“Yes, I’m dramatic. Blame my ancestors — they sent letters dipped in perfume just to say ‘see you tomorrow’.”
“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)
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)
"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.
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.
10
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...
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...
mitch
Suggest something poetic for this image😋😋
She’s the recipe I never asked for,
but now I crave with every breath.
but now I crave with every breath.
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...
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...
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.
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.
Reserved Seat
Close enough to breathe the silence she left behind,
too far to touch the sky she carried in her hair.
She sat like a verse I dared not read aloud,
a morning light falling through tinted glass,
while I—
I was the window fogged with breath,
never cleared enough to show the truth.
She didn’t know.
And I couldn’t tell.
So I watched
as the wind tangled her hair like a prayer
I never had the courage to whisper.
Each station passed like a missed moment—
a flicker in the reel of what-ifs.
The train moves.
So does she.
But I stay—
a story paused
between two stops
where nothing began,
and nothing ended.
Just the quiet hum
of everything I didn’t say.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ— master....
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤA train story ~
Close enough to breathe the silence she left behind,
too far to touch the sky she carried in her hair.
She sat like a verse I dared not read aloud,
a morning light falling through tinted glass,
while I—
I was the window fogged with breath,
never cleared enough to show the truth.
She didn’t know.
And I couldn’t tell.
So I watched
as the wind tangled her hair like a prayer
I never had the courage to whisper.
Each station passed like a missed moment—
a flicker in the reel of what-ifs.
The train moves.
So does she.
But I stay—
a story paused
between two stops
where nothing began,
and nothing ended.
Just the quiet hum
of everything I didn’t say.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ— master....
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤA train story ~
Once I cried in front of a cloud
and it rained somewhere else.
That’s when I knew:
God reads my texts,
but leaves them on “seen.”
and it rained somewhere else.
That’s when I knew:
God reads my texts,
but leaves them on “seen.”
Forwarded from Flashbacks ᝰ.ᐟ
If only you lived by the next window,
I’d slip a flower onto your sill each day.
Not for words, not for thanks,
just to watch it sway in your breeze.
~ master
I’d slip a flower onto your sill each day.
Not for words, not for thanks,
just to watch it sway in your breeze.
~ master
The Illiterate Poet
He carves verses on peeling walls
with fingers that never held a pen—
each line a blister, each pause a scar.
The city walks by, fluent in silence,
blind to the grammar of pain.
They say he's mad.
But madness is just poetry
spelled without permission.
He doesn’t write in ink—
he writes in dust and time,
and sometimes, blood when the bricks bite back.
So next time you pass a crumbling wall,
read it slowly.
It might be screaming something
you forgot how to feel.
— master...
He carves verses on peeling walls
with fingers that never held a pen—
each line a blister, each pause a scar.
The city walks by, fluent in silence,
blind to the grammar of pain.
They say he's mad.
But madness is just poetry
spelled without permission.
He doesn’t write in ink—
he writes in dust and time,
and sometimes, blood when the bricks bite back.
So next time you pass a crumbling wall,
read it slowly.
It might be screaming something
you forgot how to feel.
— master...