30 days, 30 poems. 

Sometimes the ones we least expect

Are our saviors or destroyers. 

The self can’t even be trusted. 

Sometimes we betray ourselves the most.

30 days, 30 poems. 

Wishful thinking.

It’s what makes us, 

Believe in love at first sight. 

That all poison can be remedied. 

But, sometimes I wish, 

I could live in this state of ignorance. 

To think the world, a happy place. 

A place without war, 

Without sadness, 

And, without lonlieness. 

I wish. 

30 days, 30 poems. 

I missed a day! So two poems today! 

Raindrops on roses, 

Evergreen trees drenched in rain

Fall is among us. 
Thunderstorms cry out, 

Lightning cracking through the night

Everything stands still.

There have been those–

That faced the Devil–

And lived to tell the tale. 

Some because they are brave. 

Others because they are stupid. 

But very face the Devil, 

Only to walk away, 

Having outsmarted him. 

But it’s never these we hear about. 

It’s the ones who attack

With no strategy. 

Or those who accidentally 

Walk out with the upper hand. 

It shouldn’t be recognition, 

But rather, gratification, 

That guide our choices. 

30 days, 30 poems. 

Safety is an illusion. 

We tell ourselves,

So we can sleep at night. 

We can surround ourselves,

With all the weapons the world offers, 

Or lock ourselves somewhere remote. 

But it’s only for our own peace. 

But, what happens, 

When the danger is your own mind? 

30 days, 30 poems.

Rainy day, hideaway

Just beneath the covers. 

Exploring different worlds. 

With the flip of a page, 

Or the swipe of a finger. 

Nothing to do, 

And nowhere to go. 

The best day. 

30 days, 30 poems. 

I’m becoming numb. 

Numb to not just pain, but happiness. 

Pain is just disappointment; 

Happiness is fleeting. 

I’ve started not to care. 

Started to wonder who does. 

The truth isn’t absolute. 

But lies, aren’t comforting.

I hope someday. 

Someday…

30 days, 30 poems.

There are two me’s.

Me and I.

I and me.

One was created for me.

The other I created.

But yet, it’s still so hard to tell,

Which one is real.

 

There’s me.

The me that’s polite to strangers,

Holds doors open,

And uses my indoor voice.

But, me is exhausting.

 

Then, I.

I who loves the rain.

I who has nothing to complain about,

But complains anyway.

I who wants to see the world.

But I is a fantasy, a dream.

 

But then again, maybe there’s us.

An us who can co-exist,

And find a balance.

But then again, I remember,

me left I in the light Edinburgh rain.