Backyard

Give Me a Break The world is loud, a cacophony of calls, Voices chasing silence, ignoring nature’s thralls. A thousand demands, all begging for my soul, But I’m tired, exhausted, no longer whole. Take the screens, take the noise, Take the endless race, the hollow choice. I don’t want your perfect pictures and fights, I long for the quiet of distant nights. I want to breathe, just breathe, you see, Feel the soft whispers of the autumn tree. Not tweets, not posts, not virtual grace, But the cool wind brushing my face. I want to walk on a path unknown, Among the leaves, where I feel at home. The library’s quiet, the pages turn, Where lessons are learned without the burn. I long for life untouched by the rush, Where moments linger, without a hush. Where passion isn’t a fleeting trend, But a love for life that will never end. So, give me a break from the digital haze, Let me walk through nature’s maze. For the world outside is where I belong, In its silence, in its song. Take me to the earth, where I can be, Just a soul breathing wild and free. And when I return, I’ll have more to say, Not from the screen, but from the heart, today.

A pause to remember that everything— from the soft breezes to the glowing moon—is beautiful. Let me breathe, let me listen, and let me remember the simple joy of just being. Life doesn’t need to be chased, it needs to be lived...

The sky never asks who’s watching—it just burns or weeps.

Okish?

The moon saw me lie and said, ‘same.’

Take me to the station, I need to file a report, This is a story of daylight robbery—no court. Take me there, I must speak my truth, Of how I lost everything, in the silence of youth. I was walking along a simple lane, Humming a tune, carefree and sane. When a sudden gust twisted the trees, And in her eyes, I lost my peace. There was something wild in that stare, No promise, no lie—just vacant air. My heart forgot its steady beat, Was she a woman or a storm in heat? No words were spoken, not even a smile, Yet I stood there frozen, lost for a while. She didn’t touch, she didn’t speak, But took everything that made me meek. So take me to the station, let them hear, A crime of the eyes, too subtle, too clear. She robbed me in silence, with nothing but grace, Left me standing alone—heart out of place. — master...

"I Want to Marry Death" — a vow unspoken I want to marry Death— not as surrender, but as solace. Not for escape, but for the quiet she carries in her bone-white palms. Let her veil be stitched from the fog of forgotten names, her kiss, a hush where even sorrow sleeps. Not because I hate life, but because I once loved it too much. Because living felt like a thousand funerals and I never knew who died first— me, or the day. Let her walk me down the aisle between memories and oblivion. Let no one cry— the dead don’t mind cold hands or slow dances in silence. I want to marry Death so I no longer have to explain why I always felt like a ghost in my own body. — master...

"To The One Who Walk Backwards with Grace" by Master They told me, “Chase the future, forget the past.” But the past sends better postcards, and I still owe it a drink. I’ve met clocks that ticked like bombs, and some that whispered, “Take your time—just not too much.” I write in silence, because words are too loud when they’re honest. Even lies need to be well-dressed to be heard. The world applauds noise, but I’ve seen revolutions birthed in the quiet sigh of someone finally saying, “I’m done pretending.” Not all scars are worn on skin— some people wear them in the way they laugh a little too late at jokes they used to write. So if you walk slow, if your dreams arrive fashionably late, if your heart is still proofreading its purpose— You're not behind. You're just not rushing the masterpiece.

"To The One Who Walk Backwards with Grace" by Master They told me, “Chase the future, forget the past.” But the past sends better postcards, and I still owe it a drink. I’ve met clocks that ticked like bombs, and some that whispered, “Take your time—just not too much.” I write in silence, because words are too loud when they’re honest. Even lies need to be well-dressed to be heard. The world applauds noise, but I’ve seen revolutions birthed in the quiet sigh of someone finally saying, “I’m done pretending.” Not all scars are worn on skin— some people wear them in the way they laugh a little too late at jokes they used to write. So if you walk slow, if your dreams arrive fashionably late, if your heart is still proofreading its purpose— You're not behind. You're just not rushing the masterpiece.

“The Philosopher Wore Flip-Flops” I sat beneath a figless tree, debating gravity with a cup of tea. The tea won. A cloud passed by and whispered, “Run.” But I walk exclusively for no reason. It's called dramatic pacing. I asked a rock what truth looked like. It said, “Flat, heavy, and mostly ignored.” Fair. A goat sneezed and changed my worldview. I bowed. Respect the universe in all its horns. I tried to journal my dreams— but the dreams bit back. Now the notebook’s writing me. A wise man once said, "Know thyself." So I checked my reflection. It blinked first. I’ve seen gods in vending machines and prophets in pigeons. Enlightenment, turns out, is just badly scheduled. So if you see me in the desert wearing flip-flops and arguing with the sun— join me. We’ll start a cult. Or a band. Or maybe... a revolution of nonsense. — master... (After reading one peice)

“Yes, I’m dramatic. Blame my ancestors — they sent letters dipped in perfume just to say ‘see you tomorrow’.”

“The Weight of Being” by you, maybe. I held the door for a stranger and cried on the walk home. Not because they didn’t say thanks, but because I needed someone to see me still trying. I laugh at wrong times. Pause at green lights. Apologize when I’m alone. Even silence feels loud when it has nowhere to go. Some days I am a ghost haunting my own body— smiling in mirrors just to feel like I’m still here. But I wake up. I brush my teeth like it matters. And that, somehow, is enough. — master

My mirror grows teeth at midnight during the day, it smiles back. copies the lie. claps for my jawline, my steady stare, my almost-human expression. but at midnight— it yawns. shows molars, jagged honesty, a bite pattern shaped like “you’re not fooling anyone.” it whispers in reflections i never asked for. says i look like guilt wearing cologne. asks who i’m performing for and if they’re even watching. i don’t look in it anymore. not past 11:59.

I Was a Window Once I was a window once— clear, still, open. Light knew me by name. Even the moon leaned in to whisper through me. People looked through— some with wonder, some with want, some just passing by never knowing I remembered every gaze. But one by one, they grew afraid of how much I showed— of what I let in, and what I let out. So they brought bricks. And silence. Not all at once— first a curtain, then a board, then words like “you’re too much,” “you’re too open,” “you’re too fragile.” Stone by stone, I was buried alive. Not broken— just… concealed. Not shattered— just sealed. Now I hear light but I don't feel it. I remember warmth like a half-forgotten song. People walk past, and call me wall. But I remember. I was a window once. And I still ache for the sky. ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ— master

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