My Verse

Every day I fall into a trance.

I stand still,

staring at nothing,

as if the nothing stares back at me.

I wonder whether it is truly worth continuing to exist,

whether this invisible weight has meaning,

whether existence itself is a gift

or merely a habit we have learnt to accept.

I reflect in silence

on this selfish world,

where society dances

to the tune of those who pull the strings.

Day after day,

like actors in a play

no one admits is being performed.

Everything feels so wrong.

To be optimistic is to climb the sky

with bare hands.

The colours have drained away —

everything left in black and white,

as though life has lost its filter,

as though its flavour has evaporated

into the heavy air of disappointment.

And yet,

there is a detail almost invisible:

if you can still see the black and the white,

there is still contrast.

And where there is contrast,

there remains the possibility of colour.

Even if, for now,

Over time,

we begin to see

how people truly see us.

It is not always kind.

Often, it is something

too cruel to be spoken aloud.

Time is feared

because it does not lie.

It uncovers disguised intentions,

quiet glances that wound,

and the coldness of those

who live beside us

as if untouched.

Time reveals

that the place where we grew

shaped us in silence.

Yet sometimes that place

was only a disguise,

a refuge the mind created

to soften the weight of trauma

and survive what could not be faced.

There are those

who live as the secondary presence,

never taken seriously,

always set aside—

even in the smallest things,

which still manage to hurt.

I find myself there.

And it feels unfair.

It feels deeply sad.

Because despite everything,

I try.

I give my best

to be liked,

to be wanted,

to matter.

And perhaps the quietest pain of all

is this:

to give so much,

to feel so deeply,

and still remain

nothing more than silence

I feel the pain.

The pain of longing

for something that never rested in my hands.

Something unique.

A love that drives me mad,

even while it exists only at a distance.

Knowing there is a chance

that I might see you someday

keeps me standing,

lights something inside me,

even if faint, even if brief.

Still, the distance weighs heavily

and leaves me feeling

half-broken,

half-sad,

half-empty.

Yet being treated with love from afar

is infinitely better

than being treated like rubbish

by someone who lives close by.

The city where I live is rotten —

so rotten that it pushes me away

from its streets

and forces me to seek people who are far away.

People who also carry

the absence of a meaningful love,

people who want to love

and, desperately, to be loved.

I believe love is becoming rare.

Scarce.

Fragile, like glass forgotten on the ground.

To see something so beautiful,

so essential,

being treated as disposable

is despicable,

disgusting,

far too sad to fit inside a chest.

And still,

even wounded,

I continue to believe

that this distant love

is worth more

It’s sad to see boys

afraid to play,

not because of the toy,

but because of its colour.

Pink became a warning,

a threat,

when it should have been

just another piece of childhood.

When I was a child,

I played with everything.

Toy cars, dolls,

dreams without labels.

I was far too innocent

to understand these invented rules.

I didn’t know a toy

could have a gender,

or that joy

needed permission.

Today, parents teach fear

before they teach affection.

They place limits where imagination should live,

build walls

instead of gardens.

And childhood grows smaller,

tight,

sad,

while colours lose their brightness

and children learn far too early

My worst experience was when a guy kissed my cousin in front of me, and we were at the movies 😬

"A fantastic and wonderful world with fascinating stars"

The Christmas glow slowly passes through me,

filling my chest with a gentle nostalgia,

as if time itself slowed its pace

just to let me feel.

Christmas is that rare moment

when people draw closer,

when silence grows kinder

and embraces seem to last longer.

And the tree… ah, the Christmas tree —

so dazzling, so alive with light,

a small shining universe

that never fails to enchant me.

There is something magical in all of this,

a sweet and luminous extravagance

that makes me feel outside of reality,

as if I were living inside a dream

made of memories, hope, and glow.

At Christmas, the world changes its tone,

and for a few days,

In the darkened night, I drink my coffee,

bitter as the shadow that doth enfold me.

Without, the rain descendeth with ancient wrath,

and the heavy scent doth trouble mine own mind.

I find myself alone within a sorrowed house,

where naught doth prosper, nor aught goeth aright.

In sooth, I know it well: the fault is mine,

as bitter as the draught I ceaselessly imbibe.

And though, from night to night,

I seek refuge in empty cups,

yet shall the thought return

of love never possessed,

a faithful specter that forsaketh me not.

The stars do call unto me from afar,

they promise light, and solace, and ascent;

yet still the darkness lingereth within me,

I miss a love

that lives far away from me,

a love I’ve never seen,

yet somehow already lives inside my chest.

This distance suffocates me,

fills me with anxiety,

as if every day without you

steals another breath from my lungs.

I just want you close,

close enough for the world to finally make sense,

where your presence exists

without screens, without miles, without waiting.

You are my love,

my everything,

the absence that hurts

and the hope that refuses to leave.

I love you,

more than anything,

even from afar,

even without touch,

Marshall and Gary