This world’s a fucking chaos.
And no matter how hard I claw my way up,
I’m not above it—
I’m woven into its mess,
bleeding the same contradictions.
I’m a thousand jagged pieces
stitched into one skin:
An overthinker, slicing every moment
until it spills raw truth,
yet a reckless dreamer,
diving headfirst into fleeting vibes.
My soul drinks from a thousand cups:
ghazals that weep in silence,
Eminem’s middle-finger rage,
R&B’s velvet ache,
Bollywood’s dramatic pulse,
Victorian gloom,
Indian classical waves—
my heart’s a borderless map, greedy for it all.
I spill poetry—
full of poignance, existential thorns,
and coffee-stained truths—
then lose myself
laughing at absurd memes
or dancing like nobody’s watching,
whiskey in hand.
I want to set the world on fire,
shake its bones awake—
yet some nights,
I just want to fade into the void,
quiet as a shadow.
I crave a love bigger than romance—
a soul-to-soul collision—
but when it’s gone,
I’m ash, crumbling in the wind.
I’ll burn down any cage that dares to hold me,
yet I ache for someone to see me—
really see me,
past the masks,
into the chaos I carry.
I want to carve my name into the stars.
I want to dissolve into nothingness.
Every piece—loud, messy, real—
is me.
Unapologetic. Uncontained.
All of it true.