burn ledgers,
sink crowns,
Lies kneel,
cities drown.

no gods,
no wires,
just fists
and fires.

Ain't a cry
It's a **** the man
Statement

I'm always racing, chasing—then swaying and spacing,
Barely bracing, then I’m slipping, dipping, misplacing.

The world keeps pressing, the pressure's unceasing,
Voices all blending, no pause, no releasing.

But when night pulls the curtain and time starts *******,
I pour something smooth—let go of the stressing.

In the hush of the dark, where the touch feels true
That’s when my heart, it skips for you.

You were a kiss in a blender,
A chandelier of weeping strings.
I drank your name through static,
Swallowed lullaby shards
Wrapped in candy grief.

We made love beneath wormlight
You wore thunder like silk.
I gave you stars;
You brought a fork to my funeral
And laughed as I bled jam.

I begged through balloon fangs,
My ribs tuned to backward echoes.
But you rode a fishbone bicycle
Into another soft apocalypse.

Your love bit only in shivers.
You adored me as glitter and salt
But fled when my tears grew limbs
And asked for names.

You left with ducks in lab coats,
Prescribing your smile in pills.
I sleep in your ghost’s teacup,
Paint storms on toast,
And scream into jellyfish.

I kissed your silence’s socket,
Wore your absence like velvet plague.
Mannequins fed me your Sanskrit lies
On glitter IVs.

I built microwave shrines
To your maybe.
My therapist asked who you were
I said: expired milk with blood on the back.

Your ghost plays hopscotch in my skull.
Mirrors wear your grin like gospel.
I search aquariums for your stare
Only castles remain, and even they refuse me.

Tell me—was I your scrapbook of ruin,
Your empathy vacation,
Your control carnival?

The spiral laughs.
It spins in your perfume.
And I clap
For my own collapse.

Thou walkedst in with words so honey-dipped,
Yet venom laced thy smile, so wide, so white.
A silken voice, but every virtue slipped,
For thou wert most in love with thy own light.

Thy praise, at first, did shine like summer gold,
Then turned to scorn when I began to bleed.
What grand illusions in thy lies I sold,
A peasant’s soul made feast for royal greed.

Thou craved a mirror, not a beating heart,
A shrine to self, not love in sacred skin.
I played the ghost in thy self-fashioned art,
While thou adored the mask thou wore within.

Yet truth, like dawn, did tear thy veil in twain
I found myself where I was bound by chain.

The willow drank my name from silver rain,
yet left my thirst to bloom in salted mist;
Love hummed through wormholes stitched with shadowed pain,
and kissed me once, then marked me as a list.

I chased her echo through a coral field,
where seabirds wrote in cursive on the wind;
My ribs unzipped, a galaxy revealed
a void where all my wanting had been pinned.

She danced like Saturn's ring across my sleep,
then vanished in the hush of Neptune's yawn;
I held her in the roots of stars too deep
to bloom before the hour love is gone.

So still I orbit songs I never knew
and dream of being real inside her blue.

The mosaicing smiles of colour
each a fracture dressed in light,
a kaleidoscope lie,
grinning with the ache of having once been whole.

Each piece of broken glass
a different view,
a different time,
a different feeling
splintered in the sun, bleeding memory in hues.

Red rages like a throat mid-scream,
blue sobs with the patience of oceans,
green lies like envy draped in silk,
gold forgives but never forgets.
Each colour,
a passion,
a pulse,
a past dressed as presence.

They say:
“Stand back. Admire it. See the masterpiece.”
But I know better.
I know what slices under the shine.

No matter how intriguing,
how intricate,
how heartbreakingly beautiful it seems

It's still just broken glass.
Edges smoothed by delusion.
Truth glued with trembling hands.
Not a miracle.
Not healing.
Not whole.

And no matter how it looks
it's still just broken glass.
And
It's sometimes better to just sweep it up
Else
Cut your fingers putting it together

Because of you, the springtime scents oppress,
I ache in gardens bloomed with floral breath.
Your face is lost in veils of nothingness,
Your lips forgotten in cold death’s caress.

Thinking of you, I love the statues white,
That drowse in parks, in silence held and blind.
I’ve lost your voice, your laughter, and your light,
Your eyes erased like footprints swept by wind.

Like flowers bound unto their perfumed shade,
I cling to vague remembrance, frail and torn.
This pain’s a wound too deep to be allayed
Your touch would leave me more than bruised and worn.

Though I’ve forgotten love, I see you still
In falling stars, through windows dim and still.

Silent threads of light,
Galaxies spin woven webs,
Stars hum cosmic songs.
Planets weave their paths,
Moon and sun in orbit’s loom,
Milky Way’s bright thread.
Before time unspun,
Darkness stretched a fabric vast,
Nameless space unfolds.

And yet here we sit
two minds beneath all of this,
wondering what’s true.

It has no shape, no voice that we can hear,
Yet raised the oceans, pressed the mountains high.
It holds no grief, no joy, no hope, no fear,
Yet sends the planets circling through the sky.

It has no name, no words to mark its will,
Yet trees grow tall, and rivers run their course.
It breathes in root and storm and meadow still
A quiet law, a motion without force.

Before the peaks were raised, the skies were spun,
It was — complete, untouched by change or need.
Still as the dusk, and older than the sun,
It moves through stone and sky and wind and seed.

I do not know its name, though I have tried
I call it Great, where all things still abide.

Before Thy throne, the Gods in awe incline,
Exalting souls that spring from hidden fire;
From Thee, Unconscious Source of the Divine,
Emerge the Fathers whom the Gods admire.

Two twins arose, one base, the other bright,
Their union shaped the world of form and name;
One bore the truth, the other forged the blight
Yet both returned unto the secret Name.

Then she, with mind both good and true,
Did craft the earth in wisdom’s silent grace;
All perfect things she to the spirit drew,
And housed them in the Mind’s eternal place.

Though man be last, his soul the stars contain
For gods and men are of a single chain.

Golden thread pulls tight,
soft whisper dressed in longing
the soul forgets home.
Flame that feeds itself,
burning joy into sorrow
let it die to live.
Cravings rise like mist,
vanishing with morning light
truth waits in the still.

I was once the wind that taught the wheat to bow,
a hymn rustling through the hollow of old branches,
and before that, a river that carried lost dreams and lullabies
to the mouths of waiting roots.

No bell marked the crossing.
No lantern swung above the gate.
I passed as smoke does
into the open mouths of new shapes,
Reborn.

They say the soul is a thread pulled through a hundred needles,
each time tearing into a different fabric:
feather, bone, brass, thirst, song.
Not to become, but to remember
what becoming cannot hold,
only held for a short moment in time.

I was hunger shaped like a wolf,
and later, grief that wore a girl's eyes.
Each body an orchard I neither planted nor owned,
but was asked to tend with quiet hands.

Reincarnation is not a ladder
it is a storm that forgets its last thunder.
It chooses neither upward nor wise,
but necessary.
To be what the story requires
in the moment the page turns.

One life, a seed beneath the floorboards.
The next, the axe.
Another, the breath of the one who grieves the falling.
And still, no beginning.
And still, no final version of flame,
Can it be.

The maker—if there is one
does not speak.
But leaves signs in frost
and patterns in the flight of startled birds.

So I do not ask what I will be.
I ask only:
What silence must I carry next?
What wound will I wear
to become the light pouring through it?
Upon this world.

You rage in CAPS, but never find your place,
Your fury burns, but leaves no trace.

A limerick laughs, a sonnet steals the show,
Your words fall flat, with nowhere to go.

You bark at form, at rhyme, at meter’s grace,
But tantrums fail your win erased.

You write with slurs, as if that buys you time,
Yet poetry’s fire is sharp and prime.

You could’ve learned a style a villanelle or line
Instead, you mock what needs that's fine.

Each sestina loops, it's a mindful art,
While snow globe and lava lamps just fall apart.

Pantoum, haiku, blank verse come on take your pick,
Tools to build, not tricks you *****.

You troll and scroll, but never touch the page,
Afraid to step into the poet’s stage.

R your name won’t last in rhyme,
Lost to noise and lost in time.

So throw your shade, pretend you’re deep,
But poets hold the truths you keep asleep

It's the rip, the blackened maw, the claw that tears, the **** that spits.
Knees, shredded— crawling through filth, scraping against the stars, that grin, that lie, that barbed glint.
Skulls crack, thrones melt, heaven vomits ash, saints bleed rust.
Slogging through sludge— sin stitched to skin, to bone, to the grin.
Mortals crawl, tongues dry, licking lies, ******* venom, choking on the ash of their own breath.
Chains? Swallowed, each link, a sear, a burn, a scar, a choke.
It's the howl, jaw snapped, embered to bone, a name carved in the rot, in the ruin, in the blood.
Redemption? A sick joke, a priest’s last spit, dread, laughter, truth, bile.
Splintered, shrieks, teeth ground, shards in the throat, prayers, vapor, venom, a last hiss, ash in the wind.
Truth is nothing but a empty void, A painting made of blood and tar, It’s a scream into the abyss,
daring you to look at the rot and ruin without flinching,
It's more like a punch than a whisper.

Splinters of a Vow
Jagged oaths,
Splintered on your tongue,
You gorged my marrow,
Left bones to bleach.
Scattered, raven picked flesh
We spun melodies,
Feral, unbound,
Chords of gods,
Now ash in my throat.“Forever,” you hissed,
A serpent’s hymn,
But your loyalty
A blade,
Rusted,
Still sharp,
Slid between my ribs.
Took my fire,
My shifted pulse,
Drank deep all you could,
Then spat me dry.
No remorse, not second thought
Your shadow fled,
Not from me from your own guilt
A shadow that follows you still
A coward’s gait,
All the wills that turned into won't
Then cants
When storms gnashed teeth.
This is you broken legacy
Our music,
Once a fevered dream,
Still it burns but never ours
Now a dirge,
Screams in cracked mirrors.
Looking back I see
Your name, broken
Restless
Unfortunately
Unforgettable
While it remains
Unforgivable
A shard,
A curse,
A bitter gall I choke,
Until that day comes
Wear bitterness
Sorrow
Bear

The Stain Within does often weep,
It festers where no light can creep,
A pulse of red, a wound too deep,
It often crawls, while wounds they seep,
The mind, a cage, replays the act
The scream, the snap, the world intact.
No grave can hold the truth’s decay,
It claws, it whispers, night and day.
The mirror shows a stranger’s grin,
The blood’s not hers—it lives within.
Each step, a thread, unravels sane,
The self dissolves in scarlet stain.
No absolution, only dread
The murdered live; the killer’s dead.

We live on stolen soil
****-stained by pride,
blood-branded by flags,
and haunted by the ghosts of truth we buried beneath capitalism.

No one owns this land
but we all die trying to claim it.
White blames Black.
Black blames White.
Distraction, deflection,
while the real ******* villains
sign contracts with the Devil
in corner offices with panoramic views
of the cities they’re starving.

They hide
in plain ******* sight
drinking $900 whiskey,
while your grandma chooses
between heat and insulin.

The system is not broken
it’s built this way.
Crime? That’s survival in a jungle
where the lions drive Range Rovers
and the hyenas run for Parliament.

Education?
They teach us how to kneel.
Skills?
Only if they serve the machine.
Energy?
Sold to foreign devils
while we eat cold soup in the dark.
Infrastructure?
Rotting bridges like our hope
hollow, rusted, sagging
under the weight of hypocrisy.

Unemployment?
That’s a feature, not a flaw.
Keep them hungry,
keep them angry,
but never too united.

And politicians?
******* pigs in silk suits.
They don’t serve us
we serve them.
They gorge on lies,
******* out policies
that choke the poor
while their children fly first class to Swiss schools.

They smile on screens,
preach peace and progress,
but behind closed doors
they're circle-jerking over oil rights
and who's getting the next cut
of your grandmother’s pension.

You want change?
Then stop tweeting.
Burn something.
Make fear your language,
like they taught you.
Not because violence is noble
but because nothing else works.

Once, tyrants feared truth.
Now, they own it.
Twist it.
Broadcast it.
And call it "news."
ah that's Fake News - ******* idiot
They made lies the air we breathe,
so now we choke on fiction
and call it freedom.

They convinced us
we’re enemies
color-coded,
class-divided,
tribalized,
distracted.

Mean­while,
the world burns
and the arsonists auction off the ashes.

This isn’t society.
This is a farm.
We are cattle.
Fattened on fear,
milked for labor,
then slaughtered for profit.
Our children inherit nothing
but debt, war, trauma,
and a planet rigged to implode.

And still we smile.
Still we say “please.”
Still we wave the flag
while standing in line for our own ******* execution.

We tell each other "Love wins."
We post peace signs.
Meanwhile,
a man somewhere is choking his wife
because the rent’s late
and the rage has nowhere else to go.

We say "sorry"
like it scrubs away the scars.
But sorry doesn't fix broken teeth.
Or burned cities.
Or empty stomachs.
Or shattered dreams.

You want revolution?
Then stop hoping.
Start haunting.
Make the halls of power tremble
with your footsteps.
Make corruption scream
before it dies.

Because this isn’t about politics.
This is about survival.
This is about soul.
About taking back
what we were never even allowed to imagine.

Imagine a world
where a liar in a suit gets dragged
instead of promoted.
Bang!
Where corruption ends with consequence.
Bang!
Where justice isn’t a concept
it’s a ******* blade,
Bang!
Who's next in line !
Deceive this country
Deceive these people
Bang!
Who is next in line !
No time for incompetent, liars and thieves ! Because we have something for those politics
Bang!
Who is next in line !

No more praying.
No more petitions.
No more playing nice with demons
who smile better than saints.

This is our fire.
This is our scream.
We built this hell
and now,
we burn it the **** down,
We only get one life
Why shouldnt it be our best life !

The Iceberg Gospel
unexpressed
not lost
just festering
like maggots in a velvet drawer
polite rot,
ugly’s rehearsal in a satin mask
they called it “coping”
I called it
an audition for the collapse

truth sits in the dark with its mouth sewn shut
but the fingers twitch,
the breath stammers,
and the skin tells stories
that lips choke back
secrets drip through pores
no mortal stays clean

freedom?
you mean
the prison where I build my own walls
and call them boundaries
where I sign my name in blood
on every oath I never meant to keep
you want my freedom?
take my guilt, too
it comes in chains
with a mirror

I dreamed of drowning in my own skull
the waves were laughter
"Royal Road," they whispered
but the map was in hieroglyphics
and the key was shame
no torch,
just instincts gnawing
through ego's leash

love
the elegant executioner
comes dressed in silk
with a knife shaped like
a promise

the iceberg mind
a cathedral with only one open pew
and six sunk in shadow
we float
but not really

you want peace?
talk to the soft voice
the whisperer
the intellect that scratches the chalkboard of your spine
until you finally
turn around
and say:
“Yes, that was me.”

struggle?
it kissed me with cracked lips
and called it salvation
now I look back
and see
a cathedral of scars
lit by the ghost of becoming

and still,
I bleed
from every buried word
I dared not speak.

The sky bruises at the edges
violet veins bursting through the silence
like old wounds speaking.
Not blood, but memory
spilled across the firmament.

Distance is a color,
you just never noticed.
It hums in plum shadows on her cheek,
in amethyst regrets curled in the corners of old letters,
in the sigh of a cigarette smoke ghosting
toward someone who isn't there.

Color makes the world turn
not gravity, not time,
but the way rust stains a prayer on an iron gate,
how saffron screams from a monk’s robe
while the lavender dusk swallows the sun whole
without apology.

But black
black is something else.
It doesn’t turn.
It doesn’t beg.
It absorbs.

It’s the silence
between stars.
The unspoken between lovers.
The last thing your father’s eyes held
before he sank.

And violet
that hesitant echo of black
is distance turning its head away
just before the goodbye.

I loved you when I shouldn't have.
Didn’t plan to—never intended—
you were good enough
for those
blunt-edged
Tuesdays and
broken-glass Thursdays
you know,
those days you said
“Can you come over?”
and I
stupidly
always said
“Sure.”
(What’s my name?)
Not yours.
Never yours.

I didn’t want to fall,
but I did.
Even while we were
tangled in
half-closed lies and
barely buried truths.
It’s funny
how we ache for the poison
that already lives in our veins.
How I saw
from the start
we were chemicals
unstable,
volatile,
clinging to a rusted shelf
waiting to break.

I was strong.
You were sinking.
You dragged me down
while I taught you to rise.
I showed you
how to see.
But it was never
my job
to make you
a ******* lighthouse.

And that
that was where
I ******* lost it.

I should’ve stuck to the plan:
2 hours of escape,
3 hours of noise,
no more.
Tuesdays.
Thursdays.
Send you home
to your shadow world.
But no.
I carried you
into music,
into meaning,
into books that bled your name
on every page.
You said forever.
I said
nothing is.

And still
you walked.
You left.
But not a ******* day goes by
where my name
doesn’t haunt
your spine
like a ghost.

We were more
than you’ll ever know.
More than I’ll ever find again.
But I’ve made
friends
with silence.
I’ve married the ache,
swallowed the ending,
stitched it
into the back of my ribs.

You say you left
to find yourself.
*******.
You found yourself
in my hands.
And you wanted
to show the ones who broke you
how tall you stood.
But you forgot
who taught you to walk.

The cost
was everything.
And you?
You walk easy
because you were handed it all.
Took it.
Wore it.
Forgot it.

I wasn’t perfect
but with me,
you were real.
You were raw.
And now?
You hide.
You live a ******* lie,
afraid of being touched
by anything true again.
Because you know who you are.
You tasted truth.
And now you rot
in its shadow.

Do the crows in your skull
peck memories into migraines?
Do you flinch
at the echo of “us”?
I don’t mind.

I walk.
Alone.
With that little fluffy gift.
Not crying.
Not reaching.
Not breaking.
Not needing.
If I had one more day
fine.
If I had a hundred years
fine.
Because none of them
include
you.

You,
who swallowed me
from the inside.

Tree on the Hill
It doesn’t grow
it remembers upward,
each branch a green-tinged scream
curved into the ache of sun.

Leaves don’t fall
they betray,
drifting like forgotten tongues
gold-lipped,
summer-sick,
too heavy to lie still.

The bark
creased like an elder’s laughter
etched in dirtscript,
smells of storms caught mid-prayer
and mosses that whisper
to no one in particular.

Its roots?
They grip the hill
like a jealous god,
fingers buried in the soil’s old heartbreak,
sipping secrets from beneath the grassline.

And the wind
it doesn’t pass.
It negotiates.
Swirls between the limbs like lost voices
asking the tree if it's still waiting,
still listening,
still pretending to be alive.

Sparkless grit
presses under frostbit knuckles
not fire,
just the idea of heat
with its eyes shut.

I rest in the draftwork
of holding patterns,
where clocks twitch
but never commit.

Once
weather scored graffiti
down my backframe,
like a vandal too polite
to leave a name.
Now breath limps
blurred,
rattling through cracked syllables
that don’t know what they’re naming.

Tannin hums behind the teeth,
coiled like a riddle
no tongue can unwrap.

Velvet cords grip the throat
not tightly,
just enough
to remind me
I'm still leased
to something unseen.

The wind tastes like rusted lemon
split skin,
unbitten seconds,
ticking in citrus static.

I’m a jar
glaze peeled,
rim chipped,
still ringing
from hands that shaped and fled.

Then comes not-morning
just the choreographed blur
of cloth and chrome,
rituals that shine
but don’t touch.

Time turns its crank.
I nod.
I click.
I vanish for the hours.

And the dark?
It unbuttons itself
with fluent decay.
It wades in,
speaks in steam,
and folds me into its absence
not to ****,
but to remember me
the way embers remember
what they could have burned.

I wait
for endlessness,
or whatever arrives
five seconds too late

Somedays I rise like a monk,
barefoot, benign
& still get gutpunched by a cold kettle,
no sugar,
no spoons,
no ******* coffee
just the bitter truth of unplanned idiocy.

That’s the prelude.

Then comes the uninvited opera
the ogre in a hatchback
slithering through lanes he didn’t earn,
gargling ego, honking for clearance
like his tardiness
was my crucifix to bear.

The shop-witch counts coins
copper by copper,
dragging eternity across the till
while I rot behind her,
watching her smirk at the math
like she's curing cancer.

I light a smoke
wind turns assassin.
My sandwich?
Now a Sahara-dusted tragedy.
A mouthful of grit.
Sky ****** spite.
I take a drag—wet ash,
storm on my lips.

There’s always
something.

A misfired message
“you up?”
No, ****, I’m spiraling.
A call about their cat's vomiting,
as if I’m the feline whisperer.
And why is it
that the needy
find me when I need
no one?

Some ***** unclips their door
into my car,
nods like they did me a favour
like my paintwork
was begging for a scratch.
No apology. Just audacity.

And then
relationships, appointments,
all these temporal collisions
some can’t ******,
some can’t stop.
It’s always
either waiting,
or sprinting to keep up
while someone else
finishes without you,
wipes off their guilt
& says,
“ready to go again?”

Somedays…
it’s more days than not.

The inconsiderate breed like roaches
everywhere,
invisible
until they nibble at the nerves.
Each one
a subtle saboteur of serenity
a Harry,
a Sally,
a gnat in the gut of grace.

And I
I dream of vaporizing silence,
a death-ray of solitude
or **** it,
just vanishing,
****,
if that’s what it takes
to bypass this
imposed ritual of irritation.

I pray:
“Lord, get me through this day.”
But perhaps
I should say:
“Lord, muzzle the world.
And let me sip
my ******* coffee
in peace.”

Somedays,
I just want calm.
But somedays…
are all days
in drag.

The river
— still —
not dead,
just holding its breath like it’s been doing for centuries,
like me,
warm-skinned, waiting,
a vein of old gods slicing the belly of the land.

Light drips
thick, slow
like honey from a wound,
slick across willow bones,
and dusk swallows it
without a sound.

Crickets scratch
violins made of rust and dirt,
screaming lullabies for the lost.
Each note
a tooth pulled from the silence,
buried beneath the reeds.

Maple leaves
curl like fists,
anger in amber,
whispers of fire choking the wind—
they’ve seen too many falls,
too many barefoot ghosts
asking the trees for answers they never give.

Bridges bend
like old men
too tired to hold stories anymore—
but they do.
They do.
Their backs cracked with the weight of kisses,
of “forever”s spit through clenched teeth,
wood soaked in the sweat of holding on.

Sun bleeds out
slow
gold leaking into black,
into arms that forgot how to hold anything but
absence.

And the river just keeps
keeps.
Keeps.

Still.
Silent.
A throat never cut
but always open.
Waiting for the moon
to swallow it whole
and call it peace.