The house still leans where ivy climbs
and moss has claimed the window’s eye,
its breath a fog that does not lie,
forgetting all but softer times.

The floorboards speak in gentle cracks,
of barefoot ghosts in morning light,
a quiet child, a paper kite,
and laughter echoing through cracks.

The garden bends to weeds and rain,
but roses bloom where none remain,
a stubborn kind of joy, not pain,
just proof that beauty does not feign.

And though we pass, we do not fall:
we stitch ourselves into the wall,
in chipped paint, names that time recalls,
still listening, beyond it all.

A violet bell in silence tolls,
It rings within forgotten folds,
Where time drips slow from phantom bowls,
And memory hides in marbled holes.

Through amber mist, the shadows grow,
They dance on roots of emerald flame,
A river hums of long ago,
Yet none who drink leave quite the same.

In every wind, a whisper bends,
A name unsaid, a thread undone,
The orchard dreams where meaning ends,
And moons collapse into the sun.

The bell still tolls where no one goes,
Its song for stars that none suppose,
Each echo blooms like haunted rose,
And wilts in hush the silence chose.

You sit beside me
like a flame behind glass,
close enough to warm,
too hot to touch.

There is softness in you,
but I’ve learned
it’s not mine to hold.
It lives in the quiet between gestures,
a half-turned head,
a question swallowed
before it breaks the surface.

I memorize the way you sleep,
not because I’m afraid you’ll leave,
but because I know you already do,
in moments,
in silences,
in the way your body curls away
when you dream.

You love me
the way the moon loves the sea:
constant,
but pulling.
And I pretend not to feel the tide
dragging pieces of me out
just to reach you.

Sometimes I think
if I could just hold your name
long enough
in my mouth,
you’d remember what it felt like
to be held.

But I don’t say that.
I just sit beside you,
smiling soft,
while all this beauty aches inside me
with nowhere to go.

Listen up,
You’ve been dancing in circles,
thinking you can outrun your own shadow.
But the sun always moves.
And shadows?
They follow.

You patch the cracks,
stack lies on lies like brittle bones,
but every cover you throw
just sinks you deeper.

You wear your little masks,
build fake versions of yourself,
hoping if you play enough parts,
nobody’ll see what’s rotting underneath.
But we see.
Everyone sees.
That theater doesn't scare anyone,
and it sure as hell doesn't scare justice.
Truth won't lose patience.
It doesn't blink.
It waits.

You write your pretty verses,
spit out poems like they’re some kind of shield,
like art can outrun consequence.
Your words are feathers in a hurricane.
They won’t cover the hurt,
They won’t erase the stain.

And don’t forget —
it’s never the sin that buries a man.
It’s the weight of hiding it.

It begins with a whisper,
not of air,
but of policy,
spinning.

The wall is old.
Painted over promises,
layered thick with
“later,”
“not yet,”
“it’s complicated.”

The drill hums, a mandate,
a motion passed in tired rooms,
a push into what resists
and always has.

Plaster flakes like paper ballots.
Behind it:
wires crossed,
beams bowed from holding too much weight
for too long.

This isn’t demolition.
It’s inquiry.
An attempt to find
what’s been hidden in drywall sermons
and insulation thick with slogans.

The silence after isn’t peace,
it’s waiting.
A breath before someone asks:
Who gave permission to open this up?

And someone else answers:
No one.
We just did.

A whisper pressed between two clockless thoughts,
I sent it sailing on the hush between atoms.
Did it find you? That feathered flicker
curled in the corner of a dream I wish to finish?

I stitched “hello” in the folds of a vanishing cloud,
where syllables drip like melted compass needles.
Are your shadows behaving?
Have your echoes found a place to hum?

Just blink twice if the rain still tastes familiar.
I’ll know.
I always read the tremble in the leaves.

I’m tired.
Not the kind of tired that sleep could touch,
I mean marrow-tired. Soul-sick.
Like I’ve been screaming at walls
that were never meant to hear me,
only hold me in and mock me.

I watch the country gnaw itself to bone
while paper kings in thousand-dollar ties
sell truth by the gram
and war by the barrel.

There are flags on coffins,
hashtags on grief,
and filters on faces too scared
to show the cracks beneath.

The people have turned to teams,
red hats, blue waves,
fists clenched around identity
like it’s a weapon to survive the day.
But no one’s listening.
Just shouting louder in echo chambers
built by men who learned to profit from silence.

I’m tired of scrolling through manufactured lives,
where every grin is an ad,
every tear a performance,
every post a prayer to algorithms
that demand our attention,
then sell it to the highest bidder.

Tired of the news
that isn’t news,
just fear in fancy font,
a script rehearsed
by actors paid in outrage and ratings.

And beneath it all,
the quiet wars we wage alone:
Anxiety like barbed wire under the skin,
Depression curled in the corners of every room.
We medicate, meditate,
disassociate,
and wonder why we still feel hollow.

I don’t want unity like they market it,
some glitter-wrapped lie
where everyone smiles the same.
I want the kind of truth that scorches.
The kind that peels back illusion
like rot from fruit,
reveals the maggots we fed without knowing.

I want to scream until the stars hear me.
I want to tear down the golden idols
we carved from greed and call it legacy.
I want to see the empire fall,
not in flames,
but in awakening.

Because this country,
my country,
was not born from comfort.
It was carved by the calloused hands of rebels
who dared to dream louder
than the fear that held them.

So maybe I’m not just tired.
Maybe I’m done.
And maybe that’s where the fire starts.
Not with banners,
not with bombs,
but with one soul saying,
No more.