The Philosophical Poetry

The Soul's Canvas

resilience

  • When the Well Dries Up

    When the Well Dries Up

    When the well dries up,
    and the road ahead flattens out,
    I’ll look out—

    not to a distant hero,
    but to the faces I pass
    every day.

    There, the unwavering glint in her eye,
    a relentless thrum of work—
    that’s vigor.

    And him, the quiet flush
    creeping up his neck
    when complimented—
    that’s modesty.

    Then her hand, always open,
    giving time,
    an ear, a meal to spare—
    that pours over,
    an actual generosity.

    It’s not a theoretical proposition,
    these virtues.
    They’re living next to me,
    walking the same roads,
    laughing, sharing burdens together.

    A constant,
    quiet rain of compassion.
    A reminder of what is present,
    what thrives,
    in the shared air between us.

    And if they can carry it,
    piece by piece,
    then so can I.

    Filed under: 🜂 Other – reflecting on connection, relationships, and the spaces between souls.

  • I Always Catch Up

    I Always Catch Up

    I kick my can,
    But I always catch up.

    I pick up my can,
    I empty it and I kick my can,
    But I always catch up.

    I pick up my can,
    I fill it and I kick my can,
    But I always catch up.

    I kick my can into tomorrow,
    But I always catch up today.

    I kick my can, it’s dented now,
    But I always catch up, somehow.

    I kick my can in endless loops,
    But I always catch up, in swoops.

    I kick my can, my legs grow weary,
    But I always catch up, theory and query.

    I kick my can towards the stars,
    But I always catch up, near and far.

    I kick my can through seasons’ change,
    But I always catch up, time’s range.

    Filed under: 🜁 Self – tracing the inner landscapes of thought, feeling, and becoming.

  • The Stories of My Tears

    The Stories of My Tears

    Every night, as far back as I could remember,
    I shiver. I cry myself to sleep.
    It was the only way I knew how to fall asleep,
    The only feeling I knew.

    Tears are my friends. Each tear is a story,
    A real life tale with colorful characters,
    And the self I only knew through struggle, pain
    And a mind separate of the body.
    What I knew was not what I did.

    The environment was hell, and the characters lost.
    There was no writer, nor a script.
    It was always impulse, reaction to an escape
    Of a struggle within a struggle.
    There was no time to pause.
    A moment of reset could not be found.

    I do not count sheep, I peeled tears.
    I escaped so far away,
    I lost the captain seat of my body and actions.
    Born autistic, with no diagnosis.
    Literally forced yourself to speak,
    But words don’t come out right.

    Born in a family of migrants,
    Trapped in a civil war.
    Unwelcomed anywhere.
    At home, at school, outside in the neighborhood.
    The only escape is the mind.

    Every obstacle overcome was never good enough.
    Constantly chasing normal.
    And in my mind I know.
    Yes, everyone is constantly chasing normal.
    And we are all tired.

    Can I be me? Can I find me beneath the graffiti?
    Live your life. And I’ll live mine. A dream.
    Can I live my life?
    Mine will always include tears and smiles.
    But know that my voice is mute.

    I am too scared to speak my mind.
    Always beaten whenever I spoke from the heart.
    The soul is the only dialogue. Loud or mute.

    At the end of each day,
    All of the grima from the excessive stimulation,
    A volcano inside is ready to erupt.
    I take a very deep breath,
    To bring light into the volcano, and simply live.

    I escape for a fresh breath of another day.
    The only possible faith, and only choice,
    Is to believe in today, and in tomorrow.

    Living such a life, God can only be found
    In little moments. Not some place far away,
    Nor living in my house.
    I am in his house, and therefore,
    He is in my moments.

    Filed under: 🜁 Self – tracing the inner landscapes of thought, feeling, and becoming.

  • Footprints Erased

    Footprints Erased

    Memories like candles.
    They burn,
    cry hot wax tears,
    then leave a monument.
    All while shining a light,
    on what you choose
    and how you choose,
    to see.

    I can count many tales
    on my hand,
    and many wounds
    on my arms.
    I lay every night
    on a pillow
    of flame and tears.

    I drown inside my head and
    break into pieces of kintsugi
    inside my heart.

    I try to explain,
    but no one listens.
    Born mute,
    learned to speak.
    Born different,
    learned to fit in.
    Born to be me,
    and I learned to be you.
    I can explain,
    But who’s listening?

    Wrongly labeled
    and wrongly judged.
    Back of a hand on lips.
    A sword cuts through my lungs.
    Thoughts hanged.
    Innocence raped.
    Natural gifts shot.
    And all buried.
    No ceremony,
    and no farewell.
    No time to grieve,
    and no time to adapt.
    I’m ok.

    Here’s a mask,
    put it on.
    I am told.
    You are sin.
    Yes I am sin.
    Hide your soul.

    I can count many tales
    on my hand.
    I rest my head,
    on pillow of fire.
    And I drown
    in the waters of my thoughts.
    I love,
    and I hurt.

    Forgive me.
    Footprints erased.

    Filed under: 🜁 Self – tracing the inner landscapes of thought, feeling, and becoming.