Too many graves
the corpses, gone.
I counted wrong.
Too many knives,
the wounds, done.
I healed wrong.
Carving a waterfall
in that trap door
you call a soul.
Craving to become
a river to pour in you
this madness
you call my soul.
Too many shadows
the faces, gone.
I thought wrong.
Too much on my mouth
the promises, done.
I spoke wrong.
Carving a crack
in that wrecked beauty
you call a heart.
Craving to sneak
and pour in you
this virus
I call love.
Too much good
heaven, gone.
Too much joy
disguises, done.
I promised, never again.
The fingers, crossed.
Carving doodles
in the ruins
of who you were.
Craving eternity
as I pour this madness
into the ocean
you call us.
[Another recurrence of the Devotion Rot habit—spilled as art.
Writings about a consuming love we would love to hate.]
Oct 22, 2025
Oct 22, 2025 at 2:04 AM UTC
Fishing at the edge of this abyss
murky waters swallow my feet
always wondering,
wondering always
what lurks underneath?
Setting a beautiful net
shiny fabric swallowed by haze
always fooled
fooled always
what will I trap?
Fishing at the verge of this abyss
mucky waters stain my skin
always hoping
hoping always
it will be worth it.
Fisher, you should have known
only foul critters crave beauty.
Fisher, you should have known
only atrocious jaws devour love.
Setting a beautiful net
worn out golden fabric
always loving
loving always
the teeth sinking in my hands.
Setting a tender net
sewn back with hair
always knowing
knowing always
who would adore you
if it is not me?
[Another recurrence of the Devotion Rot habit—spilled as art.
Writings about a consuming love we would love to hate.]
Jul 16, 2025
Jul 16, 2025 at 6:45 PM UTC
Come back
to the moment.
Which one?
Yesterday,
the day before—
the sun was always brighter,
remember?
Come back
to the moment.
When?
Years ago,
I don’t even know.
The grass is greener
in memory than in the soil.
Come back
to the moment
when my mind saw a world
pristine and unraveled,
ready to be walked.
Please, come back,
little boy I once was.
Come back to the summer scent
on your skin,
and the raspberry taste
on your lips.
Yes—then.
Come back,
but don’t stay.
[Another recurrence of The Unwritten—spilled as art.
Raw expressions from an overwhelmed mind, and a trickster heart.]
Jul 8, 2025
Jul 8, 2025 at 11:47 AM UTC
Only the *******
of the vilest of muses.
Made of clay,
sculpted by pain and grief.
Hope paints faint strokes
of colour here and there.
Made of mud,
moulded by fear and memories.
Love draws childish details
no one else could see.
Only the *******
of a crooked muse.
Made of dry sand,
we are destined to be destroyed
by our own very essence.
Only the *******
of a sadistic muse.
Like the breeze that begins
in a butterfly’s wings,
turns into zephyrs.
The absent words of yesterday
turn into clay.
Only the *******
of a cruel muse,
and the foolishest of poets.
With souls craving water,
love drowns us in an oasis—
yet pain forgot to sculpt a throat.
With hearts craving answers,
hope drowns us in a crowd—
yet fear forgot to mould ears.
Only the *******
of the evilest muse,
and a poet too much in love.
[Another recurrence of The Unwritten—spilled as art.
Raw expressions from an overwhelmed mind, and a trickster heart.]
Jul 8, 2025
Jul 8, 2025 at 11:20 AM UTC
Midnight makes no sound when it arrives.
Silently deadly you sneak into my bones,
sweetly deadly you nest inside.
With no time to escape
and too scared to play dead.
Night craves for no light
and my only shelter is my own flesh
but oh wait,
you are already inside.
Silently deadly like a virus,
sweetly deadly like love.
Every day at dusk, I hide.
But oh wolf,
you have to find me only once.
Loudly blatantly you munch my bones,
delightfully blatantly you nest inside.
[Another recurrence of the Devotion Rot habit—spilled as art.]
Jul 7, 2025
Jul 7, 2025 at 10:44 AM UTC
I rest your head on my lap
and I promise everything is alright.
I caress your hair—
and it's myself who I deceive when I say
I will heal all that aches.
Playing peek-a-boo with your demons
I grant each and every desire.
Gasping lullabies to your ear,
do you rest when they sleep?
Playing hide and seek with your demons
they feed me all your whims.
Gasping bedtime stories to your ear
until you fall asleep
and they come with me.
[Another recurrence of the Devotion Rot habit—spilled as art.]
Jul 1, 2025
Jul 1, 2025 at 2:13 PM UTC