Timed Achievement  

A goal timed with care,  
each step woven with purpose,  
the end line in sight.  

Peaceful Resolve  

Clear conscience, like light,  
guides calmly toward your aim,  
strong and sure of self.  

Fading in Shadows  

Misery awaits,  
for those pleasing all but self  
dreams lost in shadow.  

Bound by Purpose  

A man bound within,  
purpose wrapped tight in silence,  
seeking a new path.  

Ignition of Dreams  

Mediocre sparks,  
enthusiasm fans new flames  
ideas come alive.  

Roots of Achievement  

Strong roots lie at home,  
a foundation built on love—  
from here, dreams take flight.  

Climb to Victory  

Victory’s high crest,  
calls to those who dare to climb  
each summit embraced.  

Lift Each Other  

Accept who they are,  
raise others to reach their heights  
in strength, we achieve.  

Choices that Ripple  

Choose with all your heart,  
each act ripples in the world  
mountains shift through will.  

Steps to Achievement  

Humble steps build dreams,  
the first foundations of strength  
seeds planted grow high.  

Reaching for Stars  

Reach as far as stars,  
though the moon may slip away  
a light still greets you.  

Enduring Wisdom  

Thinkers mocked first,  
rise where light and truth endure  
wisdom stands honored.  

Beyond the Fear  

Goals lie past your fears,  
just beyond that line of doubt  
cross to find the light.  

Choosing the Path  

Past leaves its own mark,  
yet future calls with clear hands  
each step clears the way.  

Harvest of Effort  

Kindness sown with care,  
patience nurtures every bloom  
harvest waits in time.  

Giving and Letting Go  

Give, then let it go,  
accept what life brings in turn  
gifts of grace remain.  

Effort Rewarded  

Dreamers wait for chance,  
but the wise set forth to act  
fate favors the bold.  

Bright Anticipation  

Expectation’s light,  
steady heart and thought aligned  
mark the mind of strength.  

Listening to Truth  

Reason wears anger,  
yet seldom serves purpose well  
be calm, listen deep.  

Genius Within  

In each of us lies,  
a gift that lifts the world high  
secret genius.  

Strength and Balance  

Gentle with all things,  
yet firm, holding steady ground  
soft strength finds its place.

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 !

We leapt from the heavens, hand in hand,
Plunging through clouds to kiss the land.
The wind screamed loud, but we heard only laughter,
Two souls entwined, chasing ever after.

A river beckoned, its wild heart untamed,
Through rapids and ripples, our courage reclaimed.
In a two-seater canoe, we danced on its waves,
Adventurers bold, no need to be saved.

The sea called next, with its predator's grin,
Among shark-filled waters, our love pulled us in.
We marveled at creatures, vibrant and free,
A symphony of life beneath the sea.

On long, winding roads, we followed the sun,
Chasing horizons until day was done.
Crazy road trips, sunsets in our sight,
Each one a treasure, each one a delight.

We wandered white sands, where time stood still,
Holding each other, hearts soft yet thrilled.
Every step a promise, every whisper a vow,
To cherish this love, here and now.

Now a hot air balloon lifts us away,
A picnic mid-sky in the fading day.
Sandwiches and wine,
the stars drawing near,
The lake below calm,
our hearts crystal clear.

As the moonlight graces the night’s velvet dome,
We make sweet love in our skyborne home.
Our passion, a fire that ignites the serene,
Hotter than flames that keep us between.

Floating gently, our spirits alight,
Forever explorers of love's boundless flight

We feared the wind when it came unbound,
it tore through rooftops, split the ground.
It spared the cruel, took babes instead,
and flung them to the river’s bed.

So we gave the wind a face, a name
to shield ourselves from nameless shame.
Spirit. Omen. God. A sign.
Not to change it—just define.

For pain with meaning hurts us less
than chaos cloaked in randomness.

When lightning struck a sleeping man,
we blamed it on a god’s dark plan.
A child was born without her sight
we said her mother failed the rite.

When drought devoured ten long years,
we answered skies with blood and spears.
Called the clouds a womb too dry
to drop her sorrow from the sky.

But prayers fell flat, and bulls all bled,
and still the sky looked down, not red.
So we split heaven, drew a line
one god for wrath, and one divine.

One to cradle, one to break,
one to give and one to take.
One for love, and one to blame
for knives that come with passion's name.

We built our myths to rest at night,
to dim the chaos with a light.
To say "there's order in the storm"
not random death, but wrath with form.

We gave evil hands and breath,
and dressed him in a court of death.
Not an accident, but will
a mind that plots, a vow to ****.

We gave him names: the snake, the sin,
the voice that speaks when trials begin.
Adversary. Shadow king.
The whisperer of every thing.

Oh, the play we wrote was grand:
a silver tongue, a fiery hand.
A trickster clothed in law and lies,
with deals that glint in mortal eyes:

"You need not wait for heaven’s gate
I’ll give you now, you skip the wait.
Beauty, power, gold and fame
just sign your breath, just speak my name."

And we said yes, again, again.
Not fooled—just tired, just weak from pain.
We longed for what he promised near,
and needed someone else to steer.

But here's the twist: he doesn’t win.
He knows the fire waits for him.
He gets his spoils, counts his cost
knowing the war is already lost.

We think he hoards our souls like gold,
but maybe he just hates the role.
Maybe he's tired, trapped in script
a villain cast who can't resist.

Yet still he comes, and still he speaks
at dusk, in banks, in tangled sheets.
Still makes the deal, still signs the slip,
still presses fire to the lip.

Because someone must wear the mask.
Someone must answer when we ask
Why mothers die with screams unheard,
and tyrants rot with riches earned.

Why children starve while angels weep,
and prayers dissolve in dreamless sleep.
Why saints go mad, and just men fall
again,
and then again,
and all.

We say it's him. It helps us cope.
We clothe despair in scarlet hope.
We give our dread a face, a flame
a throne, a crown, a hated name.

But maybe Satan’s just a role
a mirror cast within the soul.
A shrug from nature, dark and bare,
or worse—ourselves,
just standing there.

"Raindrop Derby"
Raindrops race downhill,
children cheer for streams of fate
small joys shape the world.

"The Ant Parade"
Ants march in a line,
tiny wars on pavement cracks
a boy laughs, enthralled.

"Coin Waltz"
Spinning a coin fast,
hypnotized by its waltzing
all else fades away.

The sky still tastes of iron,
wet breath of old storms swallowing the hills,
where I once ran without shoes,
spitting laughter into the wind
a feral thing, a child-king,
ruling over stick-sword battles and mud-caked thrones.

Now the air is thinner,
clouds scatter like ghosts too tired to haunt,
and my hands—old gnarled roots
grasp at echoes,
at the soft whisper of a name
I have long forgotten but never lost,
can you hear my whisper.

She was there once
braiding summer into my hair,
fingers like sparrow wings,
light, delicate, fleeting.
Her voice, a river bending
through the cracked earth ridge of my ribs,
shaping me, eroding me,
leaving only the hollow hum of her song.

Dreams came then,
painted on the walls of my skull,
wild beasts of hope,
ran freely,
howling beneath a sky where every star was a promise.
I swore I'd never leave,
never turn to dust,
never let time claw its name into my bones.

But here I am,
watching the sky bleed out another evening,
knowing that clouds
no matter how heavy with memory
will always disappear.

If this life is an Unlit altar
I press my voice into the windless dark,
as if breath alone could shape an answer.
Knees sunk deep in brittle earth,
I offer silence where hymns once rose.

No fire falls. No veil stirs above me.
Only the hush of those illuminated stars
burning through questions
older than any creed.

Once this world felt held
a warm, unseen hand of meaning.
Now this endless sky stares back
these great eyes looking down: vast, flawless, and mute.

I build no temples, only marks in sand,
each one unseen before it's known.
A ritual of reaching
toward something that may never reach back.

Is this devotion or defiance
to keep shaping the shape of longing
when no hand returns the touch?

Still I rise,
not redeemed, not refused,
but marked by the gesture
of asking.

Don’t be sorry — that’s just noise people make when they want to look decent without changing a thing.

Don’t explain — that’s just smoke people blow when they’re hoping you’ll forget they lit the match.

Don't be sorry be careful.

Moments drift and pass
thoughts engrained in time
dreams nest within our hearts,
eternal forever alive.

Echoes linger still
shadows soft on souls,
whispers of laughter lost,
tears never told.

Time may steal the day,
but cannot steal the spark
love once truly felt,
still burning in the dark.

For every fleeting hour
leaves fingerprints behind,
on memories gently worn,
but never left behind.

Welcome, dear soul, to the fiery embrace,
Where pleasure and sin find their rightful place.
Forget what you’ve heard, the lies they’ve spread
Hell’s not torment; it’s where life’s truly led.

Lust and desire aren’t vices to shame,
They’re art forms perfected in passion’s flame.
A dance of bodies, a feast of the flesh,
In Hell, these pleasures are always fresh.

Heaven may promise a cloud and a harp,
But its paradise is tepid, stale, and sharp.
No touch, no taste, no thrill of the chase
Just hymns on repeat in a sterile space.

Gluttony’s king in this molten domain,
With endless banquets and wine that won’t wane.
Greed’s not a crime but a game we adore
Dive into gold, there’s always more.

Envy and wrath? They fuel our fun,
Competitive flames under the devil’s sun.
Pride? Oh darling, we’ve mastered the art,
In Hell, self-love is the beating heart.

And let’s not forget our master below,
Lucifer, charming, with a radiant glow.
No ruler of chains, but a host with finesse,
Inviting you in with a wink and a jest.

Meanwhile in Heaven, they whisper and pray,
Clinging to halos that tarnish each day.
What do they do? Does anyone know?
All we’ve heard is “harps” and a dull golden glow.

Angels pretend it’s the place to reside,
But secretly sneak to our wild side.
Gabriel sings at our endless soirees,
While cherubs peek through Hell’s fiery haze.

So step through the gates and leave guilt behind,
In Hell, you’re free to indulge the mind.
Heaven can keep its rigid façade
Down here, we honor the lives you’ve led flawed.

Eternity’s waiting, the flames softly roar,
Welcome to Hell, your new, thrilling decor

The fiery heart of the poet shines through ages, His furnace forged quietly and unseen in the dark, Finally his heart is inscribed with a name only heaven can read and angels know,

He is haunted by the "One" who walks in fire and lives in the shadows away from light,  
He journeys through paths unknown, hidden and strange finding nourishment for his soul while enlightenment finds the mind.

He hears the voices of innocence singing in the distance, laughing like children in Eden's call, yet the shadows that follow him still fall,
for our innocence is but a moment in time,
turning with fire and soil.

The sound of a distant hammer clang, lifted by some unknown hand, that could shape a Tyger fierce or calm a Lamb so soft, who dared breathe light into these trembling forms, fill them with the storm’s ancient blood and  breath of a golden wind?

I saw that fleeting moment of infinity in the simple grain of sand, a world held tight in the human grasp; I touched heaven in the curve of a wildflower, where angels stand side by side in common place.

See now the journey of the poet, paradise opens its gates, and mercy waits in stillness,
but chains are wrought by iron hands, clasping the heart, casting darkness upon forgotten lands.

Let those in their stone palaces bow to the innocence they have overthrown;
for our prisons rise where lambs are led,
and angels shed their tears for the cities painted in blood and red.

Awake, O soul of the lowly poet who walks,
shake free of the mortal shroud that holds you and walk once more among stars, taste heavens for all that breathes is holy and wild, each soul a flame, each life a song.

He stands while heaven weds itself to hell,
where opposites dwell, fierce and bright;
joy and sorrow knit close as one part of tomorrow, woven in night, yet rising with the morning sun.

So he treads through the fire and through light, His heart becomes the furnace, his soul a lyre, feeling the earth shake from the silent hymn, in every star for this world is the breath of creation and through this he is alive in its blaze.

Enlightenment, they call it
man’s emergence from immaturity,
a self-imposed prison built of cowardice and laziness.
How sweet the yoke of docility,
how warm the embrace of guardians
who feed us thoughts pre-chewed,
who guide us with the steady reins of convenience.

Sapere Aude! they cry.
But courage falters when fear looms large
fear whispered by pastors, tax men, and officers.
Do not argue, they demand,
as if reason were a sin,
as if obedience were salvation.

Books think for us,
pastors believe for us,
physicians eat for us
and we, content in our mechanized stupor,
trade our birthright for comfort.

Rules and formulas,
chains dressed as wisdom,
bind our minds with their silent weight.
The leap to freedom
is an uncertain stumble over ditches
too small to justify our terror.
Yet we cling to the familiar yoke,
fond of our immaturity,
trained to fear the very light
that promises liberation.

Even the guardians,
those architects of complacency,
cannot escape their own machinery.
Prejudice, like a loyal hound,
turns and devours its master.
New chains replace the old,
new dogmas leash the unthinking mass.

But freedom lies not in revolutions,
not in shattered thrones or scattered crowns.
It hides in the fragile flame of reason
the courage to think,
to question,
to speak against the tide of quiet conformity.

The age of enlightenment, they claim.
No, we dwell in its shadow,
its distant echo,
fumbling toward a freedom
we barely dare to imagine.

Winds howl through my ears
empty voices, empty rules,
dust beneath my feet.

Stars burn, mountains fall,
yet still they beg me to care.
I just light my smoke.

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

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.

Drunk on swollen pride,
ego sips lies, one by one
glass half-full of self.

I wandered through the vaults of thought and flame,
Where peristyles in basalt bore no name,
And columns stretched like hymns across the seas,
Painted in twilight’s thousand reverent degrees.
The sky, it kissed the ocean’s mirrored gaze
A temple drowned in ever-shifting haze.
And there I lived in lush, immortal ease,
Where fans of palm blew slow, obedient breeze.

Their silence served to cool my burning brow,
As naked slaves moved time without a vow.
Yet in that land of dream and dusky gold,
A deeper, stranger symmetry took hold:

Why is it all I see returns in three
Like some divine and ancient guarantee?

The Father, Son, and Spirit veil the soul,
The Id, the Ego, Superego’s role.
The Brahma, Shiva, Vishnu guard the gate,
While Maiden, Mother, Crone unravel fate.
Three Fates who spin, three Graces clothed in charm,
Three curses, three desires, threefold harm.

The world itself obeys a triple voice:
Solid, Liquid, Gas in fluid choice.
Evaporation, Condensation’s dance,
And Precipitation’s downward trance.
The atom sings in Proton, Neutron, Charge,
Its silence split across a spectrum large.
Red, Green, and Blue compose the prism’s song,
Three notes of light that carry life along.

The Past, the Present, Future never sleep
They guard the hours we borrow but can't keep.
Producer, Consumer, Decomposer rise,
And write the food chain’s truth beneath the skies.

Our minds are threes: Conscious where we tread,
Subconscious murmurs, Unconscious sleeps like dead.
A triune brain of Reptile, Feeling, Mind,
A holy tangle evolution twined.
Our needs arise as Survive, Belong, Transcend,
The Maslow path we chase until the end.
And still we speak with Logic, Heart, and Trust
Logos, Pathos, Ethos born from dust.

A First name, Middle, Last we often bear,
To walk our Youth, Adult, and Elder stare.
Mind, Body, Spirit are the roles we keep,
We Work, we Play, and then we fall to Sleep.
The Hero, Guide, Antagonist all meet,
On stages where three Acts make life complete.
The Setup, Clash, Resolve in story’s shell,
A dance of Thesis, Anti, Synthesis fell.

The Trident stands with Power, Balance, Will,
And fairy tales grant Wishes by the thrill
Of threes: three trials, three locks, three golden keys
Three riddles echoing in whispered trees.

Why so much threeness clings to every breath?
Why three to shape a life, a fate, a death?
What secret lies in this repeated spell
This triad truth the world has learned so well?

I lay beneath those caverns carved in lore,
Drunk on the wine of metaphors and more.
Is this the code, the song, the god’s decree?
The structure of the soul? The cosmic plea?

Or is the third not curse, nor gift, but test
The balance point between the east and west?
Where chaos meets control in perfect bind,
The echo of a Universal Mind?

Three stars above me blinked in calm delight.
Three steps I took into the endless night.
Three questions burned like brands inside of me:

"What are you? Where from? What will you be?"

My star cracked— (spilled, bled, drowned, sank)—
under the dirt, under the bones, under the
weight of old mistakes // (how many deaths did it take?) //
the fox bit my ankle— SNAP— gone—
red tail swallowed in a white howl,
left only clawmarks in the marrow of winter,
& the serpent? hunger-curled, frost-twisted,
black tongue frozen mid-flick—
a heartbeat caged in stone.

(where does it go? where does it go? where does it go when the cold comes down?)

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.

You enter like riddles, all smirk and suggestion,
Unpacking your chaos in well-folded grace.
I pose like a thinker, then fail each confession,
Your presence turns logic to vapor and lace.
No lock ever halts your emotional session,
Just doors left ajar in a self-haunted space
You decorate silence with longing transitions
And find comfort you yearn for in wild heart embrace.

No permits are asked. You just climb and begin,
A vandal of stillness with restless intent.
Each heartbeat becomes your new patch to win,
Your lines bleed through dreams that were never well-meant.
I once thought of solitude as discipline
Now even my doubts wear your pigment and scent.
Tell me, what canvas survives content?

I tried to erase you with breath and revision,
But ink has a way of not asking to stay.
It leans into cracks, takes its own bold position,
Then whispers its name in a sunlight decay.
This isn’t romance—it’s quiet derision,
A mural of “maybe” in permanent grey
I flinch when you line my pallete and color disarray.

Your words write themselves in fluorescent distortion,
With arrows that point where I never have been.
You map out escape like a form of extortion,
Then grin while you scribble the exits back in.
I measure the cost in small acts of contortion,
In sleeping with memories dressed in my skin
Do you ever lose sweet rage condition.,
Or every conversation make you eager to win?

What makes you return with your metaphor army?
Each phrase is a soldier that conquers the night.
You charm like a riddle then turn into “harm me,”
Each vowel a grenade, each promise a slight.
You’ve ruined restraint with your soft origami
I fold into shapes that forgo what is right
And still, I await your next moments rewrite.

So here in this gallery hung in my chest,
You tag what you want, then move on unscathed.
But each mark you leave has outlived every guest,
And none of them asked to be saved.
I smile for the critics, I nod with the rest
But secretly wonder what’s left unengraved
And whether I’m built to live or be repaved.

Heart tightens
Soul frightens
Breath shallow
Eyes hollow

Pain grows
Silence knows
Lids close
Tear flows

Salt tracks
Hope cracks
Face numb
Thoughts drum

Skin chills
Time stills
Drop slips
Past grips

Hand near
Wipes tear
Palm warm
Breaks storm

Floor bare
Grief there
Cry done
Dark won

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

The poet grips his pen,
its weight a tether to something unseen,
something clawing inside him.
He wants to write of love,
of soft births and the tender glow of dawn.
He wants to summon angels,
their wings brushing away the silence.

But his hand silently rebels.
It moves, driven by the pull of his heart,
that traitorous vessel,
and spills ink like fallen blood
dark, thick, unrelenting.
It writes not of hope,
but of shadows that stretch and swallow, consume
of demons that smirk in the margins,
of decay creeping through unseen cracks.

And he pauses, breath tight in his chest.
Why, he wonders,
did God give us eyes for beauty,
to witness the trembling grace of a leaf,
the soft curve of a smile
yet hands that betray,
that carve darkness from the light?

Why did He split the mind and the heart,
one knowing the good,
the other bound to its darker pulse?
We want the best, the poet thinks,
yet we falter, unseen.
We preach kindness,
yet our shadows curl with unspoken cruelties.
We crave forgiveness,
but hold grudges like treasured stones.

Must the sky break open?
Must angels plummet and demons rise
before we stop?
Before we change?

Or will it take the King Himself,
stepping into the chaos,
for us to bow,
to surrender this endless war
between what we see,
what we know,
and what we do?

The poet sits,
pen still trembling.
He does not write the answer,
because he does not know it.
But his heart beats on,
and the ink continues to flow.

I do not write to carve my name in stone,
nor sing for echoes in a crowded hall.
I let the melodies guide me alone,
not chasing gold—just heeding music’s call.
The rise and fall, the pulse, the breath, the sound,
the way a chord can lift or break a heart,
the way a note can wrap the soul around—
that’s why I sing, that’s why I play my part.

I paint not to be Michelangelo,
nor sculpt a legacy in strokes and hue.
I love the way the colors ebb and flow,
how crimson bleeds into the ocean blue.
The way the brush moves freely on the page,
unchained, unbound, without a master's plan,
each splash, each stroke, defying gilded cage—
art is not owned, nor shaped by any hand.

I do not write so history may know
my name, my voice, my carefully placed rhyme.
I love the way the words leap, spin, and flow,
untamed by rules, unshackled by the time.
They dance, they drift, they whisper, they collide,
unruly specters with no paths to trace.
They do not beg for praise or stand with pride—
they simply are, existing in their place.

This is what art is: raw, alive, and true,
not stitched to fame, nor meant to outshine men.
Not meant to stand atop the grandest view,
nor seek to rise by making others dim.
It is the voice that speaks without a crown,
the light that glows without demanding eyes.
And if another finds my work profound,
that’s extra—but it never was the prize.

Love, a bittersweet embrace,
A deafening silence in its place.
It breathes like the living dead,
Filling hearts with what’s unsaid.

An awfully good yet fragile thing,
Alone together, hearts take wing.
An open secret, bold yet shy,
A virtual reality under the sky.

Jumbo shrimp of grand extremes,
Pretty ugly in broken dreams.
We act naturally, yet lose control,
Cold fire burns within the soul.

Same difference marks every day,
Controlled chaos leads the way.
Sweet sorrow’s kiss, a fleeting touch,
Passive-aggressive, loved too much.

A crash landing, soft and raw,
Random order, perfect flaw.
A hellish paradise we hold so tight,
Burning ice in the heart of night.

Love defies the bounds of reason,
Fearful courage in every season.
It binds, it breaks, it heals, it scars,
An endless journey beneath the stars.

Love is not a question whispered to the dark,
but a blossom daring the frost to bloom.
It comes not in thunder,
but in the hush between heartbeats
where silence leans in to listen.

It does not ask for witness or applause;
it is the feather drifting from a swan’s wing
as it cuts the mirror still lake of your being.
No blaze, no crescendo,
just a flicker of warmth laid soft on your soul
the feeling that rewrites the geometry of longing in all depths of understanding.

Many will search but you may find it
where whispers of gold dust gather on old windowsills,
in the unpolished spoon resting beside a bowl,
or the way your name feels
when spoken by the curling tongue of someone
who leaves quiet pauses for you to breathe in the moment.

Love wears no crown,
yet it rules the wind and raises oceans
guiding petals to fall where they are missed
and leaves to spin like dancers as they fall slowly
returning home from exile.

There is no map,
only the way the stars rearrange
when you touch the back of someone’s hand
and feel, for the first time,
that the universe answers in quiet.

Even in absence of all things, love sings its song or can be found
in the bent spine of a book shared once,
in the ghost of perfume that lingers on an old scarf,
and in letters written upon fine paper never sent
but folded like prayers
and placed beneath a moonless sky
as if the heavens were meant to understand.

To love is to step barefoot under moonlight in night air
into a cathedral made of warm breath and dusk,
to find within the remnant faint echoes of
a voice that calls you by your truest name.

Let it not be caged by expectation,
nor bent beneath the weight of forever.
Love is the art of being known,
even for a moment,
so entirely
that the world begins again
in the shape of your gaze.

Where Every Kiss Becomes a Place
Let us not speak,
nor think of endings tonight.
Let our movement be silence,
our touch the language
softly,
not the empty sort,
but the sacred kind
that wraps love’s shroud around us
like golden threads of twilight light,
woven through your fingertips
and the hush between my thoughts and sighs.

A limber moon leans low above us,
its silver breath gliding soft
across crimson pale vanilla skies,
the last of the sun melting in distance
into soft violet streaks.
Even the horizon blushes
as you press your hand
against the bend of my arm
a wordless promise.

The scent of wild almond, jasmine trails us,
folding into night
with magnolia's sweetness
We walk the path before us,
unhurried,
barefoot and becoming.
Our footprints pressed in white sands
like an unspoken vow
the sea cannot erase.

Oh, this love
it tastes of amber musk and rosewoods,
a flicker in the shifting air
burning slow
with ambered warmth and playful touch,
like incense rising
to stir the heavens
and sharpen the evening stars
into thoughts,
and the sky
into longing.

Let us build our secret sanctuary
in the curl of the ocean’s sigh,
where every glance becomes a verse of a song for which we have no lyrics,
and every touch
paints love
in pastel strokes.

Your voice, low and deliberate,
threads through me
a silk ribbon tugging my name
from the silk of your voice.
I answer in skin,
in pulse,
in poetry.

There is no need to ask
where Eden lies.
It is here
in this soft constellation
we’ve made of limbs and trust,
where lips rewrite time
and our souls lie down
under the scented breath of dusk.

Hold me as if time forgets to move.
Fold me into the story
you’ve only ever told the moon.
Be the myth
and the moth to my flame .
Let me be the prayer
and the flickering candle.

Let us leave behind
not sorrow, but perfume
the memory of honeysuckle
clinging to air,
of warm skin
gilded by moonlight,
of footsteps leading forward
into forever,
where every kiss
becomes
a place we live.

Beneath the argent spires of a moonlit glade,
Where ebon vines in arabesques cascade,
Whispers of zephyrs in perfumed wane,
Entwine the symphony of night’s domain.

Opalescent pools,
veiled in stygian gleam,
Hold captive stars adrift in a liquid dream.
Celestial murmurs wend through gossamer trees,
Ethereal hymns adrift on astral seas.

A wraithlike orchid unfurls its argent crown,
Breathing nocturnal fire where shadows drown.

I tore silence apart in my mind.
The universe spoke softly, whispering secrets of the unknown.
Unspoken truths fractured my thoughts apart
into tiny shards.
I watched it all crumble.
Meaning slipped quickly through the cracks of my hands,
where all logic folds.
Every drawn map of my mind dissolved
How would I find north
when my compass lies?

My dreams echoed lands unseen.
Waking to think of it made my skin hum.
A wolf moved in and out of my visions,
eyes of glowing green.
It was as if the mirrors warped.
Every door was a new question.
How could it be,
while madness smiles?

The wind blew intuition restlessly.
Everything I once knew trembled.
The trees whispered, Instinct knows.
I wanted to run, but instead
I followed the unknown path.
All fear behind me,
each step as unknown as the path.

My thoughts danced through each moment.
There was no knowledge to watch.
Facts pile.
Truth slips.
Hands empty.
Cathedrals fall.
Mosaic of every colour.

Wisdom now waits
not still, but circling above.
Its eyes are moons that do not blink.
It speaks in ruins,
and I follow where the path cracks wider.

The ground becomes dream—then memory—then nothing.
I walk barefoot across my forgotten years.
Cities built from questions rise and fall.
Rain falls sideways.
Time bends into golden loops.
A crow leads me down a hallway of mirrors.
I speak, and my voice echoes in languages
I never learned, but always knew.

The sky peels back into velvet stars.
Each one pulses like a heartbeat.
I remember the name I had
before language was born.

A stairway made of books ascends the sea.
I climb.
Clouds whisper philosophies too ancient to hold.
Mountains lean in, eavesdropping.
The wind tastes like fire and ink.
I drink water that teaches forgetting.

I meet a version of myself
with eyes made of clocks.
We trade silence.
We argue with no words.
We weep into the same river.

Forests hum with dreams still sleeping.
There are doors inside trees.
Oceans where light has never been.
Stars that teach me how to kneel.
Every creature speaks in riddles.
And all of them are me.

The road vanishes again.
I walk anyway.

Not gone—but woven through shadow.
No answers wait on peaks of glass.
Stillness rings inside the void.
Release doesn’t shout.
It softens everything.

Deeper than thought, beneath sleep,
we breathe the same breath.
We dream from the same source.
Thoughts ripple through unseen waters.
Echoes remain.

I hold nothing.
Fingers trace the edge of myth.
Questions spin.
Meaning slips.
Madness nods.
Silence stays.
Quietly looking into the abyss.

All is question and echo,
a dance between shadow and light.
Wisdom is the stillness beneath noise,
and silence—the place where knowing begins.
We are fragments seeking the whole,
walking maps made only as we move,

held gently by a vast, patient void.
of this great unknown.

You will come–
to the edge of this world
where the sea inhales the sky,
where silver droplets drip from the hanging moon’s open mouth,
and the pulling tides keep time with my waiting.

You will come–
not as roaring thunder,
but as warmth on tanned salt skin,
a fresh breath stirring the indigo silk of night
in a hidden place beyond naming.

I wait for you
in the distance
with arms open wide,
with hands that have never forgotten
the weight of your presence.
Starfall clings to your hair,
and I let it–
each flicker a gentle kiss you haven’t given yet.

Pull me deeper,
not away–
through distant constellations collapsing in sublime delight,
across golden fields of glowing dust
and cities made only of memory.

There is no disgust here–
only the hunger to be seen,
and the softness of becoming.

My desire is a spoken prayer now,
not an open wound.
You inhabit it
with reverence.

I am not broken.
I am paused–
a held note
in an unwritten song the cestial choirs and stars are still composing.

Call me forward–
with your voice,
not with sorrow,
but with the rhythm of your fingertips
softly brushing the air between us.
Even absence wears your unforgotten scent.

I have not fallen.
I’ve been laid down–
gently–
by the invisible hands of light.

Waiting.
You do not mock.
You shimmer.
This world aches with your outline,
and I praise it
because it holds your splendor and shape.

I draw the curtain of night wide open.
Clouds part like breath beneath your gaze.
The wind does not move without purpose–
it moves with the memory of your fingers,
your presence pressing the sky into form.

I no longer pace.
I rest–
peacefully,
between skin and longing,
between the heat of my pulse
and the ghost of your mouth.

I did not give myself away.
I gave myself to you.
Willfully.
Wanting.
Woven in your majestic gravity.

This is no disgrace.
This is worship.
This is rising
again and again
toward the sun
you left burning in me.

Love is
Falling hard for someone you just met,
because mystery wears a charming face,
and silence speaks in borrowed grace.
You don’t know their story,
but your heartbeat writes it anyway.

Love is
Thinking about them constantly,
haunted by a smile,
obsessed with a voice
that never said much,
but said enough to loop in your mind
like a song you can’t stop humming.

Love is
That feeling of “this is it,”
when you barely know their middle name,
but your soul swears it remembers them
from some dream you never had.

But truthful love
is infatuation in disguise:
an intense blaze
burning bright and blind,
irrational,
overwhelming
a rush, not a root.

It isn’t deep,
it doesn’t anchor,
it dances on the surface of fantasy.

For love that lasts
takes more than magic and moments
it takes values:
patience,
respect,
resilience,
a shared will to grow
when the thrill fades,
when the real begins.

Love is
not just a spark,
but the quiet tending of a fire
when no one is watching.

But if you want forever it's more than just loves infatuation.

look closer than just a door.
Take the time to see what’s in
for the heart could be full of sin.
The one who swept you to the floor
you might wake up and see no more.
When the clouds have left the day,
love is lost, and all turns gray.

It takes more than just a thought of work to make it last
knowing the future means accepting each other's the past.
Honesty, respect, and something more
that’s what makes true love endure.

she's asleep
and I’m not.
my arm’s around her waist,
my face buried in the space where her neck curves soft.
it smells like us—like skin, heat, the night that hasn’t fully left.
I don’t want to move.
not because I’m tired
because I’m afraid the moment will slip.

her back breathes against me, slow.
that rhythm I’d follow into the dark if I had to.
there’s light starting to break in through the blinds,
drawing gold across her spine,
the little arch above her hips,
where I kissed her last before we drifted.

her skin—God,
it’s warm like the world never is.
smooth, like it was poured over bone just for me.
her shoulder, her collarbone,
the ***** of her chest against mine.
I know every part of her,
but still I look.
every **** time.

there’s this bruise on her thigh.
a mark I left.
not from hurt—
from want.
from holding her like I was starving.
because sometimes I am.

her lips are parted,
just a little.
like she’s whispering to the room without saying anything.
her hair’s all over the pillow—wild, tangled, beautiful.
I remember how I gripped it.
how she looked back at me like nothing else mattered.
how she took me—no fear, no pause.
that fire in her…
nothing else burns like that.

but now?
now she’s calm.
like a storm that passed but left the warmth behind.
her fingers twitch a little,
then slide over my hand.
she finds me even in sleep.
every time.

I don’t speak.
I don’t need to.
this quiet is louder than anything else.
just me and her.
no one watching.
no masks.
no pretending.

she stirs.
presses herself back into me.
and I pull her closer
like I’ll never get enough.

her body fits mine
like we built each other out of all the broken pieces that finally made sense.

outside, the world is already starting its noise.
but in here?
it’s still us.
just me and her,
and this space we made
out of heat and breath
and something I’ll never find anywhere else.

You were my rose,
The beautiful flower that grew in the dark,
All I knew, all I loved,
A light in my emptiness,
A balm for your void.

It felt like a dream,
Building bridges from pain,
Walking through rain,
Dancing in storms,
Bound together,
Broken yet whole.

Each day with you was sunlight spilling through the window,
Chasing shadows away.
We laughed,
We smiled,
Our secrets we whispered,
Our meaning grew deep,
Our love felt eternal.

But then we woke up.
The bridges burned,
Petals wilted,
Each day turned gray.
Thunder bellowed,
Lightning brought fear,
And the rain came to drown us.

We sank,
Unable to swim any further.
The dream unraveled,
Hope dissolved,
Music silenced,
Poetry soured.

We crashed instead of soared,
Ugliness crept in,
And beauty fled.

Why does it always end this way?
After every bloom, heartache follows.
The sacred pictures now sting,
And all that was beautiful
Has faded away.

Your thoughts flood the stream,
minute after minute — something new.
Looking for a like, or a heartbeat,
anything to feel something true.

When words are meaningless,
scrolling in loops of empty delight.
Affection is a thumbs-up,
a random like —  just casting for a bite, like fish in an ocean of poets.

She entered
not walked
entered,
like dusk sipped through lace curtains,
like sandalwood smoke curling into cathedral rafters,
like bergamot on warm wrists,
like the last spoonful of honey
melting on a waiting tongue,
mine.

Cypress glaze glistened in her wake
bitter pine softened by wind-kissed skin.
She carried the scent of
crushed petals and promise,
of rain soaked through linen,
of memory you try not to name.
I watched her breathe
the rise and fall of something ancient,
something sacred,
something mine.

Her eyes closed
and the air thickened
with the perfume of surrender.
My breath slowed,
tasting of iron and figs,
salt from her lips still distant,
yet already staining my mouth.

The shadows bowed.
Yes, even they
those dark voyeurs
lowered their heads
to the holy hush of her presence.

She was the aftertaste of midnight wine,
the echo of silk sheets being pulled tight,
the hush in a chapel
just before vows.

Ocean sound
not waves,
but breath through parted lips,
warm and wet
like secrets exhaled between collarbones.
Her voice tasted like dark cherries and sin,
and my heart?
A cello string,
taut and trembling.

Unbound,
she peeled the weight from my chest
like fruit from rind.
Silken ground met our bodies
with a hush of crushed herbs—
lavender, thyme, rosehips—
the scent of unraveling.
Love wasn’t found.
It settled
like ash on sweat-damp skin.

She sighed
and it was warm butter and firelight,
the sound of a match catching.
Twilight cried in cinnamon tears.
A golden thread
frayed, glowing
spun around her finger
like a spell whispered in the dark.
I followed it,
hand-first,
then soul.

“Rest,” she breathed,
and it tasted like jasmine tea
steeped too long—
bitter, sweet,
inevitable.
But her voice stirred
embers behind my teeth.
She never meant for sleep.
She meant for ruin.

Air thickened
molasses and myrrh.
Her skin gave off warmth like bread
fresh from the oven
I could smell the hours in it.
Her hand
trembling constellation
slipped into mine.
Honeyed lips brushed against mine
tangy with wine,
spiced with need,
soft as a bite never taken.

Fingertips,
citrus-slick and stardust cold,
dragged rivers across my spine.
They sang.
They told me
who I had been before her.

Echo hush
not silence,
but the hum of blood in my ears
as she leaned closer.
Crimson blush bloomed
in places only she could see.
Sensual touch
velvet cut with silk’s bite
wrapped around my ribs
like a vow without words.

Candle breath danced
hot wax on skin,
scent of smoke and citrus rind.
Murmured depth
her tongue behind my ear,
voice caramel-dipped
and decaying every doubt.
Velvet trace
nails dragged slowly down my chest,
painting constellations I would worship.

And in that moment
the incense stilled.
the wind bent.
the stars dimmed.

Because love
true love
moves
like she does:
with teeth,
with silk,
with the taste of forever
in her kiss.

One post, then the next
likes are crumbs in empty rooms.
Echoes clap loudest.

I’ve been walking this path longer than I meant to.
The trees along the side don’t talk anymore, and neither do the birds sing,
and the hills blur together as one
far and wide
like excuses in someone else’s mouth.

Funny how distance never explains itself.
You look back and it seems like forever or minute,
and the sharp things start to disappear:
the cliffs, the fear, the hopes,
even that voice you loved now just slips between reality and illusion.

We think about that love sometimes.
“That love”—you know the one.
Who first brought butterflies,
then left moths.
That was months ago,
or years,
or last week.
Depends who’s asking.
Just look how the bruises show,
and you wonder how you let them sink their fangs into you.

They left like a season that decided to skip town,
a breeze blown stronger than the wind
when it was convenient.
No letter,
no text message,
just one day, out of the blue,
they decide today was the day
my name didn’t mean warmth anymore,
and the time shared was meaningless
left you climbing up the walls to escape the sinking feelings that you try to hide.

I think it was then
I started wandering a lonely road.
The road less traveled—or was it just the only one left?
That’s where I met a guy
pushing a shopping cart
held together by plastic ties and prayer.
He told me he stopped counting miles
once the ground stopped being polite.
He said the hard part
wasn’t the walking.
It was knowing
nobody waits at the end.

We shared a smoke
and didn’t say anything profound.
But I remember the silence in that moment.
I think that mattered more than the smoke to both of us.

Some days
my hands smell like metal and sweaty palms.
Other days
I forget what I used to want from life.
I write,
I sleep,
I try not to watch the news.
Sometimes,
I look at life like it owes me an apology.
But it doesn’t.
Not me.
Not you.
It is what it is.

There’s a joke in all this,
I think
how nothing stays,
but the wounds still pile up.
How sorrow doesn’t have a face,
but somehow still wears your hoodie
and that Anon mask,
and it doesn’t stop kicking your ***.

People say
it gets better.
Does it? Really!?
Are they sure?
Or is that just cold comfort?
And maybe it does.
But better isn’t always different.
Sometimes
it’s just quieter
the same ****,
just another day.

And you keep going.
Because you do.
Because you have to.
Because the road
doesn’t care what you’ve been through,
who you are,
or who you lost,
or what you think you know.
It only knows forward.

And so forward we must walk
until one day,
there’s no more path,
and the journey quietly ends.

It’s then you realize
paradise was always in your soul.
We’re all just lost
dragging bruises through the labyrinth.
But still
We keep on going anyway.

Oh, how I did not see
the errors of my ways
how I spent time and favor
on shadows standing far behind,
silent figures in my past.

I aged faster
than I learned the lessons
life was whispering into my bones.
Each bridge I burned
out of need,
out of truth,
out of something raw or real.

I’ve sat
outside of thought,
inside doubt,
on top of dreams,
beneath the weight of wondering:
why?
where?
and to what end?

Floods of questions
drown the noise inside me
as I try to make peace
with all I’ve endured,
and yet
still feel broken
by this strange, winding road
that, in the end,
I believe,
leads to nothing.

But maybe
in the nothing,
there is peace.

I wonder
how many fools will gather
at the final hour,
those who lived restrained,
humble, waiting
for the next
the next life,
the next world,
the next promise
a promise
that never existed
outside the cradle of hope
we stitched into our minds.

They knew.
They knew
we did not know
and they took this ignorance
like a gift to be stolen,
turned it into gain—
into wealth,
into leashes for the mind,
chains for the soul.

But if we knew,
if we truly knew
there was nothing after death—
no heaven,
no judgment,
no eternal eye
what then?
Would we still walk straight
and slow
and silent?
Would we still call sin
a burden?

Or would we grab each day
like fire in our hands,
burning time with purpose,
making meaning
of this one life
instead of sacrificing it
to a dream
that might be
only silence?

I do not care anymore
what’s right or wrong.
Whether something waits
or nothing looms
both are only echoes
of thought,
shaped by fear
and passed down
like lullabies
to scared children
grown old.

No one has gone
to that Netherworld
and returned
with more than riddles.

Visions, yes
but dreams are part
of the nothing, too.
Just soft stories
spun from the dark.
Dreaming
our way
into the void.

Oh, what we might have done
if we’d known the truth.
All the chances lost,
all the years stolen
by belief
by upbringing
built on fantasy,
stitched together by trembling minds
too afraid to live
today.

Afraid of the watcher.
Afraid of the sky.

But I find comfort
in this final whisper:
One day,
I will dissolve
into the nothing.
And when that happens,
the weight I carry,
these wounds,
this sorrow
will no longer
be mine to bear.

In the nothing,
I will find
my peace.
And so,
I live now
fully,
madly,
brightly
because no one,
not one soul,
knows what comes next.

And belief…
is just
another name
for the unknown.

When the Moon Refused the Sea
I found the night beneath my nails,
black with the silence of undone prayers.
The stars were dull coins in a wishing jar
that no god ever shook.

I planted laughter in the soil
but nothing bloomed
except a vine of sighs
and the soft decay of maybe.

The wind spoke in riddles I once knew,
before language bled from my mouth
like wine from a cracked chalice.
Now even my dreams stutter
in dialects of ash.

A mirror broke inside me
the day the moon refused the sea
left the tide to curl like smoke
and the shore to whisper, “wait.”

Where are the ones who used to sing
with oil lamps lit in their ribs?
Where are the dancers
who knew how to bleed into rhythm
and still rise?

Tonight, I carry a lantern of salt.
It burns only for those
who have loved something
that could not love them back.

And still
I walk toward morning.
Barefoot.
Unbelieving.
But burning all the same.

I count my days
like petals torn from flowers,
soft and dying,
as cold rain
gathers in the gutters of forgotten hours.

I count them
those numbered breaths,
those sunsets swallowed whole,
mornings folded into mist,
every soft cloud
passing like a whispered ghost.

I count my days
as they slip beyond my grasp,
fading,
like echoes down a hall
where no one waits to listen.

Each moment seen,
each life I might’ve lived
gone.
Words I never spoke
lie heavy in the throat of silence.

I count the days
that passed me by while I slept,
as the world spun on
without me.
I count the days
since I lost my soul,
my reason,
since I gave away who I was
to please those
who never truly saw me.

Time moves forward,
a cruel illusion,
a godless god
a mental construct
more real than the dreams
I once held
like fragile glass.

Oh, the dreams I had...
like smoke now,
vanished,
off and gone
without ceremony.

They say:
“It’s never too late to begin again.”
But oh, if only that were true.

Time does not care.
It wounds, it walks on.

And here I lie
broken, sore,
facing the loss
of what I once held
and now have no more.

If I had known
what life truly was,
before it broke me,
I would have clung tighter
to each second.
Every moment gone
is a grave in the garden.

Every day
is one step closer
to what?
To less.
To silence.
To death.

I feel it in my marrow.
One day, I’ll vanish too.
And who will mourn?

I’ve walked alone
all my life,
an outsider
here,
but never truly part.

Love came,
and love went.
Loss slipped
through my fingertips
again
and again
and again.

My eyes have seen
the strangest things,
but never saw
that it would end like this
at the edge of myself.

The truth is:
you only have yourself.
Even love fades.
Even the closest
will drift,
or die,
and you
you will remain,
or be the one
to leave.

Alone.
Alone.
Yes
this has always
been my road.

Looking in
from the outside,
a silent witness
to a world
I was never truly
a part of.

I struck my skin upon the barren thorn,
And life-red rose to surface, warm.
I stared into it—bubble-deep,
As from the wound, my skin did weep.

It traced a path slow to the floor,
Reminding me of days before,
And all the roads I dared to tread
Each drop, a whisper of paths I've fled.

It showed the way I made it down,
From mountain smile to valley frown.
Each fall returned me to my start,
A bleeding map of shattered heart.

The droplets fell with quiet grace,
Coating grey cement’s cold face.
At first, it seemed a wasteful spill,
Like years I'd lost against my will.

But then, with every crimson line,
I saw the tears I’d left behind
Each drop a ghost, a dried-up cry,
That never found the ground to dry.

Palette yellow of yolk,
silver guns—many—hung high on the wall.
A man sips whiskey in a short glass,
thinking three, maybe four.
Black coat pressed to brick,
he wonders:
What is it all for?

People pass—tall ones, short—
their eyes scan the street
like art for sale.
Men in white jackets,
women in skirts
with long legs
that could outrun yesterday.

And what if the guns
on that yolk-yellow wall
were melted into sculpture,
and the sky turned
from grey to night?

Sculptors and sculptures,
artists with red-stained brushes,
writers dropping clichés
like skyscrapers collapsing into verse.
Letters stretch like towers,
spaces bustle like streets.

Salesmen and people preach—
pitching concepts
to crowds like prophets in tailored suits.
The sound spills into the square.

Horns hoot,
cars hiss past,
exhaust coils in the air
like city incense.
People march left, right
ants with nowhere real to go.

A man taps a bucket drum
metal echoes in rhythm.
The cling-clang of falling change
fills his heart with warmth
but not the scarf
that guards him at night.

Coffee steam and scattered chatter
ghost through his thoughts.
Green light: go.
Amber: maybe go faster.
Red: stop, or forget to look back.

A man in a pressed white shirt,
Italian shoes,
watches it all.
Importance—just a trick of the mind.

Windows sparkle in every direction—
selling what we crave,
but never need.
Cliché,
but honest.

And in the center,
beneath neon breath,
a statue—bronze and copper—
shines.

A buffalo.
Mighty.
Fighting off a leopard
as it leaps upon his rear.
What did the artist feel
when tool met form?
What soul spilled
into metal?

Around me
reds, blues, greens, yellows.
Purple sweaters
draped like royalty.
Name-brand blazers,
black shoes polished
like ambition.
A black-and-white scarf
like city stripes.

This place hums
with sound, with scent,
with people and pulse.
Billboards beam
scenes that feel
like a worm becoming butterfly.

This is the city I live.
Alive. With potential.

Yet so many
walk head down,
clutching yesterday’s newspaper
like it still breathes truth.

And then—
I met the flower seller.
A basket of blooms at her hip,
bunches of color
and single red roses
like soft weapons of the heart.

“Buy these for someone special,”
she said with a smile.
And I thought, who could that be?

I paid.
Clutched the roses
as their thorns pricked my hand
love is just like this,
a sharp poke
wrapped in beauty.

She smiled,
a kindness in her eyes
as I walked away
holding six red roses
with no one to give them to.

It’s strange
how women smile
when a man carries flowers
like a banner of romance.
They think: some lucky woman.
But the truth?
I bought them out of pity.
They had no home.

So I gave them away.

To strangers
not for beauty,
but for need.
Left one on a park bench.
Another at the feet of a sleeping person.
One placed gently
on a café table
where a woman sat alone,
a waiter laying down the bill.

She declined.
I left it anyway.
And walked off.

Looking back,
she held it.
Smiling.

The final rose I held close for a moment,
stopping a couple walking hand in hand.
“Excuse me,” I said, “this is for you.”
The gesture caught them off guard.

This is what the world needs more of.
More cling-clang of change
in a busker’s bucket.
More roses
for those who need a reason to smile.
More quiet kindnesses
that ripple outward.

And then I moved
toward the subway,
where people crowd the cars
everyone going somewhere.
Who knows where?

A pregnant woman stepped on,
her hand resting on the small of her back.
Someone stood,
offering their seat
without a word.

I caught their eye,
nodded,
and smiled
a silent thank you
carried in the crowd.

Everyone
going
somewhere.