of joy running through
the pulsing veins of mankind
now swollen with rage and forcing emotions

you are the wild untamed
running in the thick of time
in blooming white
sparkly blood coloured shoes
now stained with a mixture of
dirts and pellets of cold rains

a muse
traveling through abandoned
chapters like
unchartered amongst dying stars

now keep your
fierce scars intact
like how your flesh are pinned
onto bones
and humanity was nailed
in a mother’s womb
and red alarming siren
shake you awake
from the muted hues of a
dying daylight

Be the ice in
the precipice of chaos
evoking through


Vinyl Heart


Sometimes I am
a killjoy
a walking misnomer curled
into a cobblestone weight of
nothingness slammed into
inertia against the flaked painted
of flesh and bones
& heart is an honest opus
numbed in my inability to pronounce
singular voices or color
fierce enough to match this forcing

my thoughts has no
& they belong to no streets
I tell you
they sought shelter from my
divided mind fractured into the
dimmed city light
& dark damp abyss during
odd hours
even when eyes eventually became
the anchor to my soul
too weightless
too lack of real juxtaposition
lost in an estate of time

I can’t write like t h i s
(you know?)
I can’t remember yesterday
last month
his voice shuddering down my spine 
brother’s agony
sister’s joy
mother’s sea glass heart
filled with an ocean of tears
and my inability to break
the precipice cost me muted screams
frothed beneath the surface of
wounds refusing to turn
into raised tissues
like 3 am siren making my
ear bleed when you can’t dig your
nails in it

because somehow
they are lost in the thick of
of my vinyl heart
flooring nothing but smoke
and silence within

I Am Not..

I am not my
broken heart
twisted bone nailed
onto walls
flesh framed into the wombs
of humanity

not your
his Sheherezad
my fractured dreams pinned
to the spine of Icarus’s wings

not an ophelia
shooting for impossible dreams
or a careless daughter
Of a careful mother
or Persephone’s tears

not a jewel on
a woman’s collarbone
ribbons on her slender waits
the muted hues on the breast
of dying dawn 

I am not a
waking elegy
a misnomer
a saint
killjoy in her field of
blue jay and daisies
cinnamon in the fruitcake
she hates 

I am not

not even am I
a noun
or a verb
(probably a grammatical error
in a priestesses ode to
God )

I am not the color of
my skins never felt
the weight of snowflakes
the accent of the languages I spoke
but no one comprehends
not the opus of my voice
or the ethos of my heart

because when even pronouncing
matching color to
my forcing emotions demands finesse
of art
I am simply but a syllable away from
some days it’s just a dream
or a piece of truth soaked confession
I never wrote
but from dusk till dawn
in a city of dust
I am just “me”
lost in the thick estate of
time keeper