Oh, but to love this great land
beautiful, whole
I grieve for what you have become,
your proud embers now shallow ash.

Once, your hand extended care and love
What has become of you over these fallen year?
overrun by tyrants and thieves,
looting these fine soils for selfish gain.

Where is the hand of care?
Your hand now grips the throats
of every honest man, woman, and child,
choking hope and dreams from every mind and soul.
Bodies toil through day and night
to feed your ever-growing greed.

Oh, land of hope and dreams
where have you gone?
Who is this that steals the souls of so many?

Leadership of fools
you dealers of incompetence and corruption,
unworthy kings upon thrones of gold and myrrh,
chariots laden with coin you did not earn,
waited on hand and foot in castles of stone, feasting while your children starve
while people drown in debt and lost hope.

You take and plunder
raising your keep with each day
while the land lies unwatered,
its fields dry,
its people hungry
as your bellies swell.

Thieves and convicts have stolen
what once was proud.
You live on the past and call it fairness.

Oh country of mine,
why do your arms no longer hold me with care?
How can we be the victims of servants
who know only how to destroy, loot, and lie?
Incompetence knows no bounds among you,
yet you walk without shame.

If you fell to a breeze that blows in from the north,
how could I defend you,
when my own people have done more harm
than any bringer of peace could do?

I cannot pledge loyalty
to systems that oppress the innocent
to what has become broken,
fallen to the wills of evil men.

Oh God of this earth
how could you let this great land
fall into the hands of plunderers and liars,
those who breathe corruption
and silence truth?

Freedom does not live here.
Mothers cry for their lost children,
fathers are gone,
streets lie empty under the glare of lamps,
for none dare walk that road.

They say this land is not mine
but I come from your soil,
born of your dust.
How can any man claim ownership
over what was never sold,
but created?

I see how evil hearts poison you,
Oh country of mine.
Your rulers speak with forked tongues,
weeping only when the world’s arms withdraw
and your tables grow now bare.

Oh beautiful land
when will it end?
When blood slicks the streets?
When the sky burns,
the ground shakes,
and bodies scatter the fields
where no seed will grow
and the soil runs red?

What happened to freedom?
To building a future
for those yet to come?
Now they steal from the unborn
and blame the children for their fathers’ sins.

When will peace and prosperity return?
When will your arms hold all
born of this ground?
Foreigners come to plunder,
kings dine on wine,
and I wonder

Is God watching?
Why dont you answer my prayers
or cleanse this land of corruption and hate?
Will He bring unity among its children
or must the hand of peace
come from distant soil
to bring order where none exists?

In the woods where fireflies kiss the gloom,
Where hearts float soft like sweet perfume,
She walks in red, a queen unsaid,
Mistress of the forest eternal bed.

Crown of gold, hips of sin,
She draws the wolves, she pulls them in.
They growl and prowl on hands and knees,
For just one whisper on the breeze.

Her laugh? A charm. Her stare? A spell.
Her touch? The kiss between heaven and hell.
And oh — when she pouts, the stars fall down,
Just to light her wicked crown.

She sways in a scarlet leather dress,
Tight with hunger, stitched to impress.
Its curves conceal her secret scripts,
Heart-shaped tattoos on blood-red hips.
And when they stare, too long, too near
She binds them fast with cuffs so dear.

Her wrists gleam red — enchanted bands,
That tie down takers with trembling hands.
She pulls them close, then lets them drown,
In moans that echo underground.

They come in tens, they leave alone,
Their hearts turned dust, their spines like stones.
She calls, they crawl, no will, no wall
They rise, they chase, they beg, they fall.

One by one, they lose their name,
Tamed and burned in passion’s flame.
For just one taste, they lose their soul,
She takes the part that makes them whole.

She don’t just rule — she plays, she wins,
She dances barefoot on their sins.
And when she winks, the world gets loud,
She’s got them barking, proud and bowed.

Her dress is tight, her hands are bare,
But no one dares to stroke her hair.
Unless she lets them — then beware,
She rides them down with primal flair.

The forest sparks at her command,
With glowing embers in the land.
They float like stars around her trail,
Each one a man she made grow pale.

Takers take, but takers pay,
Mistress Red don’t play that way.
She’ll ride your pride like a cursed parade,
And leave your lust in her forest laid.

So if you hear a sultry sound,
Deep where nymphs and roots are bound,
Think twice before you kneel and frown
She’s got a crown,
And always down to go downtown.
She’ll strip to bra and scarlet gown,
Then ride you raw and wear you down

A Poem about Montego Pet Food

Montego came in a bright, proud bag,
Promised wagging tails, no hint to nag
But my dogs, they coughed, they cried, they spewed,
Farts like storms, and bellies skewed.

Diarrhea flowed like a nightmare flood,
Vomiting streaked with fear and blood.
Scratching madness, skin on fire,
Eyes gone dull, their joy expired.

I dug through pages, found the same
Other hearts broken by that name.
Many cries on Hello Peter’s floor,
An forums stacked with sick dogs’ galore.
Mould in chunks, worms in the feed,
Fed to dogs with careless speed.

Some said it killed, and watched them fade,
Yet Montego smiles like they’ve been played.
Send your complaint—they’ll feign surprise,
Act like truth’s a sudden guise.

But scroll the forums, read the thread,
It’s all been spoken, all been said.
So tell your friends, your neighbour too,
Skip Montego this product they’re selling you.

If the store still stocks that sack of lies,
Turn your heels, let sales demise.
Because fur-babies trust in YOU..
And Montego’s food is not what I choose.

Run From the Small Fires
Do not let fickle minds smudge your still water.
Some carry only mirrors,
so they may admire themselves
while pretending to measure the world.

They duel for the crown of a thimble,
brandishing rules like rusted keys
to a door that opens onto nothing.
They will spoil the wine of your words,
turning the vintage to vinegar.

Do not linger in the marketplace of fools
where voices are loud,
but the wares are air
and the applause is the dry clap of moth wings.

Smile.
Wave.
Swallow the ember that wants to leap from your tongue.
Better a silent oath under your breath
than the long scrubbing of their smoke from your skin.

Avoid their hands
sticky with the tar of self-importance.
Avoid their feasts
a table heavy with arrogance
but starving of truth.

Wisdom sits in a cathedral larger than pride,
its spires lit by questions,
its stones carved by humility.
Those who dwell there
have no time to throw pebbles at passers-by.

So run.
Run from petty brawls and papier-mâché crowns.
For to argue with a donkey is to bray in chorus,
and to wrestle a bull is to be flattened beneath it.

Leave them to their puddles.
Your river has farther to go.

The ocean does not ask where you’ve been.
It crashes against the rocks without judgment
spray rising clust like breath,
like a reminder to be.
Some stones never move.
Others roll softly,
carried where they’re meant to go.

You can’t force the tide,
only meet it.
Let it touch your ankles,
your thoughts,
your fear.
The gulls and seabirds don’t need directions.
They follow the wind
and still arrive on time.

You are no more lost
than the foam on the waves
momentary, yes,
but exactly where it belongs.
Even when the sky goes quiet,
the sea speaks.
Not in answers,
but in rhythm.
The salt clings to your skin like memory.
The wind combs through your hair
like it’s known you forever.
You came here wondering
if you had drifted too far.

But the ocean always finds you.
Even the rocks know this.
Especially the ones
that have moved.

Before the Dream Fades
I wake with sudden urgency
half-snatched from that velvet drift,
where meaning wore no mask
and shadows told the truth.

My fingers ***** for pen,
still soaked in dreamsoil delight,
soul dragging through sheets
like it wants to stay lost in night
in that lucid elsewhere
where these eyes were a doorway
and the stairwell never ended.

The dream clings
not like memory,
but like smoke that remembers
the shape of fire.

If I move too quick, it breaks.
If I breathe too loud, it scatters.

Sometimes it’s better to stay,
to sink back
where time is syrup
and the mind writes without the hand.
Where the world is not like a poem
it is the poem.
Every rusted lock,
a metaphor.
Every kiss,
a prophecy.
Before lost meaning comes.

But the ink calls.
Gall-ink, ghost-thick,
spills black arteries
across the parchment
as the flame in the lamp shivers,
uncertain as me.

Timbers creak like old voices
beneath a ceiling of dreams not yet spoken.
The black river outside
is lined with meaning
not the kind you seek,
but the kind that finds you
when the page is ready.

So I write,
half-asleep still,
trying to make a cage
for the bird that flew
inside my head
and left feathers
on the pillow.

And when I read it back
it lives again.

Clearer than dreams.
Sharper than any thought.
A second life
for something
that should’ve drowned
at dawn
and left only a cage of feathers.

Can’t you see?
It’s time for me.
I’ve played the tune in lower key,
Where silence hums eternity.
So what’s the deal? I’ll keep it real,
I ain’t afraid, my bed is made.

I guess the devils got a place for me.

I’m not so bad when I know the truth,
Confessions end in a lonely booth.
I’ll see you there amongst the flames,
With Paul and Peter and St. James.

Oh I danced with doubt, drank with pain,
Slept in the gutter, sang in the rain.
Laughed at life, cried at death,
Made peace with ghosts and held my breath.

I lit my sins like cigarettes,
Watched 'em burn with no regrets.
The preacher screamed, “You still got time!”
But I was too far gone in song and rhyme.

The Devil’s got a place for me,
Front row seat, infernal heat.
I'll bring the wine, you bring the scars,
We’ll toast beneath those falling stars.
And if the angels disagree
Well, hell was always home for me.

I wore the guilt like second skin,
The price I paid to let light in.
But now I walk with open eyes,
No more prayers, no more disguise.

The mirror told me all I need:
I’m not the monster, just the seed.
Planted deep in doubt and dirt,
Grew thorns of rage from every hurt.

No choir sings for blackened grace,
But I still smile in this cursed place.
Don’t need no wings, I’ve got my voice
And fire is just another choice.

So use your brain, break every chain.
This world was wired to make you tame.
But in the spark, the mind sets free,
A thousand doors, infinity.
The fools obey, the brave create
And I walked right through the fiery gate.

The Devil’s got a place for me,
And that’s just where I’m meant to be.
Can’t bribe my soul, or buy my fate
I built this path, I sealed the gate.
So come on down, and dance with me
Where truth is raw, and we’re finally free.

Why don't you come down and join me.
But freedom's price ain’t peace or grace,
It’s seeing Hell in a clearer space.
You break the chains, then break some more
And find the Devil at your door.
The devils got a place for me.