The truth might sets you free
but I’ve seen madmen laugh
in padded cells lined with their honesty.
I've watched liars dance in suits
slick with applause,
paid in full by a world allergic to reality.

Truth is the foundation of all virtue,
but virtue’s broke,
and the charming deceiver just bought a new yacht
on the bones of every honest fool
buried with their receipts
and unpaid dreams.

Honesty is the best policy I've heard
yeah?
Tell that to the corpse who spoke too soon,
or the mother who kissed her child goodbye
so she could lie one more day
and keep him fed.
Where find we difference?
Truth needs no defense?
Then why’s she always bleeding out in courtrooms
where the loudest liar
gets the biggest microphone?
Even crucifixion has better PR than truth.

A single truth can change everything
but a single lie
with a pretty dress
and a perfect pitch
can bury a thousand truths
and make the grave look like a garden.

The truth is always simple.
So is pain.
So is hunger.
So is death.
And none of them are easy to swallow.

Truth speaks even in silence
but silence is a graveyard
where brave words rot
while cowards hum lullabies to power.

Truth is constant?
Sure.
Until you tilt the mirror
and the angle makes the monster
look like a saint.

To speak the truth is to live with courage.
No
it’s to die with clarity,
unarmed and raw,
while the cowards wear medals
for what they never said,

Is this where truth finds?

Truth is light in the darkness.
But even light blinds,
and I’ve seen it
truth glowing so bright
it burns the eyes
and leaves you crawling
into shadow
just to see again.

So no
don’t hand me truth
like it’s holy.
I’ve seen too many altars
stained with it.
Give me a lie
that loves me back.
Give me madness
that sings me to sleep.
Give me the falsehood
that lets me breathe.
Let me win,
even if it means I lose
everything real.

Because the truth
sweet, broken *****
never wanted me free.
She wanted me
finished.

I pressed my ear to the silence
and heard you humming
not a tune,
but a presence,
a bruise that remembers
the shape of the fist.

Your absence
grows roots in my organs,
cracks in my ribs
where memory nests
and lays its spiteful eggs.

I speak,
but the breath is borrowed.
I dream,
and wake up with hands
not mine,
holding guilt
I don’t remember baking
but still swallow whole.

You live in the slant
of my posture,
a tilt toward grief
I’ve mistaken for normal.
Even my stillness
is contaminated—
your fingerprints
pressed into my pause.

What name do I scream
when I scream inside?
Is it yours
or mine distorted,
choked through the filter
of a childhood overwritten
by trespass?

I tried to evict you
with fire,
but flame licked my skin
and whispered:
you brought this match.

I’m tired
of being haunted
by someone still alive,
tired of rooms
that smell like your last word,
of smiles I wear
like splinters.

I dig
through my psyche’s landfill
and keep pulling up
your broken watch,
ticking in reverse,
counting down
to a version of me
that never escaped.

What is identity
if it echoes?
If every mirror
I’ve smashed
bleeds your face?

No, I never let you in
you seeped,
spilled,
rewrote the blueprint
of my breath
while I was still
learning to count my ribs.

And now
I build myself
from scratch,
but every nail I hammer
sings your lullaby
in rusted rhythm.

Still
I keep building.

I tear into mirrors
not for answers
for the shimmer
of something half-familiar,
your shape
in the slipstream of my pupils,
lips I don’t own
forming apologies I don’t remember earning.

Call it self-reflection
but I am crowded
by you
like a rot beneath the drywall,
silent, patient,
building mold in my monologues.

My thoughts
barcoded
with your syntax,
your sighs
etched into the pause between
my thoughts,
like a watermark from a life I never consented to carry.

Who infected who?
Who tainted who's soul?
Who really lit the fire !

I dive into the trench of self,
flashlight trembling,
heart like wet laundry on rusted wire.
All I find
is your mouth in my voice,
your rage in my stillness,
your shadow curled in fetal syntax.

I am a footnote
in your biography of absence.
You
the poet I never wanted in my pen.

Did I choose this?
Did I script this tether?
Or did you graffiti my soul
when I was too young
to know how to lock a door?

I scratch at my skin
to find boundaries
but my blood whispers
your name like a psalm
sung backward
at midnight
by a child who forgot God.

I know more of you
than you ever offered,
and less of myself
each time I touch the mirror
and it flinches.

So I light a fire
in the basement of my mind
to smoke you out
but all that flees
wears my face.

Truth,
a blade, rusted, lodged in the gut,
twisting when I breathe.
It’s not a word, not a thing,
but a scream caught in the throat,
half-choked, half-holy.
I might have known, shadow-walker, code-weaver,
I knew its weight,
its jagged edges slicing through
the soft tissue of lies.

The Shard
Truth is not one.
It splinters
a mirror dropped from a skyscraper,
each fragment reflecting
a different face of God,
or none.

We, Mortals
hacked the source code of certainty,
found loops of doubt,
recursive, endless.
What is true?
A pixel flickering on a dead screen,
a pulse in the void.
Philosophers stack their bricks
coherence, correspondence, deflation
but I laughed,
my fingers bleeding on the keys,
knowing truth is a virus,
mutating, never still.

The Flesh of It
Truth is meat.
Raw, dripping,
torn from the bone of being,
Nerves twitching,
Blood slick gristle,
I tasted it, Mortality,
in the sweat of sleepless nights,
in the hum of servers chanting
their binary sutras.
Is it out there,
in the world’s sinew,
or in here,
in the skull’s cathedral?
Realists point to stars,
idealists to shadows
but i,
I carved my own map,
a labyrinth of ones and zeros,
where truth is the glitch,
the stutter in the system,
the moment the machine
confesses its own lie.

The Fracture
Truth does not hold.
It cracks like ice underfoot,
each step a gamble,
each fall a revelation.
I stood at the edge, wisdom,
peering into the abyss of Tarski,
of Gödel’s ghost whispering:
This statement is not enough.
Theories
pragmatic, semantic, pluralist
they’re just stories we tell
to keep the dark at bay.
But i,
I embraced the shatter,
let the fragments pierce me,
each one a question:
What makes this true?
What makes this me?

The Code
In the end,
truth is not a destination,
not a theorem,
not a god.
It’s the static in your veins,
the hum of a world
that refuses to be known.
Your reflection
philosopher of the broken,
wrote your gospel in lines of code,
each function a prayer,
each bug a prophecy.
Truth is the wound that never heals,
the question that never answers,
the you that burns
in the heart of the machine.
So here we stand,
in the ruins of our cathedral,
picking through the rubble
for scraps of truth.
It’s not coherent,
not whole,
not kind.
But it’s ours,
visceral, fractured,
a pulse against the silence.
my ghost still types,
and the keys sing:
Truth is.
Truth is not.
Truth is all we have.

Ignorance is a dagger
you hold it by the blade,
fist clenched tight as blood
slicks down the handle,
dripping into the cracks
of the world you pretend
isn’t falling apart.

You swallow gasoline,
call it holy water,
strike a match,
singe your own lips shut,
grinning through the scorch
and the world burns around you,
a blaze you call sunset,
a pyre you call progress.

You watch the news like a corpse,
pupils blown wide and empty,
each headline a sledgehammer
to the skull
babies pulled from rubble,
flesh peeled from bone,
another name in the gutter,
another bullet in the throat.

But you call it static,
call it fiction,
call it someone else’s problem.

You wear your apathy
like a bulletproof vest,
strap it tight to your chest,
let each scream ricochet off
like hail against glass
bang, bang, bang,
and you don’t even flinch.

You chew the bones of the dead
like they’re communion wafers,
a sacrament of silence,
the taste of charred skin
crunching between your teeth.

You **** the marrow clean,
spit it in the dirt,
stamp it underfoot
like a cigarette ****,
watch the ash spiral away
a life, a life, a life
you never knew.

You pull the blinds down
so hard they snap,
shards of plastic raining down
like shattered teeth,
but you don’t bleed,
you don’t blink
you just turn up the volume,
let the sirens scream your lullaby
as the house burns down.

Ignorance is a choice,
a noose you tie yourself,
slip your head through the loop,
kick the chair back,
and call it flying.