I am told that the devil is a name
spoken only by the wicked and fearful,
a shadow cast on by the soul's yearning,
an accusation that stains the lips.
But yet they speaks of righteousness,
when their body trembles with desire?

"Who then amongst you dares to call lust a sin or immoral, when it beats like fire deep within your soul, the pulse of your life itself, breathing flames into the hollows of your hungry heart?"

It pulls the heart, it stirs the mind,
A craving wild, a tie that binds the blind.
but in its wake, the soul may weep,
For lust’s sweet dance, it cannot keep.

It wears the guise of want and need,
Just emptiness , yes the devil's deed,
It asks for more, and gives no peace,
And leaves the heart without release.

I walk through streets of gold and ash,
where the righteous bow their heads while sins they stash,
speaking of salvation like it’s a currency
but where are the truths of the flesh that you hide?

The humming of the earth, the warmth of touch,
the weight of hunger unspoken?
Am I evil because I feel it,
because I crave the warmth of a shadow,
that the righteous shun while desperately holding onto their immoralities in the night?
Pointing and judging because I found use in a name,

The words of old still whisper silently through the consciousness of man,
the devil sits in judgment,
but the chains that bind are thin,
woven of fear,
crafted from silence.
Is not the soul its own judge,
the heart its own trial?

So who is to say
what is right or wrong,
when we live and breathe in the dance of contradictions,
a life woven through our inflictions?

The righteous will speak
of what the devil wills and those that speak his name are his children,
but they will not speak
of how the cardinal sins call them
to feed there own mortal and immoral desires.
They will not speak
of the way love burns
when it’s wrapped in lust,
The will not mention how they bathe in gluttony, greed, sloth, envy, wrath, and pride.

Maybe the devil is not a name,
but a moment
an hour in the heart of the living,
where the body forgets its guilt
and the soul dares to claim
the space between dark and light,
where pleasure and pain
blur into one,
and I stand,
without judgment,
in the quiet ,after
for how can you judge me,
while your sins are ten fold.

I am the wind, that shifts endlessly, never still,
I walk the earth where mountains rise, then fall.
All things are born, yet in time they will die,
Return to dust, one truth, the greatest call.

Can you see the silent lotus, blooming through the mire,
Its petals soft, but rooted in the deep.
So too, you find wisdom through the fire,
In the darkest places, let your spirit leap.

The river’s current carries both pain and grace,
Suffering, like rain, falls where it may,
Yet through the storm, the heart must find its place,
For with each storm, the clouds give way to day.

In each breath, a universe unfolds,
Impermanence, the seed of all we are.
Let go of grasping, for life’s tale is told,
Not in what we keep, but in what we are.

Love is the sun, both tender and fierce,
A flame that melts the cold of selfishness in life.
In truth know this, that real love can pierce
And through the pain, your heart will be blessed.

Walk every path with mindfulness, let it guide your way,
Joy and sorrow, both will pass you by.
In every step, the truth will open wide
In letting go, you touch the heavens,

For I am the silence beneath your breath,
The stillness that holds all things in place,
When you release your fear of life and death,
You will see: you are then enlightened, and this is grace.

Who needs a cat with its smug, aloof stare,
when you can have a dragon
curled around your armchair?
No hairballs to gag on, no litter box smell
just scales that gleam like molten gold,
a roar that tolls like a dinner bell.

Picture this:
I’m walking my dragon down Main Street,
its tail swiping lampposts, its wings unfurled.
You’d cross the road, wouldn’t you?
No "Here, kitty, kitty" nonsense here
more like "Hey, don’t step on my dragon's tail,
unless you fancy a toasted rear."

Cats claw at your furniture,
but a dragon?
One good huff, and your boss is barbecue
promotion secured, no HR to sue.
And homework?
Gone in a puff of fiery breath,
like a snack too dry to chew.

Dragons don’t purr;
they rumble like thunderclouds,
a warning to the mailman
who thinks he’s brave.
Leave the package at the gate, sir
we’ll fetch it after he’s had his lunch break.

Forget scratching posts;
my dragon’s hobbies are practical:
lighting the grill for marshmallow feasts,
turning burglars to toast
(though they never get past the TV,
artfully left in his food bowl
how kind of them to step so close).hehe

Cats bring you mice as gifts,
but my dragon’s presents?
A flaming pile of junk mail,
your nosy neighbor’s fence,
and an accidental singe of the hedges.
The yard looks better scorched, anyway.

So go on, take your catnip, your bells,
and your feline "charm."
I’ll take a dragon with its fiery alarm.
Because when the world sees me astride my beast,
no one’s asking "Got a moment for Greenpeace?" No fella no time for that, have you met snappy.

Instead, it’s awe, it’s terror, it’s glory.
My dragon, my friend, my living story.
And while cats demand your undying affection

dragons? They burn your enemies.
No contest, no question.

Sometimes I sit here,
staring at the blank page,
wondering what to write about
what’s rattling around in my head.
Is it something profound,
or am I just ******* again?
Sometimes I think I’m winding people up,
other times, I’m genuinely trying to say something.

I write when I’m happy.
I write when I’m sad.
I write when the world looks beautiful
and when it looks like the bottom of a bin,
Even if it might smell a bit ******,
Sometimes it’s rage pouring out,
sometimes it’s a laugh at my own expense.
I never really know what’ll spill onto the page
maybe my heart, maybe just nonsense,
Unfortunately I won't apologise,
If my words are offensive,
maybe you the problem not me,
I said something about religious fella,
The other day while writing.

Someone told me in a comment,
“You’re going to hell. I’ll pray for you.”
“Brilliant,” I said, “save me a seat down there.
We’ll compare notes.”
It didn’t bother me
the offended always amuse me.
If they hate it, I say,
“Read it again or don’t read it at all.
I’m not writing for you, anyway.”
What do you want me to do ?
Say im sorry?
Never going to happen.

Faith? Oh, I toy with it,
poke at it,
hold it up to the light like a shattered bottle.
I’m not asking you to agree,
just asking you to think.
Otherwise, life would be boring, wouldn’t it?

Then there’s the poetry I read sometimes
half the time I think,
“What was this bloke smoking?”
Other times, I look at my own stuff and think,
“Maybe if I’d smoked something,
it’d actually be good.”
Where is that ****** muse when you need her?

The knock on the door the other day was priceless, though.
A couple of witnesses, chirping away:
“It’s your lucky day! You can be saved!”
Poor sods didn’t realize I’m already booked for hell.
“Come in,” I said,
“Tea? Oh, don’t mind the taste,
that’s just the poison.
Best get to hospital, hail the Dark Lord!”
They ran, of course,
and I laughed so hard I nearly spilled my tea,
a little dark I know,
but how else do i amuse myself when I'm fresh out of ideas to write about ?

That's when I tell myself, "Just another day."
What thrilling chaos will tomorrow bring?
While my blank page hungers for ink.
Another day to scribble in my mind.

You left me hanging, like a coat on a hook,
Thought I’d fold, break, crumble, take a second look.
But I’ve been practicing my loneliness skills,
I made friends with the silence, it fits me like chills.

You swore you’d always be here, a forever vow,
But I’m allergic to promises, just tell me how.
I feared you’d vanish, like all the rest,
So I built walls, then wore them like a vest.

I’ll blame you for every cold, empty night,
For the holes in my heart, that should’ve been tight.
But if I’m honest (and I do love being frank),
I pulled the plug first—so who’s the one to thank?

See, you thought you’d leave me, cast me aside,
But I was the one who jumped off the ride.
You never abandoned me, no, I set you free,
Turns out, I’m the master of leaving... ironically.

We are all brothers and sisters through time,
no matter the generation before or yet to come,
we share the same thoughts and feelings.

Just as you feel when you look out into the oceans and watch the waves,
this was how I felt.
Just as you experience frustration in the tangle of everyday life,
I too lived in days filled with frustration.
Just as you are one of many in a crowd,
I too was a face among the countless.

Just as you are refreshed by the river’s gentle flow,
I too was cleansed and renewed.
Just as you seek relief on a hot day beneath a tall tree’s shade,
I also drew comfort from nature’s quiet arms.
Just as you take air into your lungs,
drawing its essence deep within,
I too breathed the same breath of life.

Just as you stand in lines, waiting for your turn,
so have I queued in endless waits.
Just as you feel joy bloom in the laughter of a child,
so too did I find my heart lightened by the same sound.
Just as you lie awake at night, searching the stars for answers, questioning the moon,
so have I ask the starless sky for wisdom, sought life's meaning,
in the vastness
above.

Just as you tremble at the thought of loss,
I too have stood there at the edge as well,
feeling time slip slowly through my hands,
like sand.
Just as you now reach for comforting hands of another in love or life's despair,
I too have reached out,
yearning to be held,
to be seen,
to be understood.

Just as you find relief and strength when the storm has passed,
so have I risen,
shaped by the trials that sought to break me.
Just as you marvel at the sun’s rise,
its warmth touching your skin,
I too was humbled by its light,
knowing it shone on all who lived before me
and all who will come after.

Life flows for us all just as it always has,
and just as you are a part of its great river,
so too was I
carried forward,
never alone,
always connected,
In wonder,
Lost in question,
We are,
One.

What is poetry but a history of the human heart,
its joys and aches woven through time,
a thread of truth spun by countless hands.
All poets speak the same language,
wrestling with the same restless spirits:
fear, love, death, longing, adventure, failure.
We are seekers of what lies beneath,
hunters of shadows and light.

The pleasure of rhythm,
the echoes of sound—
words that feel more
and mean better.
We stretch them across the silence,
carry them from the known
to the uncharted,
wild, unhinged,
and alive.

Oh, how we long to hold poetry in our marrow,
to store every verse,
each fleeting line,
this romance with time.
We write for ourselves,
yet always for strangers,
hoping they find pieces of themselves
in the fragments of our truths.

Why do you read my words?
When your gaze is indifferent to me,
do you stay because they hold something real?
Do you feel comfort
or hear connection
in the quiet rhythm of the page,
as your eyes trace the spaces between lines?

Or is it because we love poetry
more than we love ourselves?
Because it sits uniquely,
where silence was—
a placeholder for longing.
These words,
small as they are,
stretch farther than the edges of this page.

When you saw the title, did it call you?
Did it offer a whisper, a welcome,
a taste of something untasted,
a key to a door of simple lines?
How did two words pull you near—
two words that opened
the depths of this moment,
this offering,
this memory of the human heart?