Random Leaf #1978 precisely cut

That one song

once more became

just another song.

The stars, clouds,

and the moon,

just another night.

Her voice, her eyes,

her smile, her lips,

even the strands

of her hair,

her fragile hands,

her small shoulder—

everything about her

was just another

passerby in your

loveless hollow story.

You’ve fallen out.

You’re no longer

desperately in love.

The candle’s flame

has gone out.

All your memories

with her are

just fleeting moments.

Every filled cup

is now empty

with her gone.

You were in

love—now, no

more than emptiness.

Random Leaf #1977 precisely cut

No alibi,

just intention.

Heavy breath,

cold sweat,

quick glances,

thoughts scattered,

clear stutter,

she’s all

you could

think of.

Many symptoms

of love.

That’s what

you feel.

It’s indecision

that always

gets you.

Random Leaf #1976 polished and precisely cut

There was a cage for the little bird,

the world folding in on itself,

its home—

small, fragile, enclosing.

In truth, he was more free.

He could fly higher

than most around him,

yet never tried

to reach the greater sky.

The bird has no right to complain;

for it was he,

the little one,

who never tried.

And so, the only one to blame

was always him.

His chirping may sound

comforting, soul-soothing,

but it is his only way

of crying, of confessing.

For he could do no more than that—

all because, in truth,

he never did.

Random Leaf #1975 precisely cut IG

What consequence have I overlooked?

She wasn’t as mad as I was.

Only I was madly in love,

and she was never even.

It didn’t matter to her.

It never did matter to her.

She loved someone else.

She always did.

I, to her, will always be somebody—

a someone,

and never the one.

I loved her.

I truly did.

Oh! But I was mere nobody to her,

a no one—

and I never wanted anyone else

but her.

It’s just one life, right?

What could a single life even be worth?

She never loved me anyway.

Random Leaf #1974 precisely cut

And all I did was forget.

Her name, too, I couldn’t remember.

It was her I truly felt

myself falling in love with—

and she with me,

as the moon is with the land.

Both enigmatic, bright, unreachable,

a being nights are fated to dream of.

And she, to me,

was an impossibility.

I’m glad I got to know her,

and she to know me.

But without memory,

who is she, really?

Oh! For the life of me,

I could not remember.

Yet in great sincerity,

and—though hurting—without regret,

I, a person of many dreams,

once fell in love.

And it was with the moon,

her reflection,

the one Icarus truly fell for.

Random Leaf #1973 exquisitely cut

What could I even trade

to bargain with the devil?

There is nothing of me to offer.

I have no looks to boast of,

and strength was never mine.

My wit is brittle—

they call me foolish,

gullible,

a shadow of thought.

Ideas spark, yes—

but none survive my grasp.

I am no leader,

no guiding flame;

I’d even falter

as a servant bound in chains.

What value, then,

could I lay on the devil’s table?

Oh, how cruel—

how cruel this life remains.

An empty sky mocks my prayers,

even hell spits out my name.

Misery!

Misery is the marrow of my bones,

the only hymn this body knows.

Random Leaf #1972 precisely cut IG

I asked a friend

to point a knife at me.

He did.

I grabbed his hand,

pulled the blade

towards my chest—

and I

hesitated.

A question cracked open:

Did I still

want to live?

Before,

when this happened,

I was ready.

Now,

I felt afraid.

Was it fear?

Or was I only

meeting death

for the first time?

Questions flooded me,

a thousand at once—

But all of them dissolved

into one word:

why?

Random Leaf #1971 explicitly and precisely cut

All you did was make noise,

none mattered enough

to leave any trace.

If you want my opinion,

why not set a church ablaze?

I assure you,

with cold guarantee,

you’ll steal the spotlight.

You will likely

descend to hell,

but your name

will echo in history.

Random Leaf #1970 precisely cut

For that fleeting moment of euphoria,

they became gods.

Engulfed by the call of insanity,

they shattered serenity.

The madmen rose to divinity,

and the only price they paid

was a flicker of hate,

already fading.

They did nothing wrong,

but they will not be immortalized.

Faces hidden by masks,

names dissolved into the collective.

They are not worth remembering.

Random Leaf #1969 precisely cut

And if you think about it,

all of the gods are insane.

Even those in asylums

could be gods—

if not for that thin line

we all call mortality.

Oh! How confused,

how frightened,

and just as insane

are their immortal creations.

And the ones against them all,

the antichrists—

they alone are sane enough

to stand against madness,

to deny even the essence of divinity.

And they are the ones

we call the enemy.

Random Leaf #1968 precisely cut

And to you,

whom I owe

the sincerest apology—

I deeply apologize.

I quickly assumed,

and felt love

just as fast—

all the while

you were unaware:

of both me

and my heart,

beating, bleeding, aching.

Oh, shooting stars,

be so kind

as to ungrant

my selfish desires.

Oh, how I

wish all this

were not true,

and my love

for you unrealized.

Random Leaf #1967 precisely cut

It still hurts, yes.

When I realized, I

was just dreaming daydreams.

There was no us

nor you and me,

nor she and I.

It was just me.

Not you, not us.

It was only me.

I felt love, but

it was just me

and my heart bleeding.

Random Leaf #1966 precisely cut

But the songs made

were never always about her.

It is true

that you may be reminded:

of her angelic voice;

of her summer-day lips;

of her ethereal eyes;

of her jovial attitude;

of her tiny, yet gentle hands;

of her beautiful, yet strong shoulders;

of her silky hair, hued like night;

of her ears, aligned so perfectly;

of her bosom;

of her curves;

of her thighs;

of her feet;

and everything else—

so trivial to others,

but to you will always be

of great concern.

Yes, you are elated in eros.

Or am I wrong,

and this love you call

is agape?

But in all eternity,

it is you that gave things meaning.

And right now,

every good thing, every wonder,

can be summed in one word:

her.

Random Leaf #1965 precisely cut

Crosses in the pathways.

Unaligned stars mislead strays.

Blind men turned wise,

while only fools knew the truth.

No everlasting song

can echo through eternity,

beneath oblivion, and men

oblivious to dream or real.

They sought the answer,

only to be turned away

before the final door could open.

There was no entrance to pass through—

only glass inside coffins,

before the lid was set

and the stone laid to rest.

Grave diggers know the answer.

Only fools and dreamers light candles.

Random Leaf #1964 precisely cut

There was a strange feeling

the first time I heard him speak.

I cannot unremember his words,

even if I tried.

He wasn’t concerned in the very least.

His voice was monotonous, calm—

oppressive, authoritative.

“You all

must

be

hungry.”

It was an order.

Random Leaf #1963

Finally,  

rest.  

Maybe  

tonight,  

I  

could  

sleep  

forever.

Random Leaf #1962 precisely cut

He was never inconsiderate

to her.

He would always

place her in high regard.

This will always be true.

So much so,

let all the clouds in the sky

cry forever,

and make a new ocean

if such a bold claim were false.

But—

to her,

he was.

For she lived in a world

he never knew

he had made.

To her,

he became a hunter,

and she a prized game—

But she was more than that.

And she too wanted love.

Yet his devotion

became a cage,

a love she never wanted.

So much so,

she alone could cry a river

far longer and older

than eternity itself.

But—

he was never aware.

Random Leaf #1961 precisely cut

What if one shatters the silence

and the space between stays broken?

Or what if fortune be kind,

and things mended instead?

In both questions,

there will be an answer—

in one— where they finally get to know

each other

and ultimately become each other's half;

and in another— where words unspoken

will remain unsaid

and the two souls will keep on wandering.

Oh! If only—

the echoes were clearer,

and the heartbeat louder

than the flutter of the fearful

yet fragile butterfly wings.

Maybe they would be lovers.

Or just maybe their paths crossing

would forever remain untrodden.

Random Leaf #1960 precisely cut

He was always happy

seeing her smile.

But when she smiled—

she was not always happy.

It was a mask she wore,

for an eternity

he had unknowingly built.

The only thing shared

by these two strangers:

they were both hurting—

each other,

and themselves.

Random Leaf #1959 precisely cut

All too sudden,

the paper and pen

stop altogether.

The pen can still write,

the paper still take ink—

but without love

they are inanimate,

unalive,

not beating.

A drunk poet,

sober and hollow,

finds mere things

with no purpose.

Random Leaf #1958 precisely cut

Isn’t it clear enough?

She doesn’t like you.

Period.

That’s it.

You’re a ghost to her.

You are scaring her.

Tell me,

why must she and you be?

You are a stranger to her

as she is to you.

Nothing more,

nothing else.

You’re just daydreaming of

a certain “what if,”

a false reality.

Wake up!

If you love her so,

go tell her.

Don’t be a ghost.

You have a voice,

god damn it!

You aren’t mute.

Speak!

The universe cannot echo silence.

Tell her what you want to say.

Speak!

The universe will not conspire

for a silence that is ephemeral.

Do not keep it to yourself.

Speak!

Be heard!

Don’t you love her?

God damn it!

Let your heart speak!

Speak!

Tell her everything!

Or at least tell her a single beat—

one that came from your heart.

Random Leaf #1957

Teyion graveour, unknot—

Bryice her trying koptan.

Kiltyn wehalia sigma kill:

"Neon groped trappius

Blited hughes blamed god."

Hitler, jacks toms trade'd.

Crampus gave, up forty

Underclue damned unvield.

Newverdale goodbye: fleeted;

Untown?

Upcome unsome have cross—

Don't call me.

Random Leaf #1956 precisely cut

Do remember,

to those onlookers,

and the sight who misjudge our sinful

yet simple life after a day’s hard labor:

We see the strings.

They aren’t chains,

as many thought they were.

They are brittle, fragile,

so much so

they are easy to break.

Please—do not help us

help you take them

off your silly thin necks.

The spirits are with us.

They are within us,

in our liver

and in our bloodstream.

We do not drown in it;

the world drowns from us,

if so we wish.

So please,

please!

Do not be tempting,

as much so

as the fruit of sin—

misplaced in the garden of Eden.

You do not know:

we are the ones awake,

and you are the dreamers.

And the dreams are here,

inside the bottle of spirits

we so easily behold.

We aren’t drunk.

We are lucid.

More awake,

and more aware.

Random Leaf #1955 precisely cut

A flood in my dream

ignites the moon to calm,

distant waves going

elsewhere and back.

Swept away by tears shed,

anew into a man’s hollow cup.

Not filled with spirits,

but with desires long unforgotten.

May all our sorrows be unremembered,

as our cheers, tears, and laughter

succumb to tormented moments

we are never able to realize.

To the ones awake,

we are the dream.

And to those asleep,

we are the dreamers.

Without focus,

without direction,

we are lost and wandering souls,

trapped in a fleeting moment called eternity.

Nay! We aren’t drunkards,

nor men drowned by dizziness.

This is our choice.

We decided this.

May our livers be forgiving,

one day,

as our wives hold the pans and spatulas,

awaiting our stupored return.

Random Leaf #1954 precisely cut

The timbers

that fell

can never

tell apart

the echoes

of truth

brought them

by madmen

and lumberjacks.

Both carried

glistening wood

yet cannot

for life

recall where

they became

or unbecome.

Only time

will tell,

as will

the many

leaves falling—

of stories

told and

tales untold.

1953 but better

Oh! Dear life

your majesty, my liege.

Your cling to me—

thin as paper,

like a necklace fragile,

jewels strung on copper.

But my choice to you

is no stronger.

I do not hold your hands.

Instead—

a mirror stands between us.

My hands reach out,

yours reach back,

but the glass keeps us

from touching.

There is little left

for me to follow

beyond the path

fate allowed.

As crowns are meant for kings,

they are nothing to the dead.

And my soul—

long ago it drifted,

leaving only silence.

A pang still beats in me:

“I have already suffered.

Please, no more.”

The cry of a prisoner

justly tortured,

the whimper of a child

unjustly struck.

Oh! Cruelty.

Oh! Tragedy.

“What more

can you take

from me?”

Random Leaf #1953 precisely cut

Oh! Dear life,

your majesty,

my liege.

Your cling to me,

on my neck,

is but paper thin,

like a fragile necklace

adorned with jewels

and a string of copper.

Oh! But my choice to you

is just the same.

Your hands aren’t what

I held, but in front of me

is a mirror,

and my hands to yours

are outstretched to tips,

and my mind is the glass

holding us back from touching.

There is nothing much

more for me

to go on beyond

than what fate meant me.

As crowns are meant for kings,

they are vanities to dead men.

And my soul has long ago

left, as all do,

nothing else remaining.

I have this strange pang in my heart:

“I have already suffered.

Please, no more.”

With the same voice

of a prisoner rightfully tortured,

and a child unjustly disciplined.

Oh! Cruelty!

Oh! Tragedy!

“What more can you

take away from me?”

Random Leaf #1952 precisely cut

One day,

I too,

will carry

the daughter

I’ll call

my lovely.

People too,

will call

her names

I also

once was

called before.

She will

be lovely,

like her

mother whom

I love,

who among

the many

chose me.

Random Leaf #1951 precisely cut

He wasn’t himself

when she was around.

Much like butterflies,

he felt them in his gut.

All he could—

he could not.

She was his kryptonite,

his silence in the hallway,

the one thing that set him off.

Yet of all these,

he would choose her still.

Random Leaf #1950 precisely cut

The heart beats,

the soul lives—

eyes unchained from glasses,

reality keeps on dancing.

Songs without worry,

jealousy swimming

in a pool filled with apathy.

Graves for dreams.

Mourning comes too early,

so does the morning

of no new beginning.

Quietly echoing into the void—

uncherished, unloved.

No spirit feels cold

within bottles

no child could reach.

“Too early,”

one old flame spoke.

“Too late,”

said another spark, ringing.

No dreamer wakes the same

after the first waking goes unnoticed.

We are all dead,

long before our end.

Random Leaf #1949 precisely cut

I just suddenly stopped reading.

Too much shit going on,

and leisure became an obligation,

a privilege I couldn’t afford.

Is this what growing up is?

Is that why dreams just—

out of nowhere—vanished?

A simple, trivial routine

we’re supposed to cherish and hold high

became something too much,

too expensive, too overwhelming,

too burdensome.

What happened?

And this is no simple rhetoric.

This is one question that must be answered—

or rather, remembered.

We all knew the answer once.

Don’t say it’s forgotten,

don’t lie that no one remembers,

or that only a select few can recall.

We.

All.

Do.

And it’s a bitter pill to swallow—

that none of us

can admit it.

We are all tragedies.

Our past selves cry in harmony

for the sorry state we’ve become.

And the worst part is,

only a few are apologetic.

And if the thought ever crosses our minds—

or in the minds of only a few—

yes,

we know exactly who we should apologize to.

Oh, Life—

how beautifully tragic you’ve unbecome.

Random Leaf #1948 precisely cut IG

The first person to take

a standing ovation.

The last puzzle piece,

found and fitting in.

The smell of breakfast,

awaiting the waker.

The first glimpse of infatuation,

after a long day.

The discovery of a new medicine,

a planet, an equation, a formula,

a better way of living.

The bonus to the wage,

after long, arduous work.

The first word of a child—

mama to mom, papa to dad.

The child waiting at the door,

for her father’s return.

The first delicious food,

cooked after many failures.

The bow taken after a long play,

and the cheer filling the theater hall.

The first step on the motherland,

after many nights of deployment.

The first hug we get,

from the mother who waited.

These are why we exist.

Random Leaf #1947 precisely cut

There were two cliffs,

both linked by a single bridge.

Beneath it was a cave,

a path that too connected the sides.

Have one climbed the mountain to cross the bridge,

he’d take an eternity to journey across.

But if he took the one most trodden,

it would be quick—

yet there would be no journey.

For the sake of convenience,

the cave became unnecessary,

and the link grew shorter.

But something else—one thing, or two—

was quietly missed.

This was all but trivial to the man

who journeyed on either side.

For he had made two tables,

meant for drinking,

for seeing the stars,

chatting with souls,

and holding fleeting intentions.

No one stays in one place.

But those who do

are always the ones who wait.

Random Leaf #1946 precisely cut

I dreamt of lola last night.

She was beautiful as ever,

her smile made her glow.

I had been crying tht night,

but when I saw her,

I was glad.

Very much so.

I knew both

it was just a dream,

and she was already gone,

yet I wasn’t afraid,

how could I?

That moment I was happy.

Really, really happy.

Finally, I could talk to her,

someone who also has a soul.

I was sobbing

the moment I opened my mouth,

and still she smiled,

serene and calm as always.

I can’t recall her words—

the dream ended too soon.

All I remember

was me saying:

“Please, lola, take me with you.”

And now, awake,

I realize the difference.

Random Leaf #1945 precisely cut

The father came back home

after a few days of travel.

He laid down to rest.

Soon after, he put in place

all the things he took and brought.

And without even saying

a word of his return

to the son who waited,

the man once again left.

It was Sunday,

and he needed to go to church.

It was a pledge he kept,

a vow his family also honored.

But on that day,

only his son was at home;

his wife was elsewhere,

so too his daughter.

The boy had little faith—

not as much as his father—

but enough to believe.

Enough to make miracles of his own.

The boy stayed to tend their store,

while the father went to church.

The man arrived,

as his routine always led him.

He crossed his forehead, his heart, his shoulders—

symbols of the Trinity as was taught.

But what he did not expect

were the soles of his shoes

coming apart the moment

he stepped through the church door.

It had bothered him,

but his dedication was strong.

With grace and ardor,

he joined the mass.

When the celebration ended,

the father went back home

and told the story to his son.

The boy felt disappointment,

and also empathy.

Yet he showed neither,

for he was tired.

Unfortunately, the father did not understand

his son’s excitement for his return,

and the lesson hidden in the moment.

It was the world speaking:

"You’re putting too much trust

in the wrong faith."