I am the wind, that shifts endlessly, never still,
I walk the earth where mountains rise, then fall.
All things are born, yet in time they will die,
Return to dust, one truth, the greatest call.

Can you see the silent lotus, blooming through the mire,
Its petals soft, but rooted in the deep.
So too, you find wisdom through the fire,
In the darkest places, let your spirit leap.

The river’s current carries both pain and grace,
Suffering, like rain, falls where it may,
Yet through the storm, the heart must find its place,
For with each storm, the clouds give way to day.

In each breath, a universe unfolds,
Impermanence, the seed of all we are.
Let go of grasping, for life’s tale is told,
Not in what we keep, but in what we are.

Love is the sun, both tender and fierce,
A flame that melts the cold of selfishness in life.
In truth know this, that real love can pierce
And through the pain, your heart will be blessed.

Walk every path with mindfulness, let it guide your way,
Joy and sorrow, both will pass you by.
In every step, the truth will open wide
In letting go, you touch the heavens,

For I am the silence beneath your breath,
The stillness that holds all things in place,
When you release your fear of life and death,
You will see: you are then enlightened, and this is grace.

What if birth is not a beginning
but a riddle wrapped in skin,
a folded geometry of soul
left to unfold
one breath at a time?

What if we are not meant to bloom,
but to fracture slowly
to wrestle with hunger
until it teaches us
the shape of longing,
until the horizon
no longer outruns our hearts?

We do not begin with wisdom.
We begin as ache
pure, primal ache
an unfinished sentence
spoken in the dialect of our need.

The world does not explain.
It vibrates.
It taps at the shell
of our unknowing
until stillness becomes a language
and silence becomes a guide.

Somewhere between
the third fall of pride
and the first burial of wonder,
we feel the scaffolding stir
not outside us,
but within.
Not to lift us,
but to remind us:
we were always meant
to carry sky
in the depth of our being.

Transformation is not ascension.
It is demolition.
It is the collapse
of the old temple
we mistook for self.

Becoming light
is not weightless.
It is surrender
to the burden of awareness,
to the salt of silence,
to the dissolving of every name
you gave yourself to survive.

The cocoon is not sleep.
It is judgment.
Each cell recalls the lie
that shaped it.
Each limb whispers,
“I was never whole there.”

Metamorphosis is not polite.
It breaks locks
you didn't know were doors.

And flight?
Flight is not motion.
It is the cessation of resistance.
It is the unlearning
of destination.
It is the tasting of sky
with a mouth
no longer asking for proof.

I do not seek meaning.
I live alongside it
as shadow,
as rhythm,
as breath turned inward.
I wear my past
as softened armor.
I bow to the wind
not for freedom,
but for its honesty
it names nothing,
yet moves all.

And perhaps,
this is the truth we miss:
we were never meant
to become.
We were always
meant to remember
what we already are.

How shall I face the silver sky
if I do not write of love tonight?
The sacred moon,
half in these mighty clouds soft longing veil,
It waits in the sky like a faithful soul still, undiminished.

She lingers a moment, aloof yet watching all below closely,
Unheard songs never touching the world she adores.
Every tree reaches in admiration,
even the cassia bows beneath her majesty's gaze,
its silver-like shadow sinking into every moment of longing.

Love is similar, it too glows brightest from afar
Yet close enough to ache while too vast to fully hold.
Mist clings to the moor, every petals with unshed tears, this twilight fog
as silence becomes the shape of our love.

The silent keeper of the new realm waits,
refusing to unbar the golden bridge,
arching between our presence and coming farewell a celestial bridge lit only for those who dare to journey.

I uncorked your scent with trembling hands, rose and rust - petals blood steep in sandalwood oil and with this I follow to the reaching unknown.

The perfume of every fallen blossom lingers in the stolen air owned by the night, more alive in this moment than the bloom ever was.

The wind that moves every landscape carries a lullaby gently forward, it speaks softly as the travelers follow it's lit path,
it moves through trembling trees, over hill tops
its hush present and more honest than any vow.

So I write here beside the northern pane,
my ink steeped in the quiet of stars,
for even heaven, dressed in snow and silver,
cannot outshine the yearning of one heart.

She moves like a rumor through the stone-breath streets,
not loud, not swift, but with a hush that bends the flame from a free standing street light.
Shoes unlaced, hands full of rainwater and nettles,
her silence does the talking.

The dogs stop barking when she passes.
A window closes in a house that forgot it had fear.
Even the birds-those clattering liars
draw their wings in like secrets.

She doesn’t look back.
She doesn’t need to.

In her wake:
a coat on a fencepost still warm,
a garden blooming red where no seed was sown,
and a man on a rooftop, forgetting why he climbed.

Beneath the veil of a perfect life,
A beautiful home, three children, a wife,
The hearth was warm, but the fire grew cold,
Yearnings untold in the silence rolled.

A chance encounter, a fleeting stare,
A whisper of something beyond repair.
Not love at first sight, but a seed was sown,
In the quiet corners where dreams are grown.

A life of halves began to unfold,
Guilt wore thin, but the heart stayed bold.
The lies, the longing, the laughter, the ache,
Each stolen moment, a soul to forsake.

Two hearts entwined in a fragile tryst,
The world looked on through a shadowed mist.
The playground whispers, the friendships frayed,
A fortress of secrets they desperately made.

To her, a husband, to him, a wife,
But together they tasted forbidden life.
The children watched, confused and torn,
As families shattered and lives were mourned.

A spit in the face, a punch in the night,
Eyes of the innocent, wide with fright.
The cost of passion, the price of desire,
A burning love from a reckless fire.

Years have passed, and the whispers fade,
But scars remain where choices were made.
The world has moved, but shadows persist,
In the town where the scarlet woman exists.

Would she undo it, the hurt, the pain?
Or would she fall down that hole again?
For love remains, but the question’s there—
Was it worth the weight of the cross she bears?

This ever winding road, the smell of uncertainty and despair
Thoughts buzz like little insects in my mind, mosquitoes
Days flash like lights or a candle flickering in the wind
Time passing like sand through the hourglass—so are the days of our lives.
Laughter as this thought passes my mind, but true
Screaming at silence I wonder what is it all worth, this life of decline
Moments and people, our relationships build but only to break
These are the thoughts that stick to my skin
That burn without a flame.

The end seems so empty at times
Strange how days and moments last when you're young but pass you by ever more quickly with age.
Life is like a roll of toilet paper, an old man once told me
“What do you mean?” I said.
“Well, the closer to the end you get, the quicker it goes.”
Didn't make sense at first
I thought life would stay like those long days of May
Or the running through summer or spring
Autumn—oh those red skies of shepherd’s delight, those rolling hills of forever more
Those golden sunrises of I miss you more
Left with only grey as days pass away

You only realize you're getting older when you start going to fewer birthdays with cake and candles
and more funerals with sandwiches and tears,
more memories than wishes
Trading tears of joy for those of loss and
“I’m sorry you're feeling this way, but it too will pass.”
The inevitable is—we all end up on the shelf,
scattered to the wind and the ocean or eaten by the worms
as we lay forevermore in the stone garden, a reminder that we were here,
Birds will ****, fly over, and if you're lucky, pass a plopping **** on you
to say you still were part of something, even in absence.

I remember looking to the sea once and thinking I own this life
only to revisit that same space years later asking why.
I asked the ocean,
Why do we grow old too soon and learn so late?
Why do the hands of time keep moving?
The reflection in the mirror no longer recognizes me,
or is it that I don't remember the reflections?
Those that I have loved—all things come to pass,
probably the most cruel reality,
and everything I thought mattered once

well look now that I've walked the path of the unknown,
upon the days and nights of yonder wide,
I've come to realize—well, these things don't matter much anymore.

Oh cruel life, what is this terrible game you play
of moth to flame, knowing it will always end in death?
In life subtly burning its wings off,
you knew all along—little children reach to touch the sky
but instead touch the sun and burn our fingers, one by one.

I know my time comes,
creeping at first it seems, but these days—
it's almost like they run, and I'm trying to catch up.
I know my time is coming, and even if I don't like this concept
it's how it is.
I know that time comes for me, and it will carry me forward in its wings
until the day comes where I no longer can fly with it like a dove.

And that's okay
because I know my words will scatter the earth
and find refuge in new minds, in open hearts,
and the distance of the souls.

As I walk this path, mornings come and days go,
night consumes and flowers bloom,
birds do sing and rain does fall
and this is what happens to us all.

The word intrinsically
is tossed into conversations
like loose change in your ash tray
its weight overlooked,
its meaning lost
in the noise of hedonism.

But it is important to understand:
Unlike the word instrumental,
it carries no condition,
needs no chain to bind its worth.

Money, so often mistaken for gold,
it is only a reflection
instrumentally valuable,
its true purpose realized
only when it buys a fleeting moment.
But it is not intrinsically valuable.

Pleasure, though, stands alone,
its joy neither traded nor diminished.
The experience itself,
pure, undiluted, whole,
is enough.

Even if it leads nowhere,
even if it touches nothing else,
pleasure exists,
and that is the value.

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.

Not all who write are marching still,
but some are hauled across the land
no summons, no divine decree,
just gravel clinging to the hand.

Some set off clear-eyed, blades aligned,
intent to split the sky with word.
They chased a theme, a structured cause,
and bent the world to what they heard.

But most are dragged by unseen weight,
by murmurs flint can’t spark their fate.
They stumble first, then walk, then chart
a route with no defining art .

The older ones wore armor loud
Dante with a scaffolded wrath,
Milton with iron in his verse,
their goals fused tight with time and path.

But others roam in different light,
no city burning in their view
they listen where no banner flies,
and mark what rain and tension do.

The lyric kind is ruled by turns,
they track a pulse beneath the field.
They do not ride on calls to arms,
but dig to where the wire yields.

No thesis waits behind their pace,
no endpoint drawn with steady ink.
They only name the thing they've seen
once forced to stop and forced to think.

Obsession isn't optional
it coils inside the second line.
It shapes the work before it speaks,
a motive masked in clear design.

And yet, some merge the lyric drift
with something deeper, thread by thread
the search for God within the grind,
a question aimed but never said.

He asked: If not to near the truth,
then why begin the path at all?
A voice that wasn't meant to soothe,
but punch the breath out, make you stall.

And those who track his marks in stone
will never find the full design
just flares of thought, like coal once lit,
still giving heat beyond their time.

Each work a module, self-contained,
yet tuned to one persistent chord
not in the scope of epic song,
but in the weight the line endured.

This too becomes a kind of march
not in formation, but in fire.
A poem is forged, not built or sung.
The trail is cut, then climbs higher.

The critic trails with steel in hand,
to measure what was done or meant
but finds the arc was shaped by need,
and not by rule or argument.

So let them come, the ones obsessed
who live within the phrase they frame.
Their pilgrim path is made of heat,
of pressure, scope, and unnamed aim.

Beneath an ancient, gnarled oak I sit,
Reflection caught where waters flit.
Solitude cradles thoughts that weave,
A dance of dark and light to cleave.

“What is virtue?” I beseech the breeze,
“And what is vice that tempts and teases?”
Mortal laws seem brittle, vain,
Molded by the hands of gain.

Eyes close to conjure a shadowed man,
Stealing for love, a desperate plan.
To nourish kin, he breaks decree
Where lies the wickedness in need?

Does virtue wear a crown of thorns?
Is sin the harvest justice scorns?
Does harm reveal the hidden blight,
Or shift with who defines the right?

In fevered dreams, I wander wide,
Where tyranny and greed collide.
Statutes defend the gilded throne,
But is rebellion’s rage alone?

“If I stand alone, my truth ablaze,
While others hurl their scorn and gaze,
Am I the rogue, in shadows steeped,
Or is their blindness shallow, cheap?”

I see the ghosts of martyrs burned,
By pyres where fickle fate has turned.
Legends born of ashes speak
Condemnation turns to sacred seek.

No absolutes, no iron creed,
Virtue and vice, capricious seed.
Fashioned by the pulse of fear,
Shaped by hunger, ever near.

Still, doubt becomes an iron shroud,
How can one discern the proud?
My mirrored face in ripples torn,
Asks if I rise or if I mourn.

Goodness, not pristine, but fought,
Is hewn from choices daily wrought.
Harm none, tread the narrow way,
When sirens sing, and dark holds sway.

If my compass, lone, defies the throng,
Will I, errant, sing the wrong?
Or will truth, against the gale,
Be the song that breaks the pale?

Certainty remains a ghost,
Yet I pursue it, tempest-tossed.
To question deep, to bear the flame,
With courage braving doubt and shame.

The sun now bleeds across the sky,
Night unfurls with a mournful sigh.
The battle of good and evil starts,
A clash within, the soul’s fierce art.

From heaven’s grace or hell’s unholy flame?
You move like wine—both remedy and sting.
Both love and ruin follow in your name,
And eyes like suns make trembling senses sing.

Your kiss undoes the pride of wiser men,
Transforms the meek to kings, or kings to dust.
No law can tame your steps, again and again
You rule with neither mercy, care, nor trust.

I’ve seen you dance where tombstones split the earth,
Your jewels like blood, your laughter like a knife.
You dress in death and sell it under mirth,
And fools call that destruction love, or life.

What matters source—divine or demon’s art?
You light the dark, and that undoes my heart.

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.

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

Where Noise Can't Reach
Some believed I was a citadel
stone-walled, serene,
a monument untouched by storm.
Others glimpsed the fissures,
the tremble in my foundation
just before collapse.
But no one dared to knock,
to test if the halls echoed hollow.
They never knew
I didn’t run from people.
I ran from the famine
of being surrounded
yet starved of connection.

The inner silence I chose
was not empty,
but sacred
a chapel carved
from the marrow of self-preservation.
bright coloured mosaics
clouded dull
Because the loudest loneliness
sits beside laughter
that forgets your name.

I watched the world’s masquerade
faces polished like glass,
eyes glinting with absence.
Their words were confetti
bright, falling fast,
never meant to stay
blown by a simple breeze.

So I built my retreat
from quieter things:
dust, breath,
the pulse beneath thought.
I wrapped myself in stillness
stitched from nights that never asked
why I wept without tears,
my loneliness in the dark.

I remember warmth
like sunlight on skin
too long kept from morning.
I remember hands
that felt like promises
before they slipped into memory.
But I also remember
how a touch can vanish
even while it holds you.

Now, I live
in the space between collisions
where no one knocks,
no one shouts,
where the world forgets
and I remember
without bleeding.

Not lonely
just carved into solitude,
a sculpture of what survived.
Not cold
just hidden
where noise can’t reach
and silence finally listens back.

They keep no jealous watch,
nor plot to cross each way.
He walks in robes of gold at dawn,
she drapes in silver’s sway.

He drinks from drifting clouds,
warm hands in mist and flame;
she whispers to the scattered stars,
and calls them each by name.

The stars are patient eyes above,
that glimmer, blink, and know
they watch when sun comes flooding in,
and when the moon must go.

They share the sky like quiet friends,
passing in gentle turn;
no envy in their changing light,
no shadowed wish to burn.

If only we were made the same,
to share this earth in peace
no wars to scorch, no hearts that break,
no cries that never cease.

To look above and learn their way,
how harmony is spun
to move with love through all our days,
as moon and stars and sun.

Often I stand on life’s sidelines,
thinking – real calm, real clear:
I couldn’t give two *****,
’cause without a doubt,
you’d just want more…
and I ain’t about to give three or four.

Life's questions keep man a part,
Philosophy isn’t some distant art,
It's not reserved for minds worlds away.
It's when my mind finds thoughts to play,
It’s what I find in the quiet of life,
When questions won’t be cut by knife..

I wonder why the stars align,
What it means to seek and define.
In the pause of life’s steady race,
I ask my place in time and space.

I can’t help but question, it’s how I’m made,
To pierce through shadows, through light and shade.
Not content with answers handed down,
I reason, I search, I stand my ground.

I think of Socrates, who knew he knew not,
A legacy of questions, his greatest thought.
No written truths, no final decree,
Just the courage to question endlessly.

Like him, I speak, I argue, I learn,
Through each “What if” and “In turn...”
Debate sharpens, it keeps me awake,
Every “Yes, but...” makes my mind break.

I see in Plato the clash of minds,
Ideas that soar, reason that binds.
And Aristotle’s bold defiance still,
Proof that answers bend to will.

For me, wonder’s a flame that won’t fade,
A longing that’s both gift and blade.
I don’t need final truths to find,
I thrive in the seeking, the grind.

So I join the great thinkers, their endless refrain,
I challenge, I question, I reason, I strain.
Philosophy isn’t answers, it’s the striving to see,
It’s the wonder that lives and grows within me.

Not every fire burns the flesh.
Some arrive with breathless stillness,
draped in dusk-colored light,
a gaze too wide for one face to hold.
blinded still –
I called to you.

I did not know
what love could become
when it puts down its veil
and steps forward,
not as comfort,
but as divinity.

You were not gentle.

You stood where the air bent around you–
more presence than person,
a voice like thunder wrapped in silk,
fingertips trailing the edges of my ruin
like a priest naming what can’t be saved.

And still, I stayed.

Where are the days
when love was a glance from across the room,
a laugh shared over fruit and rain?
Now it is an archangel
descending through my ribs,
setting fire to my lungs
my soul catching flame
with every beat that dares endure you.

You asked for nothing–
only that I remain still
as you unfolded
in the space between heartbeats.

Who are you?

You are not lover, not ghost,
but the god hiding in desire.
You are the pollen of all beginnings,
the storm-light before any world was shaped,
the echo that built the sky
just to have somewhere to fall.

You are the mirror held to my face
after I have vanished.
And yet–
I call to you still.
Not because I will survive the blaze,
nor revive a soul,
but because I would rather burn in your nearness
than live untouched.

I loved you in the silence,
the forgotten, aching still,
that throbbed beneath the rain–
in clocks too slow to ****.

You were not lost or vanished,
not ghost, nor fleeting flame–
but time rewrote your nearness,
and absence learned my name.

I loved you when the dishes
lay waiting in the sink,
when dusk fell down too early
and left no space to think.

You were not made for statues,
for saints or poet’s pen–
you were the crack in breathing
that let the sorrow in.

I do not write you letters,
for words fall through the sieve;
I loved you past the promise
of anything I’d give.

Not for your tender smiling
or how your hands once pressed–
but for the way you linger
inside my failing chest.

So stay, not as a memory,
not shadow, smoke, or sound–
but as the ache I carry
when no one is around.

You don’t see the harm you do
why would you,
when the mirror only shows you?

It’s always your way or the ruin of all ways.

No compromise, no bending, just command and blaze.

You preach your truths like gospel fire,
demanding love, yet feel no desire
to see the wreckage in your wake
the hearts that break, the hands you take.

Empathy’s a stranger you never knew,
and guilt?
Just weakness in those who do.

Those who love you—oh, how they fall,
on blades you wield, denying them all.

You wear the crown of your own design,
and call it virtue, call it divine.

But your throne is built on shattered bone,and in the end,
you stand—alone.

As Love Nears, Winter Answers
I do not greet the day with arms wide
no
I flinch from the light.
Love... is a slow knife in warm skin
and I, already frostbitten,
tuck my longing beneath coats of silence.

There is a chill behind your eyes.
Or is it mine?
Perhaps I’ve worn winter too long,
I don’t know how to thaw without drowning.

You came with a look
like spring pretending not to hurt
but I smelled the snow behind it.
Felt the avalanche between your ribs
and mine.

I wanted to stay.
But want is not warmth.
Want is a wound rehearsing trust
then backing away when breath fogs glass.

I am not made for soft hands.
I am made of doorways and drifts.
Of hearths I never lit.
Of letters I never sent.

So I leave before I feel.
Before the blood dares run hot again.
Before love comes too close
and finds no fire here.

I tell myself
it’s better this way.
To freeze quietly
than to burn
and beg
to be held.

You wake with petals in your hair
and sleep still clinging to your lashes
not the sleep of peace,
but the hush that follows weeping,
when the heart forgets its own weight.

I don’t ask what ghosts kept you
tossing through the hours.
I don’t name the pain
stitched in the arch of your back.
You’ve built your grace from ruin–
I’ve learned to admire the architecture.

Tonight, I won’t touch your wounds.
I’ll touch the skin around them,
where the light still gathers
when you breathe without defense.

Tell me–
is it love
if I hold you
like I’m not afraid of breaking,
like your shaking
is just music I haven’t learned yet?

You speak like someone
who’s forgotten how to be held
without preparing for departure.

That’s alright.
I don’t need your trust in full bloom.
Just the seed.
Just the breath you give me
before the sentence ends.

Your fingers curl
as if expecting to be pried away–
but I stay.
No bargains. No salvation.
Just warmth,
and the promise not to name this rescue.

I smile.
I’ve seen braver women
fall apart for lesser reasons.

So when your mask slips,
when the tiredness wins
and the strong part of you
asks to rest–

remember this:

Not the way I touched you
but the way I listened,
how I stayed quiet enough
for your silence to speak.

Not for mercy,
not to save,
but because I wanted
to be the first place
you didn’t have to fight.

From fire-lit caves to marble halls of Greece,
the tongue has spun its thread through war and peace;
each line a seed, each word a fire-forged blade,
to carve the truth no tyrant’s hand can fade.

The ancients claimed that verse was breath of gods,
a bridge from mortal mud to golden sods;
it shapes the air, it bends the mortal ear,
turns grief to stone and love to something clear.

It bears the whispers, secrets wrapped in rhyme,
a message crossing borders made by time;
the Greeks called it the breath of gods and madness,
a sacred chaos—beauty wrapped in sadness.

The pen becomes a loom where thought is sewn,
in silk of metaphor and blood of bone;
it lifts the weak, it chills the tyrant’s might
and gives a voice to throats once choked with stone and blight.

We write to burn a map of time’s vast sea,
to bind our ghosts, to name what yet may be;
to paint the beats beneath the human skin,
and catch the storms that rage too deep within.

For poetry is a secret, mirror, flame,
it crowns the nameless, gives the lost a name;
it tears the veil between the now and then,
and calls the dead to walk again.

From ink to tongue, from ear to eye,
it teaches how to live before we die;
no single truth, but many, woven tight,
a human lantern in this endless night.

Has anyone pondered the weight of love's flame?
Or the ache it leaves when none remain?
Both are gifts, though laced with pain,
The heart survives, though never the same.

I linger with lovers in their blissful trance,
Feel their joy in a fleeting glance,
Yet walk with the broken, their tears untold,
Mending hearts once fierce, now cold.

No bounds contain the soul's design,
It loves, it shatters, it dares to entwine.
Each touch unique, yet all the same,
The fire of passion, the quiet of shame.

And all its echoes — joy and ache,
Are pieces of beauty that love must make.

Our Simple Gratification...
We crave the quick...
a spark,
a fragment,
a line.
Depth feels distant,
too heavy to hold.

Poetry shrinks
to fit the scroll.
A whisper of meaning,
half-formed,
assumed profound.

The page waits,
but we turn to screens.
Books linger unread,
their weight
a burden we refuse.

Why read
when the world sings
in flashes and noise?
Why think
when quick answers
quell the ache?

Effort feels cruel—
to linger,
to labor,
to climb.
We skim,
pretend we know.

A click of page,
a simple like,
a fleeting rush.
The thrill fades,
but the need grows.

Beneath it all,
something in us aches.
The depth, meaning ignored.
A truth forgotten.

The profound demands our patience.
The lasting requires time.
Great things take time,
Good things come to those who wait.
But we,
in our haste,
choose the shallows
over being immersed in depth.

What is this need
This world of consumers,
to consume and discard,
to find the next quick fix  
to rush through the beauty
that waits
to unfold?

Perhaps one day
we’ll stop,
linger,
listen.
And remember—
the richest treasures
are never instant.

You left me hanging, like a coat on a hook,
Thought I’d fold, break, crumble, take a second look.
But I’ve been practicing my loneliness skills,
I made friends with the silence, it fits me like chills.

You swore you’d always be here, a forever vow,
But I’m allergic to promises, just tell me how.
I feared you’d vanish, like all the rest,
So I built walls, then wore them like a vest.

I’ll blame you for every cold, empty night,
For the holes in my heart, that should’ve been tight.
But if I’m honest (and I do love being frank),
I pulled the plug first—so who’s the one to thank?

See, you thought you’d leave me, cast me aside,
But I was the one who jumped off the ride.
You never abandoned me, no, I set you free,
Turns out, I’m the master of leaving... ironically.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I can't recall what’s real, or if I dream,
A scream resounds within, though silence seems
To choke my voice, to halt my every plea,
This hollow stillness smothers what’s left of me.

Love has left me battered, torn, and blind,
Awaking to a world I cannot find,
A shattered self with nothing left to hold,
Pain’s cruel embrace is all that’s uncontrolled.

I hold my breath and wish for endless sleep,
Oh, God, deliver me, my soul to keep.

Back in the dark, I feel too much to bear,
A pulse, a life, but none to grant me care,
The future’s gone, the present’s just a haze,
I wait for peace in the quiet, lost days.

Fed by memories, my body now a shell,
A love-grown relic in this living hell,
Bound to the wires, with no way to flee,
I long to sever this from what remains of me.

I hold my breath and wish for sweet release,
Oh, God, bring me a moment’s peace.

The world is gone; it’s just a distant hum,
And I, alone, wish for the day to come,
I hold my breath and pray for mercy’s touch,
Oh, God, I’ve suffered far too much.

Darkness closes in, I’m trapped inside,
My eyes have failed, my voice has died,
My mind is broken, a fractured plea,
No life, no death, just this eternity.

Love has stolen my sight, my voice, my sound,
It took my heart, my soul, and left me bound—
A hollow man, in hell without a name,
A prisoner of this never-ending pain.

What do you call the picture of self
My mind played my heart like a violin,
Time ticked by like an old clock’s hymn.
Standing at the edge of reason’s wall,
Where shadows rise and echoes call.

Questions dwell in unspent wells,
Is truth alive, or just the tales we tell?
As our age shapes grows and bends the arc of our frame,
We sketch and outline our self, yet never the same, at times defined while other abstracts
The picture of self oftentimes distracts.

What do you see when you gaze inside your mind, what holds the entirety of your heart in shaken grips girth.
A distant flicker or a star that died? What do you see when you look inside?
Does your quill pierce the foggy shroud, does it write in truth
Or is it lost in the crowding cloud?

Every action carves the soul,
Each stroke defining, yet never whole.
But who are we when the mirror lies,
When the smoke of others dims our skies?

Is your canvas real, or an abstract stain?
Do you wear your chains, or break the frame?
Does your rage hold you caged,
A prisoner of masks, a silent plea
To shatter the cage and set self free.

Society molds with hands unseen,
A puppeteer weaving the in-between.
They sell the self you never chose,
A fragile photograph, a fading pose.

Yet seeking truth is no weak refrain,
It’s the ship that sails through storms of pain.
For every lie the silence sows,
A spark of truth in the darkness grows.

Rationality falters; the heart endures,
Beyond the veil, where the soul matures.
So cast the map you think you know,
And sail where unlit waters flow.

A Poem about Montego Pet Food

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

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

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

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

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

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

The soul is not made of fire.
It is vapor
a question left in the mouth of the wind,
never answered, only carried
from one silent sky to another.

I have walked the lip of the world
where cloudlight stumbles over its own shadow,
and the ocean forgets its own hunger
just to listen.

In that place,
I called out to the soul,
not like a prayer,
but like a wave speaking back to the moon
without hope,
only pattern.

It did not answer.
It never does.
But something changed in the listening.

We are not shaped by what moves us,
but by what leaves us still.
Not by thunder,
but by the long ache after it.

The soul isn’t a star
waiting to be named.
It is the silence
between two tides
where light forgets itself
and becomes meaning.

I have drowned
in skies with no ceiling,
in winds that peeled language from my spine.
Still, I floated
not upward,
but inward.

There is no ascent.
Only deepening.
Only the sky folding in
like an old map soaked in salt.

And perhaps
we were never meant to find the soul,
only to feel the weight
of not finding it
the hush that remains
when the wave
refuses to crash.

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.