_(mythic anger, ritualistic, theatrical)_
If there were gods,
they would not forgive us.
They would rise from the oceans
with salt‑scoured eyes,
demanding the names
of every species we erased.
They would walk the deserts
we manufactured,
counting the trees
we turned into ghosts.
They would ask us
why we worshipped convenience
over creation,
why we crowned ourselves
the chosen species
and then behaved
like arsonists.
And when we begged for mercy,
they would gesture
to the melting poles,
the drowning coasts,
the sky we bruised,
and say,
__You wrote your own prophecy.
We are only here
to read it aloud.__
Jan 16
Jan 16, 2026 at 8:28 AM UTC
Nostalgia visits again
I press play
inconceivable love and a sparkling mind
My heart rips open
Your new girl looks a bit like me
I saw your mum commented on her picture
Is that all life is now? Staring at digital faces and letters not generated by hand
How is it after all these years you still sit inside of me
Enough time has passed for me to actually be happy for you
And I began to speak of you sometimes
Of that last conversation we had
I knew if I didn't keep trying
You'd never speak to me again
But I acted like you never existed. Never told anyone of that time
Being locked up, quarantined, and two deaths.
I think I acted pretty sane
But there's something about those three months
They just linger there
Expansive
Like I was on the verge of achieving all my dreams
And you were there
An endless possibility
That I attached myself to
Before my entire life fell apart
Holding a mother from hitting the floor when saying goodbye
Making promises I knew I couldn't keep
Leaving them behind to run towards the clouds
But nothing kept me safe
And the darkness had me
It curled up my spine in the dead of night
Whispered things like
Everyone you know will die now
I held onto you like a safety vest
But it wasn't water that was drowning me
Jan 16
Jan 16, 2026 at 4:46 AM UTC
We played catch with oranges in Soho
Your friend said it sounded like something Will Varley would put in a song
How about the one that says fate makes mistakes
every now and then?
Something about being there
Smoking out of windows onto windmills
self-obsessed or just in love with you
We watched
As strangers danced on country roads
masks and PPE
Tears streaming in an airport
I didn't know how fast things would change
Later someone told me, art doesn't need witnesses
The capitalist in my head disagreed
He whipped me into submission
scanning for all the ways he could auction me off,
piece by piece
He auctioned the best parts first.
Dropped the price when no one bid.
Took less, as long as he was paid.
He lives in me now.
Turning memory into product.
Turning love into proof.
but oranges in Soho does sound like something Will Varley would put in a song, it's true
Jan 16
Jan 16, 2026 at 4:22 AM UTC
My soul is homesick for the sky
It belongs up there
Feeling free
So I made it a sky in here
And spread my wings
And I’m sorry
But I was born to fly
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 3:57 PM UTC
I want my love for myself
To overflow
And I want my overflow of love
To seep over onto you
But for now
My cup is empty
And maybe you can sense
That I have nothing to offer you
Jun 21, 2018
Jun 21, 2018 at 2:31 AM UTC