I twist time in my fingers,
Something inside me answered a call—
A current I couldn't name.
Everything felt perfect…
except me.
The world faded into its own slow storm,
Held by the ghost of time already passed.
Nothing in it ever lasts.
With every move, a new color spills.
Music hums from the raindrops,
Songs fall soft from the clouds—
And all of them whisper:
Dance… like you never will again.
“I dance like I’ll never dance again…”
That line isn’t about celebration —
It’s about desperation.
A moment where I feel something calling me,
not to a stage or spotlight,
but back to myself.
I write this poem from a place where I feel completely out of sync.
The world moves forward — but I don’t.
Time moves around me — but I can't feel its rhythm.
So I start to dance — not with joy,
but with a need to break through something.
“I twist time in my fingers,
Tangle the world in my steps,
And scatter my dreams on the floor…”
When I dance in this poem,
I’m not really dancing to music.
I’m dancing against life.
I try to control time, distort it,
because it feels like it controls everything else.
I tangle with the world like it’s a fabric I want to tear.
And as I move, I let my dreams fall —
not carefully, but like broken glass I no longer have strength to hold.
“Something inside me answered a call—
A current I couldn't name.
Everything felt perfect… except me.”
There are moments when everything around me looks okay.
The sky is calm. The noise is distant.
But inside?
It’s like something is knocking —
not asking me to come alive,
but reminding me that I’m not.
I’m not present.
I’m not okay.
And that ache for wholeness…
That’s the current I can’t name.
“The world faded into its own slow storm,
Held by the ghost of time already passed.
Nothing in it ever lasts.”
This is how depression sometimes feels to me —
like the world is happening, but behind glass.
Everything is slow, like in a dream,
but I’m awake — and I can’t touch anything.
Time becomes this haunting ghost:
You had it. You lost it. It’s gone.
And you keep walking in a world
that’s already let go of you.
“With every move, a new color spills.
Music hums from the raindrops,
Songs fall soft from the clouds—
And all of them whisper:
Dance… like you never will again.”
This is the moment where emotion spills out.
Where I stop caring about rhythm, or control, or who’s watching.
I just let go.
And in that letting go,
even nature joins me.
The raindrops become my orchestra.
The sky sings, not loudly — but enough.
It’s like the universe tells me,
“Just be here. Just feel it. This moment might never come back.”
And so, I dance.
Like I never will again.
Not because it’s beautiful —
but because it’s true.
Where Do Lost Things Go?
Maybe they slip away at night,
carried in the quiet pockets of the wind,
to a place where broken watches still tick,
and unread letters finally find their eyes.
Maybe they sink
to the bottom of our hearts,
changing faces until we no longer recognise them—
a laugh, a street, a name
we swear we’ve heard before.
Or maybe…
lost things never leave.
They just wait,
patiently,
for us to stop running long enough
to see they’ve been here
all along.
The Time Flies Like
a paper plane in the wind—
you fold it with care,
but once it’s in the air,
it has its own direction.
The time flies like
a shadow racing the sun,
stretching, shrinking,
slipping through your fingers
even as you try to hold it.
The time flies like
a song you loved once—
you hum a few lines,
forget the rest,
but it lingers in your chest.
And maybe,
that’s the beauty of it.
Time doesn’t wait,
doesn’t explain—
it only asks you to live
before it flies again.
21 Aug 2025
Do I, Really?
All around me, people.
Laughter, voices, stories spilling everywhere.
I nod, I smile, I listen.
And yet… something inside whispers—
Do I need all this? Do I need them?
Maybe I do.
Maybe I need the noise to silence my own.
The hands, the faces,
like anchors keeping me from drifting too far.
But sometimes, I wonder—
if I walked away,
would I feel lighter… or emptier?
Would their absence echo,
or would it free me to hear my own voice clearer?
All I need, I say, is people.
But do I?
Or is it just that I’ve never truly tried
to stand without them?
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