What can I do to help my poems reach as many people as possible?
It’s such a beautiful feeling to hear others' opinions and see things through their perspective—it helps us understand each other better, to feel seen and appreciated.
Sharing your art is a powerful and beautiful thing, and I want to do it with many souls possible.

I courted shadows in your eyes,
embraced the jagged edge of night.
You pulled my strings like broken dolls,
and I danced through every bite.

A gilded cage of whispered sins,
your poison tasted like devotion.
I wore your scars like sacred marks,
lost deep in your cruel motion.

My heartbeat drummed a twisted hymn,
chanting pleas I could not hear.
You built cathedrals in my chest,
each brick laid with trembling fear.

Blood-red roses crowned your throne,
petals soaked in burning ache.
I worshipped pain as our delight,
gave every piece I could forsake.

Now every scream becomes my song,
each tear a testament of need.
I’m shackled to our dark embrace,
thriving on the wounds you feed.

I’m prisoner and priest in one—
my temple forged from broken bone.
And here within your sinister court,
I’ve finally found my home.

I drink the poison from your lips,
still call it wine, still take the sip.
You bruise my heart with every kiss,
yet I ache for what I shouldn’t miss.

Your name’s a fire I can't unwrite,
it burns my chest every night.
I tell myself I’ll walk away,
but love like this was meant to stay.

You turn my tears into lullabies,
soft lies dressed in alibis.
Your touch, a cage I begged to hold,
your warmth, a lie I bought and sold.

How can wrong feel so divine?
Why does pain wear your design?
You’re the wound I never clean,
the sweetest ache I’ve ever seen.

Loving you feels like suicide
slow, beautiful, and dignified.
But darling, if it’s you I lose,
I’d die a thousand times. I’d choose.

I fell for a ghost with blood on his hands,
kissed the blade, and called it romance.
She carved love into my spine,
and I wore the scars like a shrine.

Built a home inside my ruin,
called the silence something human.
She fed me lies like lullabies,
now I dream in shattered cries.

I begged for fire, she gave me frost,
and still I stayed—no matter the cost.
She broke me down to broken art,
signed her name across my heart.

Now pain’s the god I pray to nightly,
my soul bleeds soft and brightly.
I dance where angels dare not tread,
with demons whispering in my head.

I'm a poem of rage and rust,
a masterpiece decayed by trust.
Still, I’d walk back into the flame
just to hear her say my name.

I was running. Fast. Heart racing, feet slamming against the ground. But even then, a part of me knew, he would catch me.
And he did.

A strong hand gripped my waist with terrifying precision. Muscular. Firm. Unmistakably familiar.
A predator's hand… and I was the prey.
Tears stung my eyes.

Before I could scream or fight, I was yanked back—hard.
My body spun and slammed into his.
Too close.
Close enough to feel the heat of him, the tension in every coiled muscle.
Our bodies weren’t fully pressed, but the electricity in the air made it feel like they were.
I’d been in this exact position more times than I could count. Too many.
Too many times I let myself think I could escape.

“You don’t get to run from me, señorita,” he whispered, voice dark and low—dangerous enough to melt steel.
His breath brushed against my skin, warm and laced with that familiar minty scent.

I stared up at him through blurry, tear-streaked eyes.
My gaze was fire and hopelessness all at once.
But he didn’t care.

He shoved me closer, our bodies colliding.
The force knocked the air from my lungs.
His muscles pressed into every line of me—taut, unrelenting.
But it wasn’t his body I feared.
It was the way he looked at mine.
Like he owned every piece of it.

He brought his mouth to my ear, his voice a blade wrapped in silk.
“Try that again,” he said, “and you’ll find yourself chained in every way imaginable.
Consider this my final warning, love.”

A shiver slid down my spine.
But the words slipped from my lips before I could stop them.
“Pathetic. You call this love?”

He bit down on my earlobe—hard. I flinched.
Then he looked at me.
Really looked.
His gaze, dark and deranged, locked with mine.

“You call it pathetic?” he growled.
“I should show you what pathetic really looks like—so you’ll forget this even was pathetic.”
He leaned in, almost smiling.
“This is how I love. And you... you're already caged. The sooner you accept that, the less it'll hurt.”

And then he kissed me.
Harsh.
Possessive.
No softness, no question.
His hands found my throat, fingers tightening—just enough to make my pulse spike in fear.

I didn’t resist.
Not because I wanted it.
But because I knew resistance only fueled him more.

When he finally pulled back, my lips were bruised, swollen, trembling.
He stared at them like they were his masterpiece.

“You get it now?” he whispered.
“You’re mine. And if you ever dare to run again… I’ll let the world burn just to find you.”

Without another word, he threw me over his shoulder.
Like a prize.
Or a possession.
And carried me straight back to the place I never truly left—
my prison.

How tragic is it?

We all yearn for the same thing

Love.

Yet we fail to offer it.

Not to others. Not even to ourselves.

We’re all hurting for the same reason.

Our desires are identical.

But we choose to endure the pain

and let those around us suffer as well.

We hold back love,

then lament that we never receive it.

How tragic.

Everyone defines love differently.

But at its essence

we all crave the same thing.

Yet we’re molded to believe in varying forms of it.

And now,

we neither know how to give it

nor how to accept it.

How tragic.

We fail to find love

in our own homes,

in our own circles.

So we search for it

in strangers,

in fleeting encounters,

in harmful places.

How tragic.

We live in a breathtaking world,

yet we seek beauty

in someone’s thoughts,

in a verse of poetry,

in the pages of a book.

We discover love

only in ink and paper,

and the more we uncover it there,

the more it pains us.

Every day.

With every passing moment.

How tragic.

We lack the one thing

we need most

the very thing

that defines

our humanity.

How pathetic is it?
We all long for the same thing
Love.
Yet we don’t give it.
Not to each other. Not even to ourselves.

We’re all suffering for the same reason.
Our needs are the same.
But we choose to suffer
and let those around us suffer too.

We withhold love,
then complain that we never receive it.
How pathetic.

Everyone has their own definition of love.
But at the core—
we all want the same thing.
Still, we’re shaped to believe in different forms of it.
So now,
we neither receive it
nor know how to give it.
How pathetic.

We don’t find love
in our own homes,
in our own circles.
So we search for it
in strangers,
in fleeting moments,
in unhealthy places.

How pathetic.

We live in a beautiful world,
yet we search for beauty
in someone’s mind,
in a line of poetry,
in the pages of a book.

We only find love
in ink and paper
and the more we find it there,
the more we ache.
Every day.
Each passing day.

How pathetic.

We don’t have the one thing
we need the most
the very thing
that makes us
human.