I’ve bitten the stars for less
But her?
She is the storm behind my ribs,
a church I burn down just to worship what remains.

She’s not a woman.
She’s the collapse.
The white-fire fracture that bursts through my sleep,
makes gods tremble, makes the air bleed sugar and ash.

She is more.
More than breath, than ***, than soul.
More than hunger dressed as desire,
more than the dream I never knew I was dying in.

No verse holds her. No psalm.
No drug, no moonlit ghost.
She is the ache in every silence,
the rhythm that murders the metronome.

I want her like famines want bread,
like oceans want thunder.
She’s not the answer
she’s the flood that drowns the question.

I’ve touched a thousand fires.
None seared like her whisper.
She’s the madness I married with open veins,
the calm that slit my chaos clean.

Don’t speak to me of beauty
I’ve seen it bow before her shadow.
Don’t tell me to dream
I wake in her body.

She is all that I want
and everything I never dared carve from heaven.
She is more.
She is more than anything ever dared to be real.

And nothing
not love, not death, not gods
compares.

When the sky forgets to burn,
and the clouds hang like tired eyes
you crack the dark
with a mischievous smile
and a laugh that dances louder than the rain.

You
a rebel sunbeam,
ripping holes in the grey of my mind,
sowing jokes where sorrow tried to root.
You
the reason gravity feels like grace.

I’ve walked through days thick with ash,
hands stuffed in pockets of “almost” and “too late,”
but then
you.
You and your wildlight heart.
You, who wear joy like armor
and kindness like warpaint.

You make the silence sing,
and even the broken clocks spin hopeful.

I’ve seen the world bite down—hard,
but you bit back with beauty,
with stories,
with silliness
that made even the grimace grin.

When I think of you
I remember how light feels.
Not the fluorescent kind.
The soul kind.
The laughter-soaked,
midnight-spilled-stardust kind.

You are the rescue I didn’t know I needed.
A lighthouse with jokes.
A firefly that never dies.
You turn every graveyard thought
into a garden joke.

And I
I am better when I stand in your glow
Even if you roll over an fall asleep after the show.

What is the All-Seeing Eye
Do you think it's real?
They said it was for peace,
a wire under your skin,
your laugh in a data vault,
your scream — timestamped and indexed.
They called it security,
but it had the stink of war.

We fed the All-Seeing Eye
with our faces,
our flaws,
our petty searches
“how to love,”
“how to lie,”
“how to disappear without dying.”
It watched.
It blinked never.

We are metadata ghosts,
grief tagged in 4K,
crying in front of smart TVs
that whisper back at night.
Our cameras smile when we don’t.
Our phones know before we do.

The walls listen
not metaphorically.
The bricks have ears
and the sky is bugged.
Satellites trace our hearts
like fragile heat signatures.
Love becomes a red dot.
Desire = anomaly.

Snowden wasn’t a leak
he was a scream.
A fracture.
He tore the veil and found code.
PRISM, XKeyscore , TripWire
not names,
but wounds.

This is not fiction.
China grades its citizens.
The West sells fear in high-def.
Your guilt is presumed,
your innocence archived,
your freedom
licensed, leased, denied.

What are we when every silence
has a transcript?
What are we
when eyes without lashes
watch us sleep?
A body of flesh,
tagged by code,
chained to clouds that never rain.

Encrypt your breath.
Whisper in analog.
Paint your truth on cave walls.
Rebel with rotten passwords.
Burn your SIM in holy fire.
Give them nothing but static,
nothing but noise,
because
data doesn’t bleed.

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.