We all searching,
searching for
something
something that makes us feel alive,
something to connect us,
to give our lives meaning,
even if only for a moment.

But sometimes the worst thing
that can happen when you searching for something
is
you can find it.

And that moment becomes
your forever.

Was it because you made it?
Or it made you?

And would your life be any different,
if you had not searched for it
at all?

You walk the valley of the blind
and call it wisdom
yet you see nothing.

You drink from envy’s cup,
mouth full of rot,
and still pretend
the flavor isn’t bitter.

Your tongue splits a serpent
forking left, right,
each hand ignorant,
each hand guilty.

You preach love
but every kiss is venom.
You swear honesty
but your breath stinks of deceit.

You sing your holy lies,
choirs choking on righteousness,
but your heart
your blackened, rotting heart
beats only for sin.

I would rather vow silence,
starve to death
on the edge of truth,
than feed on the carrion
of what you serve.

I would rather never sing,
than bury my voice
in the filth of your song.

What is pure?
Where is it hiding?
The scent is gone
nothing left but ash
and the stench of man.

Even the candle of the just,
the brave,
flickers, fades
because oppression laughs,
and the strong
are gagged in chains.

Who asks for a lonely poet
when silence already reigns?
somewhere between all and nothing

If stillness of words speaks nothing,
is it emptiness,
or fullness unmeasured?

If fire in a word burns,
is it consuming,
or is it giving light
to blind hands reaching out?

If tender words break at dawn,
is it weakness,
or the strength of a heart
that refuses to harden?

When sharp words laugh,
who bows to their shadow?
Who fears the spark
that leaves only embers and ash?

Is the mind not always shaping patterns,
weaving palaces for the past,
threads for shadows of memory?

If the lotus blooms unseen,
does it wither,
or is its hidden fragrance
the true poem?

If the fig tree bears fruit in silence,
who reads,
and who is nourished by emptiness?

What vessel
can hold the wind?
What rhythm
can bind the unshaped word?

And if the word,
spoken or inked in gall,
neither commands nor obeys
does it not simply exist?

Is that not the poem
beyond poems?

Unlatch the shutters of thought,
let the quiet pour in;
Let the world’s noise drift like a tide beyond reach.
If questions rise,
keep them folded in silence
let patience teach.

The day will come when the heart speaks without sound,
when the smallest truth stands clear as a flame.
So open the mind and hold back the tongue,
yet feel all the same.

I never set out to be a poet.
This was not a path I chose
it was the one I stumbled into
when my thoughts grew too heavy to carry
and my soul began to collect
the weight of years
like seabirds nesting on a lonely island,
like fur seals waiting out the endless storm.

I began writing as an escape,
a quiet place to spill the thoughts
that rattled in my head and ached in my heart.
Over time, it became my shelter
though no shelter is without its storms.
There are always those
who find reason to rain on your parade.

In the beginning, I was alone here.
And I was fine with that
for my thoughts were mine,
untouched, unshaped by anyone else.
But now, I am blessed
to hear the voices of strangers
who pause to read my words,
who leave behind their kindness,
their praise,
or simply a silent understanding.

I never wrote for applause
I wrote to build a fire
from the logs that surrounded my life
in a forest full of dead trees.
I wrote to clear the rot,
to drag out the fallen,
and to replant living roots.
I wrote to channel out new streams
from the clogged, muddy banks of my mind,
to let fresh waters flow
that in time will turn into flowing rivers
where once only stillness and decay remained.

Poetry became the soil where I planted
what I thought I had lost
feeling, connection, the fragile spark of hope.
And the people who read my words,
you who live in this realm of care and thought,
have given me more than I ever expected.
For as you read what I mine,
I read what is yours.
And sometimes I nod toward the sun and say,
See? I am not alone.

In your poems, I find echoes of my own wounds,
and in my own, some of you
find the reflection of your silent battles.
It is a strange comfort
like feeling the warmth of summer
brush against our skin
while snow still falls around us.

Poetry has allowed me to feel again
after years of neglect,
both from others and, far worse, from myself.
It is one thing to be locked in a room
and know you are trapped
it is another to walk the open world
and feel nothing at all.

We poets, I think,
often come to this land empty-handed.
We bring only the weight of our journeys
scars, rejections, brokenness,
the long nights of feeling worthless or unseen.
We come from the unknown to the unknown,
but somehow, we find each other here.

And in that meeting,
poetry gives us something
greater than gold or silver
it gives us belonging.
It gives us the chance to be understood,
if only for a heartbeat.

The path of a poet is not an easy one.
It begins with a few words,
or a flood of many,
that seem to mean little at first.
But as we walk in the shade of each other,
and in the sunlight of those who came before us,
we grow into something greater than ourselves.

I know I will not live forever
but I hope my words do.
I hope they find their way into the hands
of someone who needs them,
long after I am gone.
That, to me, is enough.

Sometimes it’s okay to live a quiet life,
or find that still spot even when you’re in the middle of a crowd.
Sometimes you’re just meant to be alone
that’s where some of the most real, meaningful moments happen.

It’s not forever—just what you need.
The conscious mind and the body
different but tied tight,
like two parts of the same whole.

Philosophers have struggled to understand this,
how the mind, that thing without space,
talks to the body that takes up space.
Hunger, thirst, passion, pain
show us the mind and body aren’t just separate,
they’re linked deep inside us,
working together,
sometimes quietly, sometimes loud.

So when you sit with your loneliness,
remember it’s not just emptiness
it’s the mind and body syncing,
learning from each other, healing, growing.

Love doesn’t come when you’re running from yourself
it arrives when you’re whole,
when your mind and body find their peace.

So trust the silence, sit with it,
because in that quiet, you become real.
more people will enjoy your company
when you learn to enjoy your own.

I’ve got a bee in my bonnet
you’d best step back.
I’ve got a bee in my bonnet
and it won’t take your crap.
I’ve got a bee in my bonnet
it’s tuning up to sing.
I’ve got a bee in my bonnet
and it’s ready to sting.

This bee is sick of it
no value for money,
each bite costs more
but fills less of the tummy.
Every shelf’s a con,
every packet’s a cheat,
cutting corners,
stealing meat from the meat.

What kind of world
puts profit before need?
Where greed is the harvest,
and we’re just the seed.

Look at you
corporate swine.
You’ve turned the good wine sour,
poisoned the bread,
and smiled as we choke
on the lies you’ve fed by the hour.

You wrap it in glossy packaging
that costs more than what’s inside.
You sell us a promise,
but truth? That you hide.

If you could slip in poison
to save a good buck
you’d do it,
grinning,
and push your **** luck.
Then feign surprise
“Oh, we didn’t know!”
while your profits rise
from the puppet show.

It’s like your “medicine” that heals
but maims.
“Take this pill for your headache,” you say,
“but it may cause blindness,
baldness,
or death someday.
Insomnia, itching,
your manhood might quit
but hey, the headache’s gone,
so that’s worth it, isn’t it?”

If the law didn’t chain you,
you’d hide those side effects too
crammed in fine print,
folded so tight
the font itself would fight your sight as it already do.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
I’m the bee today.
And I’m here to say
there’s no love in your work,
just poison in the play.

You know the harm,
but keep your mouth shut,
while stockholders
pocket the cut.

It’s daylight robbery
clear as glass to the blind.
Greed in broad daylight,
looting humankind.

So
when do we say, Enough is Enough?
When do we rise from the grind,
and tell you we’re tired of bluff
of bleeding our wages
for trash in a package,
for lies in a label,
for crumbs on a table?

No, Mr. Corporate *****
we’re not your game.
And if you still have a conscience,
you should learn the word shame.