i am, in no way
shape or form, a 
poet. 
i am in no way a
poet
who writes words
so splendid that the
stanzas read like daylight
reverie. and in no way do i have
complete prowess over the
immaculate vocabulary a so-called
poet
might harness. nor
do i bother (without even the
slightest guilt) to retain some
form to my feelings etched
on paper.

because i am, in no way
shape or form a
poet
but i am, in every way,
a human who writes
for the layman to read
and for the layman to feel.

✗✘✗

this book is poetry, but not really poetry. it's not the breath-taking, ground-breaking poetry written by so many talented poets here, because i don't really have top-tier skills.

i.e. just simple, simple musings, not caked in much literary merit. just a way to lighten my heavy chest.

so sometimes, it's just a leftover thought from childhood, or maybe a stray musing madness that got caught in my daydreams that day. sometimes it's just stories that wouldn't be told as stories but in broken, staccato verses - like the time i read an article about singularities and having seven minutes of brain activity left after we die and wondered what would happen if it all had a story to it.

all in all, this is me. my existence in a form — without a form.

because if my thoughts make up part of my existence and i pen my thoughts down, it remains as proof of my life.

and that is why, i believe, writing makes one immortal.

✗✘✗

updates once a week if life treats me well;
sporadic if life treats me better.