You were given a crown of thorns disguised as light,
a name that echoed in canyons not your own.
Now the world knows your face, but not your bones—
only the mask, polished and painfully bright.
First, the hunger:
They offered you honey, then devoured your hive.
Flashbulbs like knives at the window, carving your skin
into headlines, rumors, a sin
you never committed. Alive,
yet buried in the glare—a fossil in glass.
Then, the hollowing:
Your laughter became currency. Your tears,
a public river. Strangers claimed your years
as heirlooms. Love grew cautious, thin,
whispering "What do they want from us now?"
in empty mansions where the mirrors bowed.
Next, the haunting:
Not ghosts, but ghosts of you—
the child you were, the truth you knew
before the applause. Now only echoes remain:
a voice rehearsing lines in the rain,
a shadow pacing a gilded room,
chewing its freedom like impending doom.
Last, the harvest:
The earth knows what you sacrificed:
Sleep. Trust. The quiet kiss of dawn.
Your mind—a city under siege—
burns with the words "I don’t belong."
You traded your soul for a monument of sound,
and now the silence is the loudest wound.
Apr 13
Apr 13, 2026 at 4:42 AM UTC
So thin, this filament between us—
a spider’s sigh,
a breath of light
that binds my pulse to yours.
Yet in its infinitesimal grace,
a violence sleeps:
it cuts the grooves of longing
deeper than a knife.
One strand, no thicker than a wish,
bears all the weight
of every unspoken word,
every ghost of touch.
And when it strains—
(oh, how it strains)—
it scars the soul’s soft tissue,
leaving maps of ache
where only we can trace
the borders of our breaking.
Still… I would not sever it.
For in this terrible, slender tether,
I am alive.
I am undone.
I am yours.
Apr 4
Apr 4, 2026 at 9:56 AM UTC
She left my love like a cigarette burn on velvet skin,
A slow, deliberate scar—a tattoo of betrayal.
Every promise twisted into barbed wire,
Every "forever" a lie dissolved in ***** breath that stung like acid rain.
She danced in the wreckage of my trust, a storm in satin shoes,
Laughing as she struck the match, her smile a sickle moon,
Fed my devotion to the fire, a pyre of petals,
And called it "freedom." —a dagger wrapped in silk.
Now I collect the bones of what she broke: fossils of feeling,
Handfuls of "sorrys" that turned to dust like moth-wing confetti,
Echoes of her name in empty rooms that hum with phantom warmth,
And a ribcage full of winter. Ice where a heart once beat.
Love? A fairy tale for fools who still believe in phoenixes.
I know the truth now:
Some fires only leave ruins —scorched earth where nothing grows.
Apr 3
Apr 3, 2026 at 4:35 AM UTC
I built my days with clocks and measured sand,
Each hour a brick in walls that scraped the sky—
Productive. Flawless. Tightness in my hand
From gripping plans that never learned to fly.
The canvas mocked me, white as winter’s breath;
The keyboard glared with judgment’s sterile light.
I starved the words, afraid of messy death,
And killed the blooms before they saw the night.
Then rain fell hard—a rhythm wild and wrong—
On roofs that drummed a truth I couldn’t write:
Some seeds need storms to teach them how to belong.
I dropped my tools. Watched chaos kiss the tight
Control I’d nursed like scripture. Saw the cracks
In every perfect lie I’d stacked so high—
A liberation in the things I lacked:
The grace of weeds that thrive where structures die.
Now when the fear creeps back (a cold, old ghost),
I touch the moss that grows on broken things—
The beauty in the lines that hurt the most,
The ballad that imperfect progress sings.
I leave the page half-empty. Let the brush
Stain walls with blooms that bleed outside the frame.
This freedom tastes like dust and dew and hush…
And all my art is breathing through the shame.
Apr 1
Apr 1, 2026 at 1:04 PM UTC
The vices coiled like serpents in my veins,
Their venom sweet—a nectar laced with night,
They whispered lies through pleasure’s slick remains,
And drowned my dawn in shadows without light.
I wore their chains, a crown of thorns disguised,
Each link a lie I’d polished till it shone—
The bottle’s kiss, the gamble’s fevered prize,
The screens that stole the stars I gazed upon.
Then came the day the tempest lost its roar:
A stillness fell, like rain on desert sand.
Some grace slipped through a long-barred, rusted door,
And took the shattered pieces in its hand.
It wasn’t fire. No lightning split the sky—
Just sunlight, soft, on wounds I thought would bleed,
A quiet voice that asked me, "Why still try
To plant dead seeds for every hungry need?"
The cravings hissed, but now their fangs were dull;
Their scales fell off like leaves in autumn’s chill.
I felt my lungs breathe clean, my skull grow full
Of space where peace could build its sacred hill.
My hands, once claws that scraped for more, more, more,
Now held a cup where clarity could bloom.
The war within still echoes, but the core
Is rooted deep where light dispels the gloom.
I am not fixed—just mending, stitch by stitch,
A tapestry where frailty meets the sun.
The vices? Ghosts that haunt a distant ditch.
Today, I choose the battle not begun.
Apr 1
Apr 1, 2026 at 3:16 AM UTC
You ask how long a man can starve
before his ribs spell out the answer—
each bone a variable,
each hollow a parenthesis
waiting to be filled.
The body is a ledger:
subtract the bread,
carry the weight of absence,
divide the last sip of water
by the number of children
who still say father with their eyes.
At night, the stomach writes its proofs
in acids and silence—
Let x be the days without,
let y be the lie of fullness,
solve for z: the point at which
the soul stops borrowing light.
But the hands refuse the theorem.
They dig,
they knead the dirt into a language
even hunger cannot translate—
small fists planting seeds
where numbers fail.
And when the rain comes,
it does not ask for decimals.
It counts in green,
in tendrils that climb the air
like unbroken equations,
whispering:
The sum of all suffering
is still less than one stubborn root.
Mar 30
Mar 30, 2026 at 7:29 AM UTC
Before dawn cracks its yolk over the kitchen sill,
her knuckles bloom white in the flour cloud—
a storm in a ceramic bowl.
Sugar grains dissolve like forgotten constellations
in the well of warm milk she pours,
swirling with yeast’s quiet alchemy.
This is how we measure time:
not by clocks, but the stretch of gluten,
the sigh of dough beneath a damp cloth.
Her palms press valleys into the yielding mass,
mine, small and tentative, follow
the landscape of her movements—
ridge and furrow, heel and crescent fold.
We knead silence into elastic gold,
palm to palm, a language without vowels.
Cinnamon freckles the rolled-out canvas,
brown sugar rivers darkening under our spread thumbs.
Her wrist’s map of veins, blue as twilight,
guides the knife slicing ribbons of coiled years.
In the oven’s breath, they swell—
slow serpents of steam curling from fissures,
carrying the scent of burnt sugar and patience.
Later, at the scarred oak table,
she breaks a braid apart.
Butter melts into honeycomb crevices.
My fingers, sticky with proof,
mirror the tremor in hers
as she lifts a piece to my mouth.
The taste: wheat and woodsmoke,
a century-knotted apron string
still warm around us both.
When she smiles,
flour dusts her cheek
like the ghost of every Sunday
before this one.
Mar 29
Mar 29, 2026 at 1:24 AM UTC
They arrive soft,
curved like question marks,
hands clutching wonder,
eyes wide as open windows.
But Society arrives too—
arms heavy with blueprints,
breath reeking with should and must.
"Here," they say,
their voices not unkind,
just certain.
"This is the shape you become."
They point to the rigid mold:
The angles of achievement,
the cold lines of expectation,
the polished surface of conformity.
"Fit," they murmur.
"Fit is safety. Fit is success."
Small hands tremble,
pushing clay not theirs.
Fingers; meant for mud pies and starlight
now scrape against prescribed edges.
Tears fall,
not of sadness first,
but of effort—
of trying to force a circle into a square hole.
The mold is heavy.
It carves away laughter,
flattens curiosity—
demands stillness where wings should beat.
Why?
The unspoken cry hangs in the air,
a fragile bubble.
Why must I be this shape?
You who carved it—
can you even bear its weight yourselves?
The answer is silence—or worse,
a sigh disguised as wisdom:
"It's just how it's done, child."
So the soft clay hardens,
fractured from straining.
The question mark snaps straight.
The open window shutters close.
And Society nods,
admiring the fractured replica.
Another child shaped,
another soul splintered,
another brick laid
in the wall of the
Status Quo—
Mar 27
Mar 27, 2026 at 6:48 AM UTC
They forged it not of fleeting frost,
But sun-caught gold on mountain's crest,
A circle wrought from ancient ore,
To outlast war, and time, and more.
It held the weight of gathered skies,
The light of purpose in its eyes –
A burden meant for brows held high,
Beneath a never-setting sky.
Yet whispers rose like shifting sand,
And trembling took the steady hand.
The weight, designed for strength to bear,
Became a storm beyond repair.
The jewels that mapped a kingdom's grace
Now mirrored fear on every face.
The fall was swift, a stolen breath,
A prelude etched in shades of death.
But hush the dirge, let silence call:
Crowns were not meant to fall.
The circle holds, though bent and worn,
A truth reborn, a lesson sworn.
Not in the gleam on velvet deep,
But in the promises we keep,
The spine that stands when gales assail –
That is the crown that will not fail.
The diadem lies cold and still,
Discarded on the broken hill.
Yet in the dust, a spark remains,
Where true dominion lives and reigns.
Not forged in fire, nor set in stone,
But built in acts, and will alone.
For though the circlet meets the ground,
The crown – the spirit – holds its sound.
Mar 26
Mar 26, 2026 at 2:21 AM UTC
The last letter you never sent
curls at the edges now—
a fossil of fury inked in trembling hands.
I keep it tucked inside the clock,
where time gnaws at its corners
but cannot digest the words.
Your voice still lives in the dial tone,
a hollowed-out hum that clings
to the receiver’s plastic ear.
I press redial like a bruise,
listening for the gasp
before the automated goodbye.
The bed is a raft adrift.
I map the empty space with my limbs,
counting the inches where your heat
once pooled like stolen sunlight.
Now? Only the cold arithmetic
of almost and what if.
I wear your old sweater to the grocery store.
The cashier smiles—"Nice color on you."
I want to scream:
This is not a fashion choice.
This is a burial shroud.
At midnight, the fridge light confesses
to the leftovers labeled "for later."
The mold blooms blue and patient,
a slow requiem in Tupperware.
The therapist says "closure"
like it’s a door I can simply
paint over.
But I’m still fumbling for the key
in a lock that melted
long ago.
Mar 26
Mar 26, 2026 at 2:18 AM UTC