I slit the throat of mercy,
let it twitch in a puddle of neon grime
its prayers gurgled like poisoned lullabies.
I wear madness like a crown of soldered nerves,
sparking truth through every scream.

Heaven turned its back
so I bit hell's lip,
let it whisper me alive in tongues of gasoline.
I kissed the noose,
laced it with orchids and black powder.
Love?
I scalped it.
Hung its face on my wall like a holy relic.

The moon watches,
blind and complicit,
as I set fire to forgiveness
and dance in the smoke of dead apologies.

Art is a weapon.
I dip my brush in trauma,
splatter redemption on the white walls of silence.
Every stroke screams.
Every hue begs.

I carve verses into my thighs
to feel them bleed truth.
I don’t want peace
peace is anesthetic.
I want eruption,
******* of ache that crack the skin of now.

Safety's a padded coffin.
Hope’s a sedative laced with lies.
Give me ruin
give me flame
give me teeth on steel and pulse on chaos.

I am the sermon and the sin.
The preacher of collapse.
My god bleeds black ink,
and I drink it from the grail of my own skull.

I slit the throat of consciousness,
let it bleed out in a ditch of ash and static.
Its pulse gurgles—red syrup on a canvas of bone,
splattered like a Jackson ******* fever dream.
Heaven’s deaf, a mute god with marble eyes,
so I scream to hell, and hell screams back,
a choir of razors, a hymn of shattered glass.
Care?
I murdered it.
Strangled it with barbed wire,
watched it choke on its own syrupy pleas.
Concern’s corpse swings from a chandelier of thorns,
its shadow giggling gasoline,
dripping fire that licks the floor clean.
I’m free now—unshackled,
a wolf chewing through its own leg to taste the wild.
Abstract paintings scream the truth
colors clawing at the edges of sanity,
blues that bruise, reds that **** the light.
Genius is a fever, a sickness that grins,
a parasite gnawing at the skull’s soft meat.
Who wants safety?
Safety’s a cage, a coffin of beige,
a life stitched shut with sterile thread.
I love this cremated life,
where care’s ashes swirl in a wind of now.
The minute is a blade, sharp and silver,
carving my name into the void’s black throat.
Heaven’s a lie, a pastel scam,
but hell’s honest—its flames don’t pretend to warm.
I dance in the embers,
my feet blistering hymns,
my heart a grenade with a pin half-pulled.
Consciousness twitches, not quite dead,
its eyes like cracked mirrors, reflecting rot.
I stab it again, for fun,
with a shard of starlight dipped in tar.
The world spins, an Alice-in-Wonderland slaughterhouse,
where clocks melt into pools of blood,
where roses scream and rabbits gnaw their own paws.
I’m the hatter, the queen, the guillotine grin,
serving tea spiked with arsenic dreams.
Feeling? I burned it alive.
Its screams were music,
a symphony of snapping bones and velvet wails.
Now I’m the moment, the pulse, the now
a god of my own wreckage,
crowned in thorns and neon scars,
laughing as the canvas bleeds.
Hell listens.
Hell understands.
And the abstract truth paints me whole.

The Way She Lived in Me
The Universe She Was
Once, she was everything to me
not in metaphor,
but in the way the planets truly need the sun.
Her laughter filled my chest,
like warm light circling inward.
Her eyes held quiet galaxies,
stars steady and sure,
and her smile could calm a storm
like sunlight breaking through gray skies.
Her hair shone like something the heavens envy.
Now, I only see it in memory
a golden blur when I close my eyes.
It’s strange,
how the brightest moments
are the first to disappear.

II. When We Were Whole
We walked through parks
as if they were sacred halls.
Even the trees seemed to lean in,
just to be near her.
Her hand fit mine so perfectly,
I still reach for it without thinking.
We had a dog that ran like joy itself
no fear, no doubt.
We laughed often,
like people who didn’t believe in pain.
We skipped stones across a lake,
never guessing love might follow the same path:
rise, float, skim, and fall.
Her scent was fresh rain
sweet, natural, unforgettable.
Her voice woke me with the softness of ocean waves.
Now it comes and goes,
like a dream I’m trying to hold onto.

After the End
Love was once an ocean,
and I dove into it freely.
Now I walk through something dry and empty,
where nothing remembers how to bloom.
Her name still lives in my throat,
but I keep it quiet.
I search for her
in strangers’ eyes, in passing faces
but I find only reflections of light,
never the stars she carried.
She was full of wonder.
They are just passing weather.
And when I remember her,
I feel the distance
like shouting at the moon,
knowing it can’t hear you.

Holding On and Letting Go
Sometimes I feel anger.
Why did love come at all
if it was always meant to leave?
I rage,
because being seen—truly seen—
should have been enough.
But it never is.
Still,
I am grateful.
Because once, I mattered to someone
in a way that changed me.
She helped me become
something better,
even if what remains now
is just the ruin of that.
We are not meant to walk alone.
We are meant to meet in the dark
and name it light.
She was my first light.
And now,
I walk through smoke,
hoping to find meaning in what’s left.

The Shape of Absence
There is silence
where her laugh used to echo.
Stillness
where she once moved.
Even spring feels colder now
the scent of flowers brings ache instead of joy.
I see birds take flight
and whisper,
“There she goes again.”
Some nights,
I can almost feel her smile
a soft, guiding warmth,
like a harbor after the storm.
But it always fades.
And I am left chasing wind.

What Remains
I wonder if she knew.
If she felt what I felt.
If the love that marked me
ever marked her, too.
Time moves forward,
but I find myself folding inward,
smaller with every year,
heavier with every memory.
Our dog still waits by the door sometimes.
She knows.
She remembers.
And when I ask her softly,
“Do you miss her, too?”
She doesn’t answer.
But in her stillness,
I feel the truth:
She did love us.
And in her silence,
she left a piece of herself
that will never leave.

from the outside
under the old tree
thick with time
i wait.
not sure what for.
the wind moves like a thought
no one says out loud.
soft.
close.
familiar.
but not mine.

i hear it anyway.
it tells things
you only hear
when no one's looking.
quiet truths that press into the skin
and stay there.

somewhere
kids laugh,
easy, open,
like sunlight doesn’t cost anything.
i watch.
behind the edge.
like someone half-drawn.
they belong to it.
i don’t.

i stand still
in a world that moves
without checking
if i’m coming.
they bloom
and i stay seed.
they fill the air
i hold the space
they forget.

i was the one chasing birds
while they made games out of dirt and sky.
i went where the path stopped.
i liked the quiet places
because they didn’t ask me questions.
the forest didn’t mind
if i said nothing.

the stars blinked like answers
that didn’t need to explain themselves.
i liked that.
the trees bent like they were listening.
that meant something.
but still,
this feeling follows me
like fog
just enough to blur things.

i want what they have
the touch
the motion
the easy belonging.
i want to matter
in someone else’s
ordinary day.

but nature
you don’t ask for anything.
you just are.
and maybe with you,
i can just be too.
not too much.
not too little.
just here.

still,
i find myself on the outside.
looking in.
a quiet figure
by the water’s edge.
and i wonder
not loudly,
but real enough
why i always wake up
in someone else’s dream.

the brain’s a butcher
slicing futures
before they breathe.

I stood
on the edge
measuring wind,
timing possibilities
til courage turned to doubt.

but the scream inside me
it didn’t care
about logic
maps
or bruises.

it wanted fall.
it wanted now.

so I shut the noise.
I leapt.

and in the wreckless air
found
I could burn
without dying.

found
the unknown
had teeth
but smiled.

In the unknown
I found
comfort.

Somewhere
beneath the eyelid's last blink
where glass bleeds light,
and truth flinches like a rat in church,
a Psalm shatters,
cracking the spine of silence.

I saw God’s silhouette in reverse
a negative burn,
its arms were questions,
its eyes were hollows,
and its scream—a flicker in dead film.

Tell me
what’s a universe if not
a deaf match struck in a snowstorm?

I licked the ash of a star once.
It tasted like birth
and every lover who ever left without closing the door.

Time taps its nails on bone
tick. tick. tick.
Each second a parasite,
sipping marrow,
etching the shape of forgetting
on my skull.

No map.
No north.
Only echoes whispering:
“you were never here.”

Even solace is a trick
a ghost draped in perfume and mother’s hands,
gone when you turn to name it.

I broke a clock to stop the wound.
(It laughed.)

Now
I collect shadows.
I press them between pages of not-quite-meaning,
each a brittle wing.

Is this God?
—a hum in the static,
—a fault line in grammar,
—a riddle whispered backwards
through the teeth of a dying flame?

Listen:
There is a drone inside the ordinary.
It gnaws.
Not loud
but certain.

You want reason?
You want rules?

Here’s the cipher:
There is none.
Only this:

A flicker. A fracture. A fall.
Then something unnamed
that feels like knowing.

But isn’t.

Don’t whisper in dried-out dirges
that all this flickering
is hollow.
That dreams are ash,
and flesh is just a waiting cell.

The soul, if such a beast still gnaws,
rots deeper when left numb
Not all walls are built to hold,
not all truths are what they hum.

Life isn’t real
it just feels like it might be
when the pain bites clean.
But the grave isn’t the goal.
It’s the breath before it,
the silence
we dance inside,
pretending it speaks.

Dust-to-dust, sure.
But the soul?
It breaks different
like glass remembering light,
or a scream you swallowed
and called prayer.

You weren’t born to smile or weep,
no.
You were shaped to move
to mark some subtle shift in the void,
to fall forward
even when crawling.

Art lasts.
But time
time is a thief in velvet boots,
slitting courage open,
while your heart
marches a funeral beat,
wearing someone else’s armor.

The world is war.
Not guns and medals
but breath,
betrayal,
mornings.
Don’t herd with the hollow-eyed
be the chaos they never saw coming.
Be your own myth.

Don’t flirt with futures dressed in silk—
don’t mourn the past’s carcass.
It’s gone.
Rotting in memory’s echo chamber.

Breathe the now
tear it open.
Live like the ceiling leaks God.
And you're standing beneath it,
cup in hand.

Heroes die.
But their noise lingers
a footprint, maybe,
that the lost will find.
Or a wound
someone else mistakes for a map.

So rise
or crawl
or scream in motion.
Whatever fits.
Just don’t stop.

Let fate break its teeth
on your persistence.
Let patience sharpen you
and
Perseverance your
motto.

Because this isn’t just a dream
it’s a riddle
with blood on its lips
or
A dream caught in a
dream.