When looking at each moment in life ,
I am thankful for every breath, every ache, every fall,
For hands that shake, for lips that bleed, for eyes that burn,
For voices screaming, whispers breaking, silence speaking loud,
For love that scars, for hate that fuels, for pain that shapes,
For nights alone, for days unknown, for fear’s embrace,
For light, for dark, for shadows waiting,
For rage, for peace,
For fire,
For life.

Life is
A storm,
A fleeting touch,
A whispered name,
A war of longing,
A wound that heals,
A hunger never truly filled,
A poem I’ll never write enough,
A song too short to hold the depth of loss,
A heart too fragile to bear the weight of joy.

It is fleeting,
sorrow lingers,
hands are reaching,
Fingers trembling,
Eyes are weeping,
Heart is breaking,
Blood is spilling,
Each day awaking,
Until none.

Love,
Hate,
Fear,
Hope,
Dreams.

I am thankful for every color, every shade, every scar, every touch,
For the weight of silence, the sting of words, the taste of grief, the scent of longing,
For the art I create in my brokenness, the songs I hum through my pain,
For the echoes of those I’ve lost, the ghosts that still whisper my name,
For the ones who stayed, the ones who left, the ones who return in dreams,
For the fire in my chest, the ice in my veins, the storm in my head,
For the love that consumes, the rage that ignites, the wounds that still burn,
For the fragile embrace of a moment too fleeting to hold forever,
For the knowledge that nothing lasts but everything matters,
For the simple fact that I am here.

Here,
Now,
Always,
In this moment.

I taste the air, feel the weight of hunger and fullness,
Hold the warmth of hands,
See the light shift,
Walk through pain,
Remember I Must,
Breathe.

I,
Live,
Love,
Hurt,
Heal.

I am thankful for every second, every wound, every gift, every loss, every love, every hate, every whisper, every scream, every sunrise, every night that doesn’t end,
For the aching in my bones, the rhythm in my chest, the melody that plays when I close my eyes,
For the ink that stains my fingers, the paint that colors my skin, the words that shape my soul,
For the ones who walk beside me, the ones who left footprints, the ones I’ve never met but still feel,
For the taste of rain, the scent of earth, the way shadows stretch and shrink,
For the silence before the storm, the calm after, the moment in between,
For the love I can’t explain, the hate I can’t erase, the fire I refuse to extinguish,
For the weight of knowing, the freedom of forgetting, the beauty of beginning again,
For the scars that remind me I survived,
For the truth that even pain is a gift,
Looks fade away,
For all.

The Gift,
The Burden,
A Blessing,
The Curse,
Our Fate,
To Choose,
Light,
Dark,
Everything,
Nothing.

Nothing is,
Everything
Everything is
Nothing
Dark is light
Light is
Dark
Choice is how we see things
Everything,
Fate the question,
Procrastination the Curse,
Each day the Blessing,
Memory the Burden,
Or
Gift,
That's for us to decide .

Time moves forward, memory lingers, love stays,
Pain whispers,
Dreams return,
I exist,
Always,
Even when I don't.

Mind’s wide open — body twitchin’, glitchin’, this pain is *******.
Thoughts crash like ******' panes in a kitchen, glass on floor
Glass in my grin shame diggin’ in, full pain.
Guilt pokin’ ribs like needles in skin.
Fire in my nerves, yeah this pain ain’t pretend,
Legal highs got me beggin’ for the end.
Eyes sunken, sleep duckin’, truth runnin’,
Mind ******’ me harder than life ever done it.
Dreams don’t visit, they drive-by in silence, alliance, defiance
While trauma backs up like a ***** with a license.
Heart skips like a junk beat glitched,
Shadow follows me like a snitch I ditched.
High legit — but the fit don’t click,
Cracked like a token tossed in the pit.
Broken on rocks while I fake that grit,
Every ******’ breath like a punch I split.
Gotta detox, get clean, get straight, give me rocks, big blocks
But mind’s on fire, sittin’ there, laced with hate.
It’s crawlin’ my skull, through the ceiling it leaks,
Whisperin’ sins in the hospital sheets.
IV drippin’ like a priest in heat,
Tryna baptize my veins with defeat.
Maybe I’m vain, maybe I’m ******' insane,
But this brain got rooms that scream *******, pain pain pain.
Temptation ain’t knockin’, it kicks the door in,
Talkin’ bends, ends, old sins, fake friends.
Promisin’ peace from a pill with a grin,
But I know that thrill ends under my skin.
Open door — I step right through, roof lit floor
Ain’t scared of hell, I’ve been see-through.
Shoulda died — yeah, death ******’ lied,
Left me half-man, half suicide, final ride what's inside see the blind.
Drugs in the drawer hum lullabies low,
Beggin’ me sweet to just let go.
Living’s a joke, the punchline’s stale,
Body in a bed with a soul on bail.
Paranoia sharp like a blade of mice, grain of rice, pipes that are spliced, in and out,
Gnawin’ my spine with feral vice.
Creepin’ up bones, crawlin’ through wires,
Slime in my mind that never tires, never lies.
Smiles from the past? *****, they charge, no they charge
Fake hugs, fake love — just emotional barge, living off drugs
Body sold, mind hijacked and bruised,
Truth tastes rotten when your teeth are loose, bones once whole broken forgotten
Tongue spits prayers in a ****-you voice, without choice,
While Morph and Feni dull the noise.
Stack of Beni like a hitman’s fee, trami and whites.
Every pill a silent plea.
War still young, but my soul’s unravelled, minds travelled,
Heart don’t beat, it ******’ gravelled.
I claw through the dirt just to breathe again, woke up to the pain,
Fightin’ shadows with a rusted pen an broken Zen.
I danced with edges, glad I'm not vedges, still ****** in the hedges, kissed death’s mouth,
Woke up in pain with the wires pulled out, ribs sticking out, blood all about,
This ain’t redemption, this ain’t a hope song,
It’s grit in the lungs and the will to prolong.
Me vs. demons, streaming, screaming, bare-knuckled, no bluff, No luck, no God, just drugs and rough.
And if I make it out, still half-alive,
It’s ‘cause I crawled through ******’ knives to survive, and if I don't well guess I died.

In the halls of guilt, where coins
sing like crickets in the dark,
their psalms rise, a lattice of smoke
curling from a dying flame.
fear not the sins of others,
rather the sins of their own,
more than the sins of devil,
It's the sins of the Father after all.

The altar gleams, not with divinity,
but with the cold sheen of rivers
choked by gold. Their voices echo,
hollow gourds beaten by the wind,
each note a shard of glass
pressed against the throat of belief.

Abaddon watches like a stormcloud
over fields of withered grain.
Fenriz prowls, the wolf of shadows,
gnawing on the roots of broken truths.
Lilith lingers softly, silent as moonlight
spilling through cracks in cathedral walls.

They speak of paradise,
but their heaven is a spider’s web
each thread spun from fear, damnation
each catch a soul entombed in amber.
Their god sharpens his teeth
on the brittle bones of their charity,
his laughter a hymn
their hearts refuse to name.

In each of their prayers, I hear
the rustle of dry leaves,
the empty rattle of seedless pods.
Proserpine weeps for the earth
they have scorched,
her spring now a withered hand
grasping at ash.

Their god is a clockwork beast,
wound tight by trembling hands.
They chant, hoping to drown
the clatter of its gears,
but silence escapes them,
a snake sliding through the reeds.

The equinox tides waves rise,
drowning the stones of their empire.
Sekhmet’s roar is the crack
of a long-dry riverbed,
her fury older than their creeds.
Even their God, devourer of innocents is amused,
He turns his gaze from the spectacle,
disgusted by their hollow words.

They build temples of shadows,
caverns where the echo of truth
has been smothered
by velvet robes and incense.
Pay now an sin later, their collection bowls
overflow with fallen grace.
Yet the gods of old they look on,
a quiet council of stars
watching the slow collapse.

No fire awaits them but the one
they ignite and kindled themselves
a furnace of words,
a pyre of promises.
Their sermons crumble,
a tower of sand in the tide,
and the gods laugh,
not in malice, but in pity,
a path leading to self righteousness,
yet all return to the fertile soil,
all know this as truth, even if they say not.
buy a place in the eternal Nothing!
There preachers stand preaching,
follow me and get lost, eternity for a price
and his flock follow blindly,
Sheep being lead to a slaughter.

Come one, come all, the carnival's here!
Bring your soul; there’s no need to fear.
Step right up to the Devil’s stand,
He’ll trade your essence for a sleight of hand.

The Dark One grins, his pitch refined,
“A bargain struck will free your mind!
Forget those rules of guilt and pain,
Just sign this slip and break your chain.”

“But what’s the catch?” you skeptics cry,
“What’s hidden deep within the lie?”
The Devil laughs, his voice a drawl,
“Oh, nothing much… just your mortal thrall.”

Religion gasps, the pews erupt,
“Without a devil, our sales corrupt!
Who’d buy salvation, grace, or prayers,
If not for Hell and its fiery lairs?”

So here we are, with goats and flames,
And theologians penning Hellish names.
They warn of demons with deeds grotesque,
But their churchly coffers grow quite burlesque.

The carnal sins they do condemn,
Were once old Pan’s own diadem.
Fertility, joy—now sins of lust,
Wrapped in fear and holy dust.

So strike that deal, make it brash,
Why burn in Hell when you can stash
The blame and guilt, the heavy yoke,
And laugh along at the pious joke?

For those who preach the Dark One’s lore
Should thank him daily, and implore:
“Stay wicked, vile, and ever cruel—
Without you, we’d be out of fuel!”

Beneath the expanse of a sky I can't measure,
I gave what was left of me, a breath, a pulse.
Your gaze, how do I explain it?
It isn't the stars; they're too obvious.
Maybe it’s like a river catching fire,
While I stand along its banks burning.

What haven’t I done for this fleeting connection?
I’ve wandered deserts of my own making,
traded the last light of my pride,
because your silence, even your silence,
weighs more than all the noise in me.

Would I walk into the dark for you?
I already have.
Would I drown for you?
Perhaps I already am,
Would I suffocate ?
That's how it feels waiting for you.
It’s not a question of survival,
it’s a question of what kind of truth
we let ourselves taste.

Change is the constant; the rhythm of time never ceases its cycle.
Longing for peace, yet preparing for war in the shadows of fear.
Walls that we build to protect us will also confine us in silence.
Happiness drifts as we chase it, elusive and fading from view.

Richest in gold, yet the poorest in spirit, the heart remains hollow.
Independence demands that we lean on the strength of another.
Leaders are strong when their hearts lay exposed to the winds of destruction.
Trying to blend, we are lost in the masses; ourselves disappear.

Knowledge expands, but the deeper we delve, the less we can fathom.
Certainty falters, for truth is a vapor that slips through the grasp.
Logic deceives as it folds on itself, bringing chaos from order.
Closer to answers, we find that the questions grow darker with time.

Gaining the world means the courage to risk all you cherish to lose it.
Time heals the wounds that it carves with its passage, relentless and cruel.
Simpler the life we create, yet complexity lies in its heartstrings.
Greatest of truths may be born from the lies that we whisper in fear.

Love holds us fast, yet it loosens the chains of our deepest desires.
Harming the ones we adore, we reveal both the frailty and fire.
Fearing their loss, we may push them away, though our hearts cry for holding.
Memory fades when forgiveness demands, yet it burns through the void.

Freedom is sought, but the order of rules is the comfort we cherish.
Change is our terror, yet life cannot grow without constant upheaval.
Ambition rises to build and destroy, as the wheel keeps on turning.
Striving for perfect, we stumble through shadows that laugh at our dreams.

Now is the present, a fleeting illusion, the past in the making.
Shaping the world as it shapes us in kind, we are locked in its rhythm.
Infinite time cannot bend to our will, though we chase it through whispers.
Death is a shadow that gives life its weight, though we run from its grasp.

Life is a paradox, woven from threads of the meaningless fabric.
Small in the cosmos, yet gods in the hearts that we carry within us.
Goodness and evil are one in the dance that defines every action.
Truth in its glory resides in the space where our doubts learn to sing.

The viral virus we've cast and caught,
A net of likes and brain-dead thought
For every child and grown soul, too,
Is drawn into the cellphone's social view.
They scroll and swipe, they tap and stare,
Consumed by screens that trap and snare.

In homes and parks, on cornered streets,
They bow to feeds and trending tweets.
Through each Facebook, X, Twit and share,
They’re Snapchat an Tinders filters unaware.
Just last week, in passing by,
I saw someone's numb dull, vacant eye.

They chase the numbers“likes” and fame
Each social share a lure, each view a claim.
MomToks with tricks and TikTok’s in trance,
People dressed stupidly, choreograph dance.
Where fake story skim and rumours spread,
While real connections end up dead.

Pause, dear friend, and see the cost,
Of souls we’ve sold and minds we’ve lost.
This endless feed, this soulless game,
Steals their wonder, dims their flame.
It fills their thoughts with empty charms,
And leaves them numb to loving arms.

For once, they'd dream and run and play,
In worlds where magic lit the way.
They’d reach for skies in fields of green,
And feel the joy of life’s true sheen.
But tell me now, what have they gained,
From screens an socials that leave spirits vain and drained?

Once they read, they laughed, they soared,
In stories deep and lives explored.
With pages stacked by bed and chair,
They found themselves in worlds of care,
Wonders, adventure and whispered thrills,
And gnomes in forests dark on moonlit hills.

Now days they scroll, they swipe, an tap away,
While faces turn zombie hours melt into day.
They drink from streams, endless social feed,
Yet lack the thirst for what they need.
The screen it soothes, it numbs, it tames,
While life outside just calls their names

So turn off the apps and put screens aside,
Let logins an log offs of social feel now deny.
Turn off the feeds, break free twits an chains,
Bring them back from social media's reigns.
In days, you’ll watch their lives awake,
From vicarious dreams that are only fake.

And soon, so soon, they’ll see life anew,
The real wonders left for just a few.
With every song and page and sun,
They’ll find joy not what socials media spun.
And thank you for the life reclaimed,
The beauty found, once dimmed and tamed.

Sometimes I sit here,
staring at the blank page,
wondering what to write about
what’s rattling around in my head.
Is it something profound,
or am I just ******* again?
Sometimes I think I’m winding people up,
other times, I’m genuinely trying to say something.

I write when I’m happy.
I write when I’m sad.
I write when the world looks beautiful
and when it looks like the bottom of a bin,
Even if it might smell a bit ******,
Sometimes it’s rage pouring out,
sometimes it’s a laugh at my own expense.
I never really know what’ll spill onto the page
maybe my heart, maybe just nonsense,
Unfortunately I won't apologise,
If my words are offensive,
maybe you the problem not me,
I said something about religious fella,
The other day while writing.

Someone told me in a comment,
“You’re going to hell. I’ll pray for you.”
“Brilliant,” I said, “save me a seat down there.
We’ll compare notes.”
It didn’t bother me
the offended always amuse me.
If they hate it, I say,
“Read it again or don’t read it at all.
I’m not writing for you, anyway.”
What do you want me to do ?
Say im sorry?
Never going to happen.

Faith? Oh, I toy with it,
poke at it,
hold it up to the light like a shattered bottle.
I’m not asking you to agree,
just asking you to think.
Otherwise, life would be boring, wouldn’t it?

Then there’s the poetry I read sometimes
half the time I think,
“What was this bloke smoking?”
Other times, I look at my own stuff and think,
“Maybe if I’d smoked something,
it’d actually be good.”
Where is that ****** muse when you need her?

The knock on the door the other day was priceless, though.
A couple of witnesses, chirping away:
“It’s your lucky day! You can be saved!”
Poor sods didn’t realize I’m already booked for hell.
“Come in,” I said,
“Tea? Oh, don’t mind the taste,
that’s just the poison.
Best get to hospital, hail the Dark Lord!”
They ran, of course,
and I laughed so hard I nearly spilled my tea,
a little dark I know,
but how else do i amuse myself when I'm fresh out of ideas to write about ?

That's when I tell myself, "Just another day."
What thrilling chaos will tomorrow bring?
While my blank page hungers for ink.
Another day to scribble in my mind.

To the north, storms knock at the house,
whipping wind like an impatient guest.
The east clings to its sun,
a stubborn beacon refusing to dim.

Dogs bark and whine next door,
their unease rippling into the air,
while the new day stretches itself
across every restless life.

Birds scatter, wings folding tight,
hiding from clouds that growl
and gather their heavy armies.
Yet somewhere,
a patch of sky stays untouched,
a lonely blue, watching.

Rain falls in soft percussion,
kissing the earth as if in apology
for interrupting.
The sun peeks quietly through,
a quiet witness to the chaos unfold.

Life and people hums beneath it all
trash cans rattle to the corner, conversations flicker with chatter,
and cars rumble past on their path with little notice.
This is paradise,
frayed and imperfect,
offering no grandeur,
just the beauty of being.

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.

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.

Thoughts dance in stillness,
blinking, the mind’s quiet pulse
a moment takes shape.

Blink, a fleeting pause,
the echo of thought lingers,
like ripples in time.

Thinking of thinking,
eyes close, reopen again
the world blinks with me.

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.

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

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

A fusion of free verse, prose poetry, and lyrical refrain  
By Malcolm Gladwin  ( the video is what we did as kids to be free )
 
Be free—like a bird caught in the updraft,  
like a fish slipping silver through the currents,  
like a balloon let go from a child’s hand,  
floating, floating, floating into the blue yonder.  
Be free like a song sung with no fear of echoes,  
like wild grass bending only to the wind.  
 
Life is one life.  
One breath, one moment, one golden chance  
to walk barefoot where the waves kiss the shore,  
where the sea salt burns your nose,  
where the wind does not ask before it touches your skin.  
Run. Jump. Throw your arms into the sky  
let the sun catch you midair.  
 
Have you ever watched how the butterfly dances,  
how the bee lands, drinks, moves on  
how the river spills itself over smooth stones,  
never asking where it must go?  
Sit beneath the weeping willow,  
watch the shadows shift, toes in the passing current  
the water never waits, yet it is never lost.  
 
Be free. Jump. Clothes on, feet muddy,  
off the edge, off the bank, off the cliff  
five, four, three, two—SPLASH.  
Let the river take your weight,  
let it wash away your hardship,  
let the wild raspberries stain your lips,  
let the lemon grass hold you as you watch the clouds drift  
turning into faces, into beasts, into whispers.  
 
And when the city calls, remember:  
freedom is not found in glass towers,  
not in the weight of gold, not in the rush of clocks.  
It is in the air we forget to breathe,  
the quiet moments we do not hold long enough,  
the waiting at the bus stop when we look up really look  
and see life moving, unchained.  
 
But my freedom  
my freedom lies in the ocean’s roar,  
in the summer rain that does not ask permission  
before it kisses my skin.  
 
Here, I am alive.  
Here, I am free.

Watch the video below - it's a place we went to when we were hot and felt like blowing off some steam , being free in the middle of nature.

https://m.youtube.com/watch?si=nTE89XbZfGmA54W9&v=BDi38mUM0xY&feature=youtu.be

Anger keeps me dry
golden showers lack respect
then trickle downhill.

To glimpse the universe in passion's scorched pulse
and find paradise in both sand and fire,
we burn. We burn.
Where wildflowers bloom, *but never *enough.
we wait in fields
empty,
but never empty enough.

We cradle Infinity in our arms—
chaotic arms,
mangled, jagged
we capture Eternity in the chaos
of breathless calms,
flailing,
grasping,
tasting fire with bleeding tongues.

We see only what we can stand to see
what our blind eyes allow
gripped by the weight
of our routine,
our chains.

Wisdom at the door
but the door won’t open
just shadows play,
laughter echoes
too loud
too distant
beneath caverns wide and cracked,
and gray.
We seek, but…
We. Never. Find.

What if it’s all a lie?
What if we are the lie?
This thing we search for
the truth
hidden, buried,
locked inside
our worth.
Entitlement stabs through the skin,
deep,
deep
and we bleed,
but we still think we are entitled.

Then comes the call
from the heavens
but it’s just noise
like wind
we cannot hear it,
can we hear it?
It cuts through the sky,
exposing our scars,
our wounds,
our endless love,
never enough.

Love
it scratches through the bones,
whispers lies in soft lines
through vows,
through sighs,
through laughs that sting,
through silence that screams.
And we look.
Gaze
longing
eyes wide open,
but blind.

At dawn, the sun shatters
breaking in pieces
shivers down the spine
wolves howl,
seers cry,
we— we tremble.

Countless souls scatter,
unbound
free
but fear?
fear is still there
clutching,
clinging,
ripping at hearts
that turn from the night.

The darkness calls.
It’s never far.
Those who flee?
They’ll find nothing.
No love. No comfort. No hope.
Nothing but their own hollow breath.

Hands stretch
but the space is endless.
Journeys continue
but the end is farther than we know.
Steadfast hearts?
They break too.
Skies turn gray,
but still
still
Love’s guiding light,
never—never—fails.

Love
it knows no time,
no end,
no borders.
It bites.
It burns.
It leaves its mark.
Through all that fades,
through all that burns,
Love. Is. There.

Judgment?
It looms.
It looms like a shadow,
thick and choking
for those who arm themselves
with fear
they falter
they fall
before envy’s breath
a dirge,
a song
of death.

In robes of gold,
or rags of decay
truth is shattered,
broken,
a lie dressed in intent
good enough to sell
but never to heal.

The divine spins in the dark
scars and trials burn deep
turning the wheel
beneath the stars
unforgiving.

Teardrops?
They fall
but wings rise
eternal,
seeking grace
seeking answers
that don’t come.

Waves crash
on the shores of fate,
heavy,
crushing
yet the breath of heaven
is weightless.

Summer’s light
it burns
it outshines
the cold of winter’s breath.

The old man?
Reason confined
but blind.
Blind to the truth
to the lies.

Inquiry?
It flickers
like dying light
thoughts fade
we fade
memories burn bright
then dim
like stars that die before we see them.

And art?
It survives
in peace
in silence
envy falls.
Philosophy smiles
but its teeth are sharp.

The cosmos whispers
ancient, eternal, forgotten
and the questions?
They linger
unanswered,
forevermore.

What is truth?
What is time?
In every heartbeat
a rhythm.
A pulse.
A fracture.

Silence deep,
shadows mix,
blur—
and existence?
It never ends.
It never—ever—ends.

Thoughts like rivers
they flow
but do they lead anywhere?
Do we follow them?
Eternally.

Sun and Moon
opposites
but they bow to each other,
embracing their fire,
their light.

To dwell in Passion
to join hand and heart
is to seize
the void
to understand
the nothing.

It’s in the waiting,
the pain
the quiet truth,
that will never speak its name.

A sacred flame,
but no name
just the dance
just the endless turning.

For love is woven,
thread by thread,
by dreams that break
through our minds,
falling like autumn leaves
they fall.

Even when the world
grows cold
Love remains.
Love
it remains.

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

Anyone interested in writing a 4th or 5th for my track BLOOD IN MY CHAMPAGNE?

https://youtu.be/8PpuK0AtMkQ?

Needs to fit over that beat and follow the theme, you will get a honorable mention and a credit on the track

Here are the lyrics so far

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5020992/blood-in-the-champagne/

Yeah, yeah, last round, last sin, last down.
Pour me a drink, let the games begin, big grin no frown,
let's get down.

I like my girls like I like my life,
Wild as hell with a touch of strife.
Down under, right *****, word to the wise,
I lick ‘em up slick, watch the fire in their eyes,
Pick up lines? Nah, just pick up legs,
They here for a night, they ain’t here to beg.

Stick up—this ain't no robbery, slobbery.
Hands up high while lips stick and gobble me,
Wobble please, yeah, tease me slow,
Spice in the breeze, on her knees, let’s go.
Veronica, Sandy, don’t matter the name,
Long as she game, we play the same,
Slam me down like a poetry battle,
**** right, revision, slam night position,
No intermission, just pure ambition,
Next day still wet and wishing.
Ain’t no rules, just break that bed,in her head.

Laugh at the law, let ‘em count the dead,
Yeah, yeah, I live life free,
Ain’t no government controlling me, eyes see. ******* to the piggies as they go wee wee .

Smoke up, sip slow, world stay burning, let's go,
They preach control, but I ain’t concerned with
No king, no leash, no ******* master,
Just me, my sins, and a heart that beats faster. Disaster

So let’s toast to the ones who never bowed,
To the freaks, the rebels, the lost and found,
Ain’t no chains that can hold us down, souls that wanna get down,
Blood in my champagne, let’s burn this town to the ground.

https://youtu.be/8PpuK0AtMkQ

Yeah, step back, Nah, step forward, chin up, take that. I ain't here for the handshake chat, I'm here for the matchstick scratch, The backstreet rats, The black-tar facts that they never dispatch.

Yeah, watch me carve my name in the side of a church, Spitting like a gutter when the heavens all burst, Lip-split venom, ink-stained denim, Mad dog grin with a backstreet emblem.

All of these ******* flash their teeth, Talk like kings, but their crowns ain't cheap, All that silk just hides the rot in em Gold-plated teeth where the worms still feast.

Yeah, yeah, I hear the chat, Big-boy flex but your spine stay cracked, Money so long but your soul stay trapped, Penthouse view but your heart’s pitch-black.

Gimme that pen, let me spit pure venom, Words hit sharp like a switchblade lesson, I ain't in the mood for a soft-boy session, I talk like war and I walk like a weapon.

Yeah, life gave pain, so I sip champagne Till my teeth turn black and my fists feel sane, Gutter-born son with a Godless name, Danced on the edge and I ain't feel shame.

Yeah, I see them all lurking, Fangs in the flesh of the broke and the burdened, Talk about power like they earned it,
What a joke, But they just stole from the kids and the nurses, got fresh rhymes and title verses.

Yeah you know, I been low, I been drunk on the floor of a high-rise window, I been lost in a room full of eyes like gun barrels, Hand on the bottle like it's holding my halo, no pray no, lets let go.

But I ain't done yet, I ain't laid flat, I ain't cashed out, I ain't played that, I ain't one for the quiet or tame acts, I spit like a riot in a tin-can train track wreck,what more could you expect.

Yeah, let the world burn, Let the sky split, Let the flames turn every glass house sick, Let the wolves come, I don't fear their tricks, I'm the one that taught them how to lick their lips.

So pour me a glass, Pour me a casket, Pour me the ashes of every fake *******, Every backstabber, every fraud with a mask, I'll sip that slow, let the poison last.

Yeah, yeah, step back, Nah, step forward, chin up, take that. I ain't here for the handshake chat, I'm here for the matchstick scratch, The backstreet rats, The black-tar facts that they never dispatch, what can I say I still got blood in my champagne and a grinny tic tac.

BLOOD IN THE CHAMPAGNE (second part )

Yeah, I hear that, I smell the smoke,
Ain't no peace when the leash still chokes, bars like a white horned goat,
They print their lies, they sell their quotes,
But I read between every crack in the roads.

Yeah, you sip that venom, I sip mine neat, let's go
Lies on the lips but they kiss my feet,
They built their walls, they stack their fleets,
But a real revolution don’t tweet tweet, it bleeds.

See, I was raised where the streetlights stutter,
Mouth full of dust, bare hands bleeding knuckles in the gutter,
Fed on the echoes of every lost brother, eyes of another crying mother,
Now I carve their names in the bones of the structure.

And they wanna talk power? Let’s talk theft,
Let’s talk hands in the pockets of the dying and the deaf,
Let’s talk leaders that drink till there’s nothing left,
Then lick the glass clean while they grin at our deaths.

Nah, I ain't got patience, I ain't got time,
I ain't got love for a snake in a tie,
I ain't got space in my chest for a lie,
So I stitch my heart shut and I sharpen my mind.

I been low, I been high,
I been down where the devils all barter their sight,
I been up where the saints got a price on their light,
Now I stand with my sins and I set ‘em alight.

So pour me a glass, pour me a promise,
Pour me the truth from the depths of the dishonest,
I sip that slow, yeah, let the world watch it,
Blood in my champagne, toast to the carnage.

BLOOD IN THE CHAMPAGNE (Final Verse)

Yeah, yeah, blood in my champagne, sippin’ on pain,
Cottonmouth fiends got their tongues in the drain,
Licking windows, eyes dead in the rain,
Moving stash just to live, what’s the price on a name? Yeah pain .

Fat rats act like cats, diggin’ in the yards for scratch,
Diggin’ up bones of the past while the people just sit in the dark,
Politicians think they kings but they dont all play their parts,
Got this city on lockdown, padlocked hearts now, while love fall they forgot now.

Don’t mess with me or you’ll see,
I don’t just spit venom, I’m pure anarchy,
No time for whispers, no time for silly malarkey,
Two shots—bang! And you buried in a field or down town parky.

Crosshair ****** in a tree? Nah that's not me.
Hidden in clear sight, I’m a shadow in the  dark night heat, I'm quick on my feet,
Kung fu warrior, I know how to fight,
Not like Sally, *****, I don’t bark—I straight up bite.

Yeah, when I was young, I would mutter,
Gutter-born kid, ate dry bread—no butter, no stutter just words in my head,
Now I sit back, watch the world burn slow,
What the **** can I say? I reap what I sow.

Getting laid every way in the middle of the day,
Stacking bricks, flipping keys, made a way,
While the weak still pray, hands out, empty plates,
While the sharks cut deals in the halls of the state.

Step back—politicians never learning, cold world turning
Wait ‘til this *******’ system start burning,
Don’t come running when your world stops turning,
Like a fake player, empty prayer or Missie in a turban

Yeah, yeah, I see them fiends still crawling, players be ballin
Teeth rot black, souls all fallen,
Selling their breath for a dime on the corner,
Chasing that high like a priest with an order.

What’s the struggle when you fight to survive?
Day to day, can you make it alive?
Blood in my champagne, death in my eyes,
If I see tomorrow, then I call it a prize.

Yeah, yeah, blood in my glass,
Pour out the truth, let it burn, let it last,
Let the world rot, let the sky split,
Let the wolves come—I ain’t scared of ****.

We are all brothers and sisters through time,
no matter the generation before or yet to come,
we share the same thoughts and feelings.

Just as you feel when you look out into the oceans and watch the waves,
this was how I felt.
Just as you experience frustration in the tangle of everyday life,
I too lived in days filled with frustration.
Just as you are one of many in a crowd,
I too was a face among the countless.

Just as you are refreshed by the river’s gentle flow,
I too was cleansed and renewed.
Just as you seek relief on a hot day beneath a tall tree’s shade,
I also drew comfort from nature’s quiet arms.
Just as you take air into your lungs,
drawing its essence deep within,
I too breathed the same breath of life.

Just as you stand in lines, waiting for your turn,
so have I queued in endless waits.
Just as you feel joy bloom in the laughter of a child,
so too did I find my heart lightened by the same sound.
Just as you lie awake at night, searching the stars for answers, questioning the moon,
so have I ask the starless sky for wisdom, sought life's meaning,
in the vastness
above.

Just as you tremble at the thought of loss,
I too have stood there at the edge as well,
feeling time slip slowly through my hands,
like sand.
Just as you now reach for comforting hands of another in love or life's despair,
I too have reached out,
yearning to be held,
to be seen,
to be understood.

Just as you find relief and strength when the storm has passed,
so have I risen,
shaped by the trials that sought to break me.
Just as you marvel at the sun’s rise,
its warmth touching your skin,
I too was humbled by its light,
knowing it shone on all who lived before me
and all who will come after.

Life flows for us all just as it always has,
and just as you are a part of its great river,
so too was I
carried forward,
never alone,
always connected,
In wonder,
Lost in question,
We are,
One.

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

To my friend Withers ..

The world is a canvas, vast and wide,
And we, like broken crayons, are tossed aside.
With edges cracked, our colours fade,
Yet still, we mark the paths we've made.

Once, we were untouched by sorrow,
Box of crayons, world of endless tomorrows,
Our colours danced across the sky,
Dreams so bright they seemed to fly.
But cruel hands cracked our wax,
Snapping edges, dulling tracks.
Still, we clung to what remained,
Even as our pieces scattered, stained.

Each mark etched deep within our soul,
Bruises in shades of red, blue purple and grey, Many childhoods torn, love tangled in harms,
Safety lost to shadows, no false alarms.
“You’re nothing,” they whispered, sharp,
Their words like glass, cutting apart.
Yet through their scorn, we held our ground,
Knowing, deep down, what we had found:
Even broken crayons still colour fine,
Especially when you dont colour between the lines.

The hands meant to guard our grace,
Turned storms, tearing the open space.
Fingers that should’ve calmed our cries,
Stole the innocence from our eyes.
In silence, we learned to fear,
Spaces once meant for trust grew clear.
Darkness, our companion, shame by our side,
Yet in that stillness, we found our guide
A voice whispered softly in the night:
"You are more than this; our colour bright"

The world outside gave no relief,
Laughter like razors, cutting belief.
What healed on the body, scarred deep inside,
Roots of pain spread wide, untried.
Yet even as tears stained the night,
As broken crayons we reached for flight,
A rebellion small, against the dark,
A flicker of hope, a single spark.

For every blow, we painted lines,
For every lie, we drew new signs,
Our colours, though faint, refused to flee,
Jagged edges, yet they still be.
In empty spaces, we painted light,
Turning brokenness into our new fight.

The scars we carry, a map of survival,
Lines etched with strength, a truth so vital.
We climbed walls meant to confine,
Fought shadows that sought to define.
Though cracks in our spirit will never heal,
They catch the light, they make us real.
For every shattered piece of us,
Reflects our power without a fuss.

We've learned that broken does not mean lost,
Even with jagged edges, we pay the cost.
We try bring beauty to the world with art,
For each stroke we leave, a rebirth, a start.
Even when others see only fragments wide,
We know the truth, we carry it inside:
That broken crayons still colour fine
It's not important to stay in lines.

So we gather the pieces scattered far,
Press them together beneath a star.
We may never be whole, but we are enough,
With trembling hands, we paint through rough.
Every jagged mark we leave behind,
Colours the world with light refined.
In brokenness, there’s a lesson to remind,
A quiet grace, our souls intertwined.

To those forgotten, who bear unseen scars,
You are more than the pain that mars.
More than the shadows that haunt your night,
You are a masterpiece, your spirit alight.
And though the world may not understand,
Never forget the power in your hand:
Broken crayons can still bring colour,
To a world grey bland.

A splash of blue, a streak of red,
Shards of yellow where dreams once bled.
Each piece a story, sharp and torn,
A patchwork of hopes both lost and worn,
The box is full, but we don’t fit,
Pressed together, we don’t quite sit.
Yet in the mess, the scattered hues,
There’s a beauty found in the broken blues.

For every line that fades away,
A brighter shade will find its way.
The broken crayon’s tale is told,
In strokes of courage, fierce and bold,
Not all is lost when edges break,
For even shards can start to shake.
In fractured light, the colours rise,
And broken crayons paint the skies

So here is a gentle fact that broken crayons can still bring colours back ..

May these words hold you my dear friend ....

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

Castles of the Forgotten Shore    
The wind shall shape the shifting sand,    
In hills and valleys softly carved,    
Children build, their castles grand,    
A kingdom made with tender hands,    
Where dreams are shaped by golden strands,    
But waves will take them back to land.    
  
The waves will take them back to land,    
As wind blows softly through the sand.    
The children’s dreams slip through their hands,    
While castles crumble, soft and grand.    
In silence, shadows fill the strands,    
And all returns to sea and land.    
  
The gulls take flight and leave the land,    
While sea and sky reclaim the sand.    
The castle walls now slip from hands,    
Forgotten, drifting through the strands,    
As ocean winds call out, "So grand,    
The shore, the tide, the endless land."    
  
The shore, the tide, the endless land,    
Where once the castle proudly stands,  
Now nothing remains but shifting sand,    
Where memories drift like hollow hands.    
The gulls are still, the sea, so grand,    
And all returns, once more to land.    
  
In silence, shadows fill the strands,    
While castles crumble, soft and grand.    
The children’s dreams slip through their hands,    
As wind blows softly through the sand.    
The waves will take them back to land,    
And all is swept away from land.    
  
The kingdom made with tender hands,    
Children build, their castles grand.    
In hills and valleys softly carved land,    
The wind shall shape the shifting sand,    
As waves will take them back to land    
And all returns to sea and land.    
  
  
Copyright ©️ Malcolm Gladwin    
January 2025    
"Castles of the Forgotten Shore"    
  
If you didn't get it the first time maybe read it again aloud , then you will find the key

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.

Tick—tock, the wall blinks back,
hands circling our days like vultures.
Sunrise, sunset—another grain falls.

We count time in echoes, in light-years,
watching comets carve their nameless orbits,
wandering like satellites without a home.

Falling into the tomorrow.
We think we know

poetry used to be a map, a hymn, a burning
we wrote like our tongues bled, like time
ached for translation. words cracked open the sky,
made men dream, made women rise,
made silence sit and listen.
but now,
now, if I whisper of rivers, of dust-lit dawns,
of the wind curling like a mother’s hand
the echoes fall hollow.

but let me write skin, sweat, moan, bite
watch them come running.
write me naked, paint me burning,
say lust, say ****, say writhing hunger
and the crowd swells, tongues heavy with thirst.
it’s not wrong—no, never wrong—
but it is telling.

it is a hunger that does not end.
not for beauty, not for meaning,
not for the poetry that unfurls the world
just for the quick hit, the lit fuse,
the take me there, take me now, make me feel something
for five minutes and leave me numb again.

if I say the word tree, I get ten eyes.
if I say thighs, I get ten thousand.
and that’s where we are.
not where we were.
not where poetry was once carved into the bones of history,
but where it flickers like neon in motel rooms,
glows for a night, fades by morning.

I do not blame them.
I do not shame them.
but I will not forget
what poetry used to do
when words were more than
just a pleasure-driven plate.

You summon storms wild
from whispers in the dust.
I forge new fences
from yesterday’s rust.

This life—a river's flow
with no perfect shore,
your tide, my drift
we've fought the oar.

I’ve chased horizons,
near and far
felt my eyes turn blue,
but every compass true
bleeds back to you.

We stand in twilight glow
where seasons we do not know
a softened breath held tight
between what was and were
and night.

And when the fire
asks us to choose,
we burn, we bend
we learn,
but never lose.

For even mazes
made of rue,
have secret doors
that open to the place
I always knew.

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

Love sits on the windowsill, watching, / watching, / watching
not close enough to touch, yet its breath melts the frost,  
soft as a dying ember, cruel as the wind that snuffs it.  

Oh, I have seen love / gnawing the bones of the moon,  
worshipped it in the fever of hands that mistake  
devotion for the slick pulse of need
tell me, tell me, where does love end, and lust begin?  
When do lips become razors, and kisses become graves?  

I have kissed a ghost in the shape of a lover,  
felt their breath stitched into my ribs,  
and called it devotion. Called it fate.  
But love does not come home, it lingers,  
it haunts, it perches between throat and hunger.  

Lust wears the same perfume as longing  
a scent that lingers on sheets,  
that stains the skin with feverish scripture.  
And yet, love, / love, / love
it is a wound that hums lullabies,  
a flood that never reaches the roots.  

Let me love you the way ruin loves the cathedral
so sacred, so brutal, so inevitable.  

Tell me
is it heaven, is it hell,  
or is it just the way the heart breaks beautifully?

The wind gnaws flesh from the bones of the moon,
spits marrow into the still water—
the pool does not move, the pool does not speak,
but something coils beneath.
Karma is a snake with its teeth in my throat.
I tell it, “Let go.”
It laughs. It does not.

No self, no center, no name.
The mind burns its own house down—
calls it wisdom, calls it freedom.
But if all things are empty, why am I still full of hunger?
If all things are weightless, why do I still sink?

The Great Way is effortless—
if you have no pulse.
The absence of love is not peace.
The absence of hate is not peace.
The absence of everything is not peace.
And yet, they tell me to lay myself down,
to let the tide scrape my body clean,
to make myself a ghost and call it enlightenment.

DO NOT THINK.
DO NOT SPEAK.
DO NOT EXIST.

(But the body still remembers itself. The body still bleeds.)

They say the world is illusion.
They say the self is illusion.
They say let go, let go, let go—
but I have seen the abyss open its mouth.
I have seen what it swallows.

So tell me, what if I refuse?
What if I choose to stay?
What if I carve my name into the silence
and dare it to erase me?

(Not you. Not you. Not you.)

But still—

I press my fingers to my throat,
and something like a pulse remains.

I tried to count the times I fell in love ,
But my memory failed to serve,
their meaning lost in time,
Each face, and memory were empty,
Lost in thoughts I pondered of long ago.

I reached for my quill and ink, to write forgotten lines,
To write down the echoes, jotted in tears.
Yet all my words were faint and torn,
A fabric ripped, both bright and worn.

My diary still waits, its pages empty,
The keeper of the love I wear.
But as I write, the truth unweaves
Some loves are meant to not be written

Death is coming
fast in the bones,
slow in the breath.

Each day, the fight grows heavier,
but will grows thin
a thread unraveling
in falling wind.

Still, I wait.
Not for mercy
but for the hush
that follows pain.

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.

Curled up close,
warm, trusting, loved.
A sigh, a stretch
A wag of tail
then silent betrayal.

He locks eyes,
innocent, unblinking.
It wasn’t him.
(Lies.)
Sis you stinky ***

Oh, children, come gather, and listen in close,
To a tale of behaviors that bother the most!  
A lesson in kindness, as quick as a tick:
This little mantra, don’t be a ****.      
      
Imagine young Larry, quite rude in his ways,
Who butted in line at the fairgrounds for days.
He’d push, he’d shove, with a grin so wide,
Till they tossed his *** right out for his rude little pride!      
      
Then there’s Miss Claire, who’s quite the chatter,
But always she talks as if no one else matters.
She’ll cut in mid-sentence, she’ll hijack the floor,
Till friends disappear, right out the back door!  
  
And look! There’s sly Benny, so slick and so witty,
With backhanded compliments, oh so pretty
To say, “You look nice… today, at least!”      
He thinks it’s a joke, but he’s just a rude little beast.

Now meet Mr. Fred, the ultimate champ,
Who’d win at all costs, like a cold-hearted lamp!
He’d gloat if he won, if he lost, he would pout
Until everyone’s cheers turned to, “Hey, Fred, get the hell out!”

And don’t get me started on poor Mr. Lee,
Who talks on his cellphone for all to see!
The bus hears his life, the ups and the downs,
And wonders aloud, “Does he think we’re all clowns?”      
      
Or ghosty Miss May, who’ll vanish and dart,
Till she needs a big favor then, oh! She’ll take heart!
But friends aren’t just there for a quick disappear,
Be there when it’s good, be there when it’s drear!      
      
Yes, kindness is golden, but some never see,
Like Finn who one-ups, never lets things be.   “You climbed that mountain? I climbed it twice!”
Oh, dear, someone save us from one-up advice!

And next, meet young Theo, who leaves a big mess,
In every shared space, with no thought to confess.
A spilled drink, a wrapper, some crumbs from his treat
This ******* assumes that the fairies will clean up his feet!

Then there’s dear Patsy, who skips every “thanks”
Who treats help from others like limitless banks.
The waiter, the driver, her parents, her friends,
She takes and she takes, till the friendship just ends.

Now Oliver’s always the first to take credit,
Though others around him are ones who have led it!
He swoops in and beams, and says, “Yes,
that was me!”
While others just sigh, as they stand silently.

Or grumpy Miss Jan, who’ll twist a small slight,
Into a feud that could last her for life!
Instead of forgiving or letting it go,  
She’ll hang on like a dog with a bone, oh no that's just so!

And finally, Sammy, who’s loud and who’s brash,
Who loves to start fights and go out and splash.
A “keyboard warrior” with no heart in sight
Stirring up trouble on screens late at night.      

So remember, dear children, it’s really quite slick,
To act with some kindness, DONT BE A ****.
For friends are like flowers; they don’t grow on stone  
Water them kindly, don’t live life alone!

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.

Get drunk, they said
but on what?
The clocks melted and laughed,
the stars bled through the cracks in the sky,
and the wind whispered sermons to no one.
The city was a carcass,
neon guts spilling into the gutters,
and I? I was just another fool
sipping gasoline from the hands of a prophet,
chasing ghosts down the boulevard of Never-Enough.

Oh, but you were there
your shadow sprawled against the moon,
your lips curled like a dying cigarette,
your hunger raw, open, beautiful.
We drowned in the music of collapsing dreams,
danced on the rooftops of forgotten prayers,
let the night chew us up and spit us out
into the morning's hollow teeth.

Time didn't own us, no
we broke its back,
ground its bones into powder,
snorted the years like they meant nothing.
Every second was a funeral for the past,
every breath a resurrection of madness.
We were the outlaws of reason,
the vagrants of meaning,
the poets of apocalypse,
and the stars burned brighter just to watch us fall.

Oh, but you wanted more
wanted the taste of infinity on your tongue,
wanted to stitch the universe into your skin,
wanted to be the god of your own ruin.
So you drank from the chalice of Never-Enough,
tore open the sky just to see if it bled,
whispered secrets to the wind
and let it carry you into oblivion.

And I?
I watched.
I carved your name into the walls of my ribs,
let your laughter echo in my broken soul,
let your shadow crawl beneath my skin.
I watched you dissolve,
watched you slip between the cracks of the night,
watched you become nothing
but a story whispered by the wind.

And now, the clocks are silent,
the city is dust,
the stars are tired of watching.
And I?
I am still drunk
but on what, I do not know.
Not on you.
Not on time.
Not on hope.
Just on the weight of everything that was,
and the quiet that followed after.

Oh, the machines,
those glorious beasts of iron and steam,
their roar echoing in the hollowed-out caves of cities,
once forests, now factories
a relentless, ceaseless hymn to progress.

What is it you fear?
Not starvation, surely.
No, it’s the collapse of profit margins,
the death knell of dividends.
Oh he fools sitting between the great paradox:
to have too much, yet too little.

You called forth these creations oh these metal monstrosities,
summoned them from fire and ore,
their birth pangs soot and ash.
They obeyed,
and they thrived.
And now,
you cower before your creations,
like Frankenstein in the shadow of his monster.

Millions born—not to fields,
but to the groaning wombs of industry.
They toil, not for bread, but for shoes,
for soap,
for motorcars,
for the great absurdity of surplus.
Cities swell,
bellies shrink,
and yet the machine demands more.

The shoe man cannot make a shoe,
but he can press a button.
The button feeds the beast,
the beast spits out shoes.
Shoes by the thousands,
shoes for feet that may never walk.
What becomes of them,
these unwalked shoes?
Does it matter?

Rhythm, they say.
Equilibrium.
The oyster would conquer the earth,
but the oyster is wise enough
to stay its ambition.
Not so the machine.
No rhythm here, only cacophony.
Not equilibrium,
but a frenzy of excess,
spinning faster and faster
until the gears grind themselves to dust.

And Italy,
sun-kissed and starving,
offers its gift to the world:
a life lived cheaper.
"Cheaper!"
The machine laughs,
and the people weep.
Cheaper shoes, cheaper soap,
cheaper souls.
But it is that, or starve.

The steel age dawned,
a brighter, sharper blade.
It cut through iron,
and through men.
And when the machines
became too much for their masters,
finance stepped in,
clutching its golden lifeboat.
“Control,” they called it,
though control was but a dream.

Now we live in the third kingdom,
this strange, synthetic Eden.
No gods here, only machines.
No balance, only hunger.
And still we press the buttons.
And still we feed the beast.

Oh, the machines,
how they thrive.
And how they laugh.