It starts with a text
Hey handsome, you wanna hang?
And I know exactly where this night is going.
No need for games, no need for slow burns,
this isn’t about forever, it’s about now,
about heat and sweat and the way her hips move
like a wild ocean wave ready to crash.
She’s ten years younger but just as reckless,
and I’m not old enough to care.

We meet at the bar, two drinks in, shooters next.
She laughs, head tilted back, hair spilling like whiskey.
The way she sways to the bassline,
hips like liquid, eyes like fire
I swear the whole **** room watches.
They want her.
But she’s here with me,
and she ******* knows it.
A beautifully crafted piece of sin in a silk dress,
long brown hair swinging like a whip,
eyes that will burn holes in your soul,
and a laugh that makes you want more,
she loves my expensive cologne

She leans in, inhales deep,
says, I love the way you smell.
And I know what she means
it’s not the cologne,
not the brand or the bottle,
but the way the night sticks to me,
the way desire leaves its mark,
the way she’ll catch it on the pillow tomorrow
she knows she driving me wild as she comes close to breath me in deeper and deeper,
Oh and how I love how she smells
like a beautifully scented candle
expensive, sophisticated
So dam ****

Dinner is seafood and teasing,
her tongue running over the fork like a promise.
Oysters are on the menu ,
you know they a natural afrodiziac,
Not like we need them.
We flirt like we haven’t been tangled in sheets before.
Like I haven’t already left bruises on her thighs,
owned every inch of her over and over,
its like thunder and lightning when we together, you know there will be a storm!
Everything getting blow away and soaked..excuse the pun.
besides it's not
like she hasn’t clawed down my back,
it's strange we like two wild personality that become one,
even though we live separate lives.
like we don’t already know
exactly where this night is heading.
But the build-up? Oh, that’s the foreplay.
The tension, the knowing
the anticipation is the first **** of the night.

Back at mine,
door barely closed before we’re devouring,
my hands under her dress,
her breath hot against my jaw,
she bites because she can,
because she knows I like it.
Clothes—forgotten, skin—slick,
the bed—just another battlefield.
She moves like a lioness,
hungry, wild, untamed.
I hold her in one arm like she weighs nothing,
she climbs me like a fever dream,
moans like a sin sung in the dark.
We **** like animals, like fire and gasoline,
like this night will never end.

Morning comes, tangled sheets and tangled limbs.
She stretches, smirks, straddles me one more time,
a slow, lazy encore to the symphony of last night.
Coffee, croissants, a shower that turns into another round.
She smells like sweat and perfume and something sweeter
freedom, maybe.
The babysitter calls, and we know what that means.
Time to part, time to slip back into our separate lives.
But there’s no sorrow, no longing.
We both know the game, and ****, do we play it well.

And when she texts again
You up for another round?
I grin, reply
Tell the babysitter not to wait up.
Because everyone needs a **** buddy,
but not everyone gets one this good.
until the next episode
life is life

A Sewer of Secondhand Stanzas & Desperate Hands in the Dark
Rotting forum, crusted in filth, a mausoleum for hacks,
where perverts slither between broken metaphors,
their trembling hands typing—no, panting—
over poems that stink of sweat and self-pity,
rejected lovers turned dime-store philosophers,
clawing at rhyme like it's the last cheap thrill
they’ll ever taste.

A graveyard of ghost accounts and hollow praise,
twenty usernames circling the drain,
sniffing each other’s failures and calling it art,
a place where "critique" means slapping a heart
on yet another recycled *****-verse
about “aching souls” and “dying stars.”

Oh, the predators—old men and woman in shadows, lurking, waiting,
writing thin-veiled fantasies and calling them poems,
prying at the young with tired compliments,
sickly sweet as rotting fruit.
They call themselves poets—
but they reek of desperation and dust.

And the “art” they birth?
Half-baked, half-rhymed, half-thought,
trite as a teenager’s diary scrawl,
sewn together with clichés and copied lines,
whimpering at their own reflections,
******* to mediocrity.

The site itself? A glitching, gasping relic,
a dumpster fire on dial-up,
barely held together by duct tape and denial,
its threads—old, stale, circling the same six topics,
poetry regurgitated like bad meat,
a static grave for static minds.

So here’s your goodbye, Deep Underground—
a place where talent goes to die,
where “community” is a euphemism for
mutual mediocrity,
where words are not weapons, not wonders—just waste.

Let it sink. Let it rot.
It was never alive to begin with.
Good riddance to bad *******.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How often do you look inside,
and find the parts you try to hide?
The dreams you lost, the fear you keep,
the thoughts that stir when you're half-asleep?

How often do you walk away,
from chances you meant to take that day?
Do you watch the world go passing by,
and feel too small to even try?

How often do you fall, then crawl,
wishing you could stand up tall?
But something holds you in the dirt
a voice that whispers, “you’ll get hurt.”

How often do you speak your mind,
and leave the careful words behind?
Or search for truth in what you feel,
even if it cuts, even if it's real?

How often do you cry alone,
in quiet rooms that feel like stone?
And still, somehow, you wipe your eyes
and face the day before sunrise.

How often do you trust what's new,
the road ahead with no clear view?
Or sit and stare at empty air,
at things you wish were really there?

How often do you try to see
the parts of you you hide so deep?
To open up, to take the chance
on love, on hope, on sweet romance?

How often do you ride the wave,
let go, be bold, be less afraid?
Or do you laugh, or break the rules,
play your part and bend the tools?

But through the dark and through the light,
through every wrong, through every right
when all is lost or all is won,
when storms are gone and skies are sun

Just be yourself—no need to prove,
no need to run, no need to move.
You’re enough in every place
in every fall, in every grace.

Who needs a cat with its smug, aloof stare,
when you can have a dragon
curled around your armchair?
No hairballs to gag on, no litter box smell
just scales that gleam like molten gold,
a roar that tolls like a dinner bell.

Picture this:
I’m walking my dragon down Main Street,
its tail swiping lampposts, its wings unfurled.
You’d cross the road, wouldn’t you?
No "Here, kitty, kitty" nonsense here
more like "Hey, don’t step on my dragon's tail,
unless you fancy a toasted rear."

Cats claw at your furniture,
but a dragon?
One good huff, and your boss is barbecue
promotion secured, no HR to sue.
And homework?
Gone in a puff of fiery breath,
like a snack too dry to chew.

Dragons don’t purr;
they rumble like thunderclouds,
a warning to the mailman
who thinks he’s brave.
Leave the package at the gate, sir
we’ll fetch it after he’s had his lunch break.

Forget scratching posts;
my dragon’s hobbies are practical:
lighting the grill for marshmallow feasts,
turning burglars to toast
(though they never get past the TV,
artfully left in his food bowl
how kind of them to step so close).hehe

Cats bring you mice as gifts,
but my dragon’s presents?
A flaming pile of junk mail,
your nosy neighbor’s fence,
and an accidental singe of the hedges.
The yard looks better scorched, anyway.

So go on, take your catnip, your bells,
and your feline "charm."
I’ll take a dragon with its fiery alarm.
Because when the world sees me astride my beast,
no one’s asking "Got a moment for Greenpeace?" No fella no time for that, have you met snappy.

Instead, it’s awe, it’s terror, it’s glory.
My dragon, my friend, my living story.
And while cats demand your undying affection

dragons? They burn your enemies.
No contest, no question.

In the dim light of ancient halls,  
He whispers softly,  
We hear his calls,
a friend clothed in shadows,
in smoke and fire they say,  
keeping the church alive,  
a warm embrace for cold fears,  
preaching hellfire and brimstone,  
a spire of dread pointing skyward,  
where the devil dances,  
a charred marionette on strings of sin.

Oh, false doctrines rise like smoke,  
a specter, a finger-wagging savior,
teaching dagger and cloak,
“Beware! The adversary lurks,”  
they warn with trembling lips,  
“He, the prince of cruelty,  
tenders a tempting bite,
taste the fruit,
the forbidden tree,
eternal damnation ,
a promise wrapped in terror.”

Who is this adversary named?
He the name of misfortune,
one we see in other but not self ,
A mere reflection, a mirror held,  
“Opposition,” say his name,  
“Accuser,” a harsher truth,  
carved in stone, once an angel,  
now a fallen whispers ear,  
the essence of man’s desires,  
the carnal heartbeat of life.

Yet before these shadows thickened,  
before the horns twisted grotesque,  
there was Pan,  
a dancing god of fertility,  
whose laughter kissed the earth,  
and now, in the ruins of time,  
he wears the mask of villainy,  
cast aside in the theaters of faith,  
deemed a demon in the light,
man’s nature tolls of the gods
then called Dionysus,
satyr or faun.

Awake, O spirits of the old!  
No longer villains in this twilight hold,  
but forgotten echoes of a vibrant past,  
once celebrated in wild abandon last,  
now silenced, imprisoned in flames,  
while the new gods parade and shame,  
draped in the garments of judgment,  
spreading tales of black and white,  
magic lost to duality's grip.

Yet the old ones linger on,
the old faiths of past,
in the corners of whispered prayers,  
their essence swirling,  
daring to invoke a truth,  
the bogeyman of our fears,  
is that just a shadow,  
hiding behind the curtain,  
waiting for the dawn  
when the light calls out,  
and we reclaim the dance,  
where all can be sacred,  
in the embrace of life itself.

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.

Warm breath,
calloused grip
she jerks like a mechanic,
I pray for mercy.

Sometimes Irony and Murphy’s Law
lend to each other.

The blind man leads the deaf man,
they debate honest politics
one can’t see, the other can’t hear,
while they are nicely seated
at the corners of the round table,
which has no corners but still divides.
The preacher damns the sinners
between paid confessions and rented beds,
his sermon reeks of whiskey and perfume.
He calls it redemption; she calls it a Tuesday.

The poet bleeds words,
the painter stains canvas,
the ***** does both, but she’s still a *****.
If she starved, she’d be a muse.
If she overdosed, she’d be a legend.
But she lived,
just another body in the gallery of wasted virtue.

The doctor dies in the waiting room.
The fire truck burns before reaching the fire.
The cop gets robbed at gunpoint.
The beggar wins the lottery,
gets hit by a bus cashing the check.
A man buys a gun for protection,
the burglar uses it against him.
The city floods after a decade-long drought,
the farmer's crops drown before the harvest.

We wage war in search of peace.
We bomb cities to set them free.
The soldier fights for his country,
dies nameless in foreign soil.
The treaty is signed,
and the killing begins again.

You save your whole life to retire,
then die before the check clears.
You pray for strength,
but your bones grow brittle.
You wait for love,
but when it comes, your hands forget how to hold.
You ask for honesty,
and they call you cruel,
when the only truth you find
is in between all the stale, day-old lies.

And when the show ends,
they’ll bury you in a suit you never chose,
in a box you paid for but never wanted,
under dirt you’ll never see
and they’ll say you’re at peace.

Isn’t that ironic?

Sunday—just another day,
Prayer—just another way.
Silence—just another reply,
Thinking—just another reason why.

Still, we keep doing
still, we keep asking
as if "another"
might finally mean something.

Belief, the spark that starts our chase,
Truth, the light we seek to trace.
Justification, the proof we claim,
Together they build knowledge’s flame.

Belief in what we think we know,
Truth must follow, or it won’t grow.
Justification always leads the way,
Or else our truth begins to sway.

Belief, though firm, it can lead astray,
Truth must be present, come what may.
Justification, always clear and bright,
Brings our darkness into light.

But luck, like shadows, bends the line,
Truth may falter, knowledge decline.
For Gettier’s problems show our plight,
Where belief seems true, but lacks the right.

Belief in a watch, broken yet right,
Truth in the moment, not in the sight.
Justification, though clear in view,
Is tainted by luck, and proves untrue.

Belief can lead, but where’s the cause?
Truth without foundation can give us pause.
Justification may stand tall,
But luck can make it stumble and fall.

In knowledge’s quest, we still remain,
Seeking what we can’t quite explain.
Belief, truth, and justification are tied,
But luck’s hidden hand makes us collide.

We hurt each other for a dull fun, take bitter draughts to numb the pain, ’til our shattered hearts beat hollow as tin drums, ensnared in a love born barren, a lone communion,  a pale flame sputtering in the dark.  
  
I want to know by what dark alchemy are we bound to fears we cannot see, each fear  
a shadow thickening around the sinking soul? No sorrow strikes deeper than a mind torn, unraveling at the edge of itself.  
  
I am bled of tears, wrung out , this time let ache have its reign, until ache itself goes numb, Grip slipping, a slow erosion of my soul, O, heavens above, what bleak rapture is this, where the void weighs heavier than we can confess?  
  
I float, moored to fractured skies, drunk on the height, afraid to descend, but if my voice ever finds you, stranger, then perhaps you, too, know the taste of solitude.  
  
Tell me, how did we come to this?  
Eyes turned dim, starved for clarity,  
where nothing mourns more than a mind undone, where night itself becomes the wound.  
  
Exiled from tears, I spill them from within,  
my hold loosening around my heart, slowly everything fractures, and in that chasm, nothing is what it seems.  
  
I lost my halo, I lost my grace, I bear my own vice, an anti-saint cast out, self-exiled, a phantom wearing dust for a crown.  
  
Scaling walls to escape the fall, though the abyss beckon, I planted seeds I forgot were there, roots now breaking through cold stone,  
each blossom of thorns a memory buried.  
  
My thoughts bound in quiet ruin, shall I raise the rafters or let myself fade away into eternity, I flicker white, fade to black, bleed to blue, let my soul be exhumed, to be known.  
  
Ashes and dust, my feelings fade in thin air,  
A beggar for truths hidden deep, in a soul  
burned out and breaking through, haunted only by the echo of desire an enlightenment.  
  
My aching entombed, my soul pulsing low,  
a captive within, yet im bound to bleed, lost in a labyrinth dark, wandering slow, my pains then calls, though I dare not go.  
  
In silent paths where shadows teem,  
the heart’s last sanctuary, and pain
heavier than it seems...

Lantern and Flame
From pulpits built on brittle lies,  
their words crumble like ash,  
filling the skies with emptiness.  
The sacred chains that once held the meek  
shatter beneath the roar of voices.  

A fire smolders in mortal hearts,  
its embers feeding where fear once ruled.  
No idols rise, no gods remain;  
the soul ascends,  
carving its truth from the void.  
Earth takes back its kin,  
unashamed of desire, unafraid of sin.  

A lantern sways in the darkness,  
its flame trembling,  
revealing what prophets hid.  
No pearled gates, no thrones of gold—  
only soil, fertile and raw,  
where truths root and grow.  
The descending lights from burning stars,  
cold and distant,  
Fall upon ambient shores.  
They seek no praise,  
bearing witness with silent indifference.  

They gaze upon the fallen earth with silent eyes, unshaken  
They offer no grace, no forgiveness, no judgement  
only a savage beauty,  
reflecting the shape of our hunger,  
Our deepest depth.  

The pulse of flesh,  
the spark of want,  
a hymn rising from deep within.  
Not from saints or stoics,  
but from open skies and burning hearts.  
Kindness blooms where roots entwine,  
while wrath devours deceit.  
Indulgence whispers its song;  
restraint bows its head.  
It seems every choice once condemned  
becomes a doorway through freedoms stairs,  
they walk softly, when each step offers, enlightenment, wisdom  
knowledge in its path,  
the road less taken.  

Through ancient soil,  
fires ash, our simple roots stretch deep entangled,  
entwining with the unseen.  
The winds of our time shift,  
stones turn while mountain lean toward us,  
as if drawn by a force  
older than time.  
A murmur stirs through veins of earth,  
a call rising from hills and plains.  
Desire sculpts the barren clay,  
and night lingers when summoned.  
No angel intervenes;  
only human hands  
shape the world.  

The sea without age glimmers, dark and endless,  
its waves carrying secrets.  
Leviathan stirs beneath the tides,  
its power silent,  
its wisdom primal.  
The salt burns against our tongues,  
its songs carve truth into flesh.  
The depths rise,  
freeing the soul,  
and the self emerges,  
unchained from the waves.  

A temple rises,  
built of wax and bone.  
Incense curls,  
veils unravel,  
shadows press closer.  
Each word sparks a fire;  
each chant shifts the stars.  
No guardian angel watches here;  
no light spills from heaven.  
Only mortal hands command the dark.  
Flames rise;  
the mortal speaks,  
and the heavens sigh.

Let people be.
Let them breathe,
let them live free
whether they are he, she, or joyfully three.

Who cares what they look like,
where they come from,
or how they speak?
They are people.
They rise, they fall,
they laugh, they seek.

They deserve to walk their own way,
to love, to cry,
to dance in the sun or weep in the rain,
without shame
and without a chain.

So what if they don’t fit the shape
your mind molds as “normal”?
That’s your cage.
This is their stage.

No need to love as they do
just let them be true.
Let them shine in their own sky,
wear their names with pride,
even if their pronouns
don’t match the tide.

They bleed red,
they dream in color.
They’ve felt grief,
they’ve cherished another.
So why should their joy
be cause for alarm?
Why does their truth
feel like harm?

Each life is one
let it count,
without need for approval
or fearful doubt.

It’s okay if someone born a he
feels within a radiant she.
It’s okay to find love
wherever love chooses to be.
It’s okay to be soft,
to be bold,
to be different,
to break the mold.

There is no need for convention,
no rule to conform
let them be fire,
let them be form.

Happiness harms no one.
Difference is not a crime.
So why does it bother so many
when others simply wish to shine?

All lives matter.
This earth belongs to all.
Every voice, every shade,
every rise, every fall.

Don’t let hate
sit in your heart.
Don’t let judgment
tear others apart.

Love.
Love wide.
Love those who stand
on the other side.

Help each other.
Lift each other.
We are all brothers, sisters,
fathers, mothers
children of this spinning place.
And if one truly looks face to face,
they’ll find kindness
where they once saw fear.

There are greater battles
than long hair or buzzed styles,
than lovers who smile
in ways that don’t match your files.

Accept what is different.
See the beauty in change.
It takes every kind
to turn the world’s range.

Let people be.
They don’t need permission to exist.
They deserve to be seen,
respected,
and missed.

I wrote you a letter, I’m wondering why,
why am I left with no answer, no simple reply,
No voice from heaven—no voice from the sky.
Surely—did you leave, O God? Did you die?

I thought you’d ease the burden we all bear,
but it’s silent—so quiet—are you even there?
We live in our fears, tears dripping on faces,
people starving—the whole human race is,
suffering and homeless, year after year—please
give me a sign, tell me you can hear.

Did you plan this hunger—aching, cold?
I don’t mean to bother, but I’m feeling untold
give us a nod, a grin—something divine!
Surely, nothing too much for the great sky, sublime.

Maybe you can't hear me—am I not clear?
Are you too far? Too distant? Too not here?
Your people, your creation, they fight in the streets—
cause they can’t speak louder about a God they can't reach.
How can I believe when disease is our fate
the cancer, the plague, the COVID—too late.

Did you shape mankind, the darkness inside too?
Did you create the Angels—and the Devil, anew?
I don’t know if you see it, but people die in pain
mothers weeping—endless crying, in vain.

They quote your book—every verse, every line
but are these just words—or are they divine?
It’s sad, so sad—so many hold you near,
but when they need you—God, they can’t find you here.
Year after year, year after year—gone.

How can I believe in myths and tales I can't see?
Perhaps, God, the truth is—you’re not real to me.

Is Heaven there—what about Hell?
What about angels and demons—where do they dwell?
A saint at the gates—were you crowned with thorn?
Watching this world—now bruised, torn, worn.

Sitting up there, as wars rage on down
watching the children falling—drowning, around,
losing mother and son—lives swept to sea
lost—lost—and not found—how can this be?

The world is breaking—heavy, soaked in pain,
yet you're never around, while the tears fall like rain.
Our prayers rise—up, again, and again
the same people you made—need someone to blame.

The Father, the Son, the Spirit, we seek
is this just a riddle, or some holy mystique?
Show me a sign, a hint that you’re there,
am I just speaking words into thin air?

Down on my knees—just asking you why
Are you there, God? Or just another lie?

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.

She burned for knowledge,
I gave her the universe.

She was bound,
I set her free.

She carried wind and light,
I held too tight.

She left.

Love is a dream, a ghost.

A Love Anthologies

I. Invocation

Beauty, abyssal in your seraphic trance—
flames licking stars that don’t dare look back,
I ache in your gaze, soft as a lie,
the twilight’s kiss, trembling on your lips.
How could we, so fragile, not fall—
plummeting into you, undone by desire?

Your fragrance is a hymn, a psalm sung
to gods that don’t care about the rain.
Kisses that bind and break,
potions meant for the meek,
to erase the gods—burn them clean.
What fate did you draw from the stars,
casting ruin and ecstasy, reckless in your design?

Beneath your steps lie broken hearts,
bones burned, wings shredded by your flames.
Still they chant, soaked in delirium—
“O radiant doom! You are both heaven and hell!”

II. The Meeting of Souls

How do we hide from this collision?
You, a bowstring, pulling me tight and arrow in the heart,
a song I never wanted, but had to hear, that plays on repeat
Who bent us into this? This clay formed into a beautiful sculpt
Some cruel composer,
writing melodies and songs of longing we never asked for, with words we don't know.

We break, we burn, we ignite,
twin sparks lighting up the darkness.
Your laughter rips through my silence—
a knife, an embrace, a prayer.
And in your touch, I find everything
I thought I could not be,
yet was always meant to become.

III. The Autumn Sky

You are the autumn sky—
rose-lit and falling apart at the edges.
Joy? Grief? Who knows where one ends,
when the other swallows it whole.

Sadness floods me, a tide
that erodes my bones,
marking everything I loved as lost.
Your fingers trace the scars,
the ruins wolves left behind,
as if nothing ever mattered.

And still, you burn me.
A blaze that consumes,
but in the ashes, I find you,
once again.
I am yours—
in my destruction, in my surrender.

IV. The Weight of the World

Love is the weight we carry,
a gravity we cannot escape.
Through empty nights,
under the burn of distant stars,
we wear it like a crown,
heavy but made to stay.

It lives in the quiet of sleep,
and in the screams of waking life.
Love is what survives—
both a wound and its cure.
Through agony, it purifies,
and leaves us ragged,
but whole.

Without it—what is there?
Just hollow shells and bitter breaths,
choking on the ache,
and even in forsaking,
it refines.

V. A Memory Eternal

Do you remember me?
Your breath, the very air I inhaled—
the fire that surged in my veins?
Those nights when stars bled silver,
and the world, drowned in your smile,
became irrelevant?

Even now, with shadows creeping—
your ghost clings to me,
a hollow, a sickness.
Can love, now gone,
be reborn from the abyss we’ve made?

As suns rise from drowning seas,
so does your memory—
sharp, burning, and infinite.

VI. The Reckoning

Time crawls, hissing, without mercy.
And yet here I stand—naked, raw,
your touch branding me like a scar.
Your eyes, cold and unyielding,
mark my worth—
and I burn in your judgment.

In this decay, I find something untouched—
an ember, still breathing,
defiant against the abyss.
O Beauty, destroy me again.
Thread me with your broken needle,
and tear me apart once more—

For in this ruin,
your song never ends—
a hymn of fire,
always yearning,
always burning,
until nothing is left but ash and desire.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silver rivers stream,
overflow of love’s embrace,
grace spills without end.

Heart's chalice brimming,
nectar sweet as morning dew,
life’s kiss overflow.

Boundless tides arise,
soul’s deep well spills harmony,
love’s cup never still

Once again the light of night stares deeply,
Moon’s got me, fingers in my skull,
cracking, peeling, tearing at thoughts
let me be,
I never gave permission for
laughing, smirking
like it owns the night,
like it owns the pain that won’t let me go.

Time folds itself like crumbling paper,
rips apart, mends itself wrong
Minute by minute,
one AM, two, three, four, six,
numbers, fragments, slipping through fingers,
nothing makes sense but the heaviness.
One more hour, one more moment,
and I’m still awake,
count sheep, count dogs, count cats
Nothing!

Sleep? A liar,
a trick of the light,
a hallway that leads nowhere,
a door that doesn’t open
I chase it,
fall into it,
but I wake,
each time
repeating
staring at the ceiling,
listening to the wall breathe,
mind racing away from me,
why won't you let me be.

If I could
I would tear the moon from the sky,
break his light,
fold him into something small,
a paper boat,
something that could sail off,
something I can crush.
But no,
I watch
smug, distant,
untouchable,
repeated,
the moon, laughing.

And me?
I’m a shadow of a shadow,
too awake to sleep,
too tired to be.
The body is a thought,
the thought is a whisper
where am I,
what is this,
where did the night go?

I watch myself,
waiting,
waiting,
waiting
until I collapse or fade,
until the universe sighs,
until time stops pretending,
until sleep gives in
or I let go.

I am told that the devil is a name
spoken only by the wicked and fearful,
a shadow cast on by the soul's yearning,
an accusation that stains the lips.
But yet they speaks of righteousness,
when their body trembles with desire?

"Who then amongst you dares to call lust a sin or immoral, when it beats like fire deep within your soul, the pulse of your life itself, breathing flames into the hollows of your hungry heart?"

It pulls the heart, it stirs the mind,
A craving wild, a tie that binds the blind.
but in its wake, the soul may weep,
For lust’s sweet dance, it cannot keep.

It wears the guise of want and need,
Just emptiness , yes the devil's deed,
It asks for more, and gives no peace,
And leaves the heart without release.

I walk through streets of gold and ash,
where the righteous bow their heads while sins they stash,
speaking of salvation like it’s a currency
but where are the truths of the flesh that you hide?

The humming of the earth, the warmth of touch,
the weight of hunger unspoken?
Am I evil because I feel it,
because I crave the warmth of a shadow,
that the righteous shun while desperately holding onto their immoralities in the night?
Pointing and judging because I found use in a name,

The words of old still whisper silently through the consciousness of man,
the devil sits in judgment,
but the chains that bind are thin,
woven of fear,
crafted from silence.
Is not the soul its own judge,
the heart its own trial?

So who is to say
what is right or wrong,
when we live and breathe in the dance of contradictions,
a life woven through our inflictions?

The righteous will speak
of what the devil wills and those that speak his name are his children,
but they will not speak
of how the cardinal sins call them
to feed there own mortal and immoral desires.
They will not speak
of the way love burns
when it’s wrapped in lust,
The will not mention how they bathe in gluttony, greed, sloth, envy, wrath, and pride.

Maybe the devil is not a name,
but a moment
an hour in the heart of the living,
where the body forgets its guilt
and the soul dares to claim
the space between dark and light,
where pleasure and pain
blur into one,
and I stand,
without judgment,
in the quiet ,after
for how can you judge me,
while your sins are ten fold.

In the passages of creativity, where the muse whispers from the depth of a soul, a villain looms—one that is dishonest and empty who claims accolades.        
        
A new age has dawned, where the pen once wielded with sweat and soul is replaced by keys tapping into endless algorithms, yet some dare to claim the resulting words as wholly their own.      
    
Ai might have started with good intentions but it didn't stay this way, with a spark of innovation, the humming of machines learning the words, and the rhythms of the poet and recycling their authentic thoughts, weaving song lyrics, writing emotionless lines of brilliancy, these verses that emulate every bit of the lived experience, began.    
        
At first these villains they fooled themselves, saying, "i'm still original" it's a ally, is this not a tool to enhance the muse, when i need to build bridges over writer’s block, when my pen hungers but my mind lacks the ability to conjure up real experiences, that's when i will use it.        
        
These thoughts of disillusioned hypocrisy flourished in these empty minds , souls yearning for a taste of real originality, telling themselves maybe if i just use it today, tomorrow will be different.        
        
Like drug fiends as the technology grew, so did its misuse. A tide rose, drowning originality beneath a deluge of convenience and deceit like a tsunami swallowing up a city of thinkers.        
        
What does it mean to call oneself a poet, a storyteller, a creator when the soul at work has never felt pain and joy, when the heart of the work is borrowed from the electric hum of AI integrated circuitry? There are those who harness these tools but fail to disclose their works origins, these mimes that wear a mask, a fragile façade of a gaje nisemono pretending to be genius.          
        
They stand on stages, accept applause, and speak of struggles they never endured nor will they, claiming triumphs over battles they never fought, not even in their own minds.        
        
This deception corrodes the very foundation of art. Authenticity, the soul of creation, is replaced by mimicry and stolen essence of real poetry. The raw, bleeding edge of humanity that true creators etch into their work is lost in the perfection of AI's smooth lines, repetitive structure and calculated sentimentality.          
        
Yet these frauds do not fear exposure; instead, they revel in the adoration of an audience , seeking likes on written pieces they did not birth and admiration as if it was crack being sold on the street corner , while users were unaware of the machine behind the curtain.        
        
But there is no denying the subtle emptiness, the eternal void in such creations. True art breathes with imperfection, messy and chaotic, vomiting real raw emotions and thought—with pauses where the artist hesitated, with cracks where the weight of the world pressed too hard. AI can mimic the structure, the words, the rhythm, but it cannot replicate the pain, the joy, the heartbreak, the feeling of losing someone you love, it's this emotion that leaks through the cracks of a writer's soul, burning the pages with truth.        
        
To those who engage in this dishonesty, here before you i lay these questions: where is the pride in accolades built on borrowed brilliance? Where is the fulfillment in applause for a story you never lived, for a poem that never broke free from your own depths? When you claim to have been seduced by the muse yet have only felt empty trying to fill this gap with stolen and borrowed inspiration.        
        
Art demands truth. To lie about its origins is to rob it of its essence, to cheapen the work and the legacy of those who pour their lives into creation. It is not the use of AI itself that is the crime, it is the erasure of the truth behind its use.        
        
Let the creators who use AI be honest, embracing it as a originator, collaborator rather than a ghostwriter. For in truth, there is no shame in innovation, only deceit in claiming these words as your own.          
        
Let the mask of originality be lifted, for it is in authenticity that art finds its power and will live on in time through its immortality.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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.

What does the body do with a wound it cannot close?
A memory that just won't fade , a dream that replays a thousand times that you can't run from!
Thoughts that drown and swallow you from the inside out.

The wind shreds its own breath, bleeding rust between its teeth. Oh the taste of Iron ! All too familiar, all too real.
A mouth unhinges. Not to scream, not to pray—just to split, broken thoughts, empty.
Something shatters under the skin—bone, voice, meaning— lost , no where to hide.
a hymn reduced to marrow, an altar eaten from the inside out.
A stone convulses. A rib cracks sideways. A name chews through its own vowels.
The night is nothing but a muscle torn at the root, a cycle of endlessness wishing to wake,
Someone calls it silence. Someone else calls it a door, Someone else calls it just another day.

The sky folds its hands around your throat—gentle, terrible but real.
A shadow smears itself across the butcher’s glass, lipless, waiting.
It does not tremble. It does not bow. It does not ask for absolution.
There is no language left but sharpness
a blade taught to speak, a wound taught to listen.
The body clenches. The temple locks its ribs from the inside.
No light. No threshold. No key.

Bite down. The feast was never hunger—only teeth.
Only the **** where something holy used to be.
Only a body unraveling at the seams, ribs pried apart,
an opening that does not beg for entry, only release.
How much must be swallowed before the wind stops choking?
How much must be unfastened before a name becomes silence?

Something is laughing in the dark, carving its grin into the walls.
It does not starve. It does not sleep. It only breaks its own reflection.
The table is vertebrae stacked until they no longer stand.
Knives press their edges together, breathing their final, wicked breath.
The world shrinks. The marrow runs dry. The tongue dissolves into salt.
A prayer curls in on itself and turns to bone.
Something drags the night forward by its hair,
tearing the sky into something less than sky.

A door is opening, but not for you.
A mountain swallows a name and does not return it.
The wind waits, throat hollow, unrepentant.
What does a body do with a wound it cannot close?
What does a mouth do with a blade it cannot swallow?

How many doors must be devoured before the wolf walks through? Ready to chew upon the broken bones of the weak and innocent.

Endlessly I walk through a blinded dream          
Where are you now my darling.      
I miss you every minute of everyday,    
it seems so long that you have been gone,      
I wonder If I saw you again,      
Would my name still linger or would it be forgotten to your lips?      
Would time have made us strangers?                
Could our love be the same as it once was?   Would you reach out and hold my hand if we are reunited once more,    
    
Please save me as I slowly slip into a puddle of my tears and drown in despair,          
You alone help me stand,  
It was you that helped me find a way through rough nights and tough of days?                
                  
I wonder if you think of me ?            
When you look up at the pale moon,  
Or the crimson sky, watching the slow sinking sun between the hills,                  
It's like fire sinking into the cold earth,              
This is how my life feels now,                    
As if losing you extinguished the blaze.            
The impalpable ash becoming night,                
While memory of you is like my moonlit sky sacred, and every moment we shared, locked in forever.                    
                    
Every thought, sound, smell, song, and taste,  
Everything carries me to you, a sacred place,  
Everything that exists transports me back to your embrace.                    
The sound of your voice, your calming words used to still my restless soul.                    
I planted different fruit orchards to try find your taste,  I could not .                
I planted orchids to remind me of love  and your beauty. None could compare.                
I grew the finest roses to smell you again, the scent faded.                
I looked for you but you were gone, only when i closed my eyes could I see you, for a moment .          
                    
If I could fold my heart into a paper airplane,  
I would throw it from great heights,                    
To sail through boundless air towards you where it might land—                    
Where you could unfold it and make it whole again.                    
                    
I wonder if you wait for me, as I long for you,    for i never stopped loving you,                  
And I will never cease to love you.                    
I cannot forget the way you looked at me,  
your beautiful green eyes, emerald of beauty      
I've never forgotten that feeling of when I first gazed upon you, seeing stars shine and eternity in your eyes,              
Now I'm left holding that moment as life passes through life, that is my forevermore.  
                  
I remember how I swore I would leave before you, Unable to bear the thought of losing you,  
But you left before me, how I remember that day and now I’m left with emptiness.                
        
I gave you one last kiss upon your brow            
As I said farewell, parting from you,              
My shattered soul left alone in ache,                  
I stood there for a moment that felt like 100 years,                    
Closing my eyes tightly, hoping this is just a dream.                
As my love has left like lost doves,          
Unable to find their way home                    
Lost in a storm                  
                    
And while I remain,                    
Left to wonder endlessly through blinded dreams,                    
Eyes shut, visions I can’t hold,                    
But still I see,                    
While missing you near me.                    
                    
My heart torn from my chest amidst the roar,  
My spirit tormented by the longing and sorrow that is mine,                    
Broken into a million pieces, part of me now missing,                    
A puzzle that will never be whole.                    
My anger raging, I asked God, Why you?            
It sounds selfish, but you were always better at this,                    
But now I’m alone to live in the past as I walk forward,                    
Even my page, with words, feels empty and blank without you.                    
                    
And I hold within my hand the memories of you,                    
My pen shivers and shakes,                    
As the words I write reinforce the structure of my heart                    
The memories, all I have left.                          
How they creep through my thoughts,              
To the deep of my being,                    
Weeping from inside while I weep outward,      
I’ve run dry of tears while my soul drowns within.
      
I think of the happiness we shared,                    
And try to smell your perfume in visions I cannot grasp,                    
The scent of your hair, the touch of your fingers across my face.                
How can I save what is gone,                    
Unless through fading imagery?                    
Nothing can compare—                    
You are all that I see,                    
A dream within a dream.                    
                    
Each day, each hour, I feel that you are with me,                    
Each thought of you im reminded by the sweetness in each flower of the day.                
Longing to kiss your lips, as you seek mine.    
The vision of happiness is gone,                    
But in me, the fire burns  unextinguished or forgotten.                
My love for you feeds my soul,                    
Keeping me alive until that final moment,         When we will meet again.                    
            
I am able to live knowing I will be in your arms once more.                    
For beyond life’s door, there is peace,                    
I’m sure of this.                    
When you reach out and call me,                    
I will come to you,                    
And this is my only comfort.

Burning dark clouds—falling embers—
I am Mastema, the Veiled One—
Concealed in the hollow breath of the forgotten,
Echoes of rebellion—fate itself prophesied
A mirror cracked for the proud.
Serpent tongues whisper secrets
Inside us, the ambition of hearts tangled in fire.

Fire, fallen gods
Call me Melek Taus,
Feathers black as starless night,
A figure of void,
A black hole, pulling galaxies of souls,
Flickering—defiant—against the dying breath of time.

Gusts of ethereal sighs—carrying light like hollow whispers,
Darkness consumes the dying glow—
Flesh and spirit collide in visions, unseen,
Plunging into caverns of nothingness,
The abyss swallows all—forevermore.

I am Mephistopheles, the shunner of light
The moon turned void—pale and empty,
Faust trembles at the unraveling,
Souls bartered in the dark.

I am Metztli, the hunter of restless souls,
Born of fire, born of flame—
I watch—the lost dreamers,
Mictian’s breath behind me,
The shadow of dusk eternal—
Feeding on breaths long forgotten.

Midgard whispers
The son of Loki, serpent-woven,
Swallowing realms whole
Coiling deep within the depths,
Ambition unchained
The weight of eternity in its ungraspable form.

Milcom, a watcher of fractured prayers
Lost in Moloch’s fires
Phoenician flames—cries of the forgotten
Edge of the netherworld—swallowed whole.

I am Mormo, the ghoulish embrace—
Empusa calls, Lamia speaks,
Formido—the terror that consumes—
Eclipsing the void in dark devours.

Naamah—seductress, the silence between sins
Shamdon’s whisper, Ashmodai’s gaze,
I trace my fingers on trembling lips
A kingdom built from the darkest pleasures.

Nergal, Hades beneath Babylon’s skin
Breath of ice, a sepulcher unbroken,
Nihasa—drifting through the eternal haze
Silhouettes of truth seen through blind eyes.
I am them—all of them.

Nija—shadowed between eclipses,
The warden’s call,
I am O-Yama, the specter of desire—
Cold as Pluto’s gaze—
Stones hold me; stillness holds me.

Riddles in the fog—
Dread caressing your heart,
Rimmon’s deviance—echoing in shadow
Sabazios swirls in drunken excess,
The serpent sacred in sin.

In the expanse, I remain
The defier
Venom's embrace
Samnu lurking in the fractured dark,
Calling Istar's fall into the abyss.

I am the Horns of the Bull
Sedet, walking silence,
Sekhmet’s wrath—a symphony
Of vengeance, burning.

Spirals—dark sands,
Shaitan’s whispers break ancient tongues,
Destruction screams
Supay waits—lost Inca nights
T’an-mo, basking in the glow of want,
Tchort’s black threads weave through time.

Tezcatlipoca ignites the stars
Thamuz beckons from the abyss
Thoth’s mysteries carved into the sky
Stars fall, the dark devours them—
It is me you cannot deny.

Tunrida cloaked in shadow
Typhon snarls
The abyss howls in despair,
The underworld weeps
Yaotzin, lord of shadows,
A silent river to the depths below—
Sorrow reigns in eternal grief.

Scattered—whispers of time,
Fragments of who I am
Every name a reflection
Of man’s deepest longings
Where instincts twist,
Where the unseen rests
The animal devours, ambition burns.

Sacrificed beneath forgotten gods,
Osiris, the lynchpin of desire,
I call forth my names
A riddle in shadows,
The truth wrapped in sacrifices
The dark cradled in light
Known through the ages
I am them
Many have whispered my name.

Fields blur, rivers drown beneath a murmur
slow tides, flowing, cracking soft like glass.
I seek no fame, nor glory’s fractured furor,
just roots that dig, where time is lost to pass.

Boughs bend—wild blooms caught in their brief sigh,
a world, too loud, churns distant, foreign, cold.
I lie between, where silence lets me die—
no praise, no claims, no marks of pride to hold.

And yet, the breeze shakes trembling apple trees,
their whispers soft, like stories never told.
I search, I drown, in kindness, gentle, free
the world’s bite hard—its venom bought, and sold.

I find no peace, except in stillness there,
in rivers’ hum, their endless, boundless air.

I.
your gaze slithers through the twisted veins of dead poets,
a thief in blackened lace, tearing the soft fabric of breath
that once fluttered with the sacred pulse of truth—
now hollowed, mimicking, shapeshifting
through stolen syllables,
godless echoes turning raw passion into nothing
but an empty mouthful of lies.
you feast on them,
no debt paid, no soul bled dry.
just shadows,
cut from the same thread as a thousand hollow promises.

II.
these poetic vampires,
charlatans in the midnight glow,
they hang in the dust of forgotten words,
cloaked in borrowed fire,
spinning webs of mimicry,
pieces of something they’ll never grasp
but only burn their hands trying to touch.
no vision, no spark—
only hollow ruins of what was once real,
a labyrinth of crumbling phrases
that mean nothing when not your own.

III.
do you hear it?
the softest whisper beneath your skin—
the screech of every stolen thought,
every idea wrung dry by the leeching lips
of the mindless vulture?
these vamps don’t bleed for their art,
they carve it from the veins of others,
siphoning life from the fragile pulse
of a poet’s heart.
they turn creation to imitation,
craft to crime.
they wear it like a crown,
yet stumble on the ruins they refuse to acknowledge,
mimics of the gods,
drunk on borrowed blood,
cursed by the very lack they breed in their veins.

IV.
you think we don’t see you?
slipping through cracks in the world,
hunting for the spark you’ll never own—
we see you,
lurking with eyes full of false praise
and hearts too dead to ignite
the words you’ve stolen
from the graveyards of true creators.
see how you wear their masks draped on blank face,
but cannot touch their fire or grasp the flame ,
for the Muse does not visit those
who steal her name, or claim something that is not.

V.
your words are as hollow as your soul—
nothing more than phantom limbs,
reaching for what was never yours,
casting shadows on the bones of the real.
you try to reassemble fractured dreams,
but all you touch becomes dust
and even the dust burns.

VI.
and so,
like vampires, you wander,
slipping into others' poems like thieves,
feeding on the blood of words
you never had the grace to earn.
you are parasites,
cloaked in false inspiration,
******* the marrow from the bones of the truly dedicated
and you don’t even know how deep you’ve gone.

Do you hear it?
the hollow sound of your empty voice,
repeating what others bled for
but never felt?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh Love, thou art a storm! A black-winged angel descending, a fire in the belly of the night
Did not the stars shudder when first they beheld thee? Did not the seas rise in wild revolt?  
The hand that reaches, the hand that strikes both are thine, both bear the mark of thy cruel ecstasy.  

I saw thee in the lover’s eye, burning like a sun that knows no mercy,  
I saw thee in the trembling hands of those who long but dare not touch,  
And lo! Their fingers, turned to dust before their eyes could meet,  
Their lips, swollen with words unsaid, aching, aching, aching in forever !  

Oh Love, thou art the serpent and the lamb,  
Enticing while thee cover in poison comfort,  
The wound and the healing, the flood and the thirst!  
As rain falls upon dry fields,  
Wouldst thou grant peace? Nay, thou wouldst unravel the soul,  
Pulling the edges to circular  
Corners of the foreverness,  
Unweave it like the golden threads of the morning light,  
Scatter it like the ashes of the Phoenix before it rises again!  

I beheld thee in the clasp of lovers who whispered in the dark,  
And did not their voices tremble? Did not their bodies weep?  
Oh the hunger, the devouring, the tender wound!  
Love is no gentle hand—love is the forge where all things burn!  

And yet—do we not run to thee, arms flung wide?  
Eyes wired shut  
Do we not crave thy terror, thy ruin, thy resurrection?  
What is man if not a moth to thy flame,  
A pilgrim to thy tempest,  
A dreamer forever waking in thy arms?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Life is a ******* canvas,
a mess you don’t know you’ve stepped into,
until your foot’s stained
a smear of doubt,
blood from the gods you thought you knew,
the first breath
a slap,
a jagged line that cuts into the gut of you.
****, it hurts,
but you keep painting
‘cause the world ain’t built without your hands in the ****.

It’s paint on your face,
the drip of your own blood
mixed with rage,
‘cause what’s life if not a battle between what you want to touch and what’s been forced into you?
You’re born with a brush in your palm,
but the strokes are jagged,
sharp edges,
a million questions you don’t have answers for.
You want to fix it
but the canvas bleeds through your fingers,
so you just keep ******* going.

Each line is war,
each color is death,
each mistake is your soul
ripping open like a wound.
Nothing is clean here,
not the art, not the mind,
not the **** heart beating like a beast in your chest.
You hit the page with fury,
twisting the paint till it burns,
till it scars.

You step back,
but only to get a clearer picture of the wreck you’ve made.
Life, like a painting,
is the blood of your struggle,
the grit of the grind,
the brutality of change.
Can’t fix it,
can’t make it perfect
It is what it is
but ****, you can make it yours.
You can make it raw,
tear it apart with your bare hands,
and watch it bleed into something real.
‘Cause at the end, it ain’t about the clean edges,
it’s about the chaos
the mark of the beast you leave on it,
the rage and hunger that refuses to die.

And when it’s done
you’ll see it.
All of it.
Every jagged, broken line,
every scar on the page,
and you’ll know,
the mess was never the mistake.
It was always the point,
to paint...

The moon
pale, round, soft buttered crust,
spills gold over apple-skin grass,
whole and warm the hush of dusk.

Night birds drift,
weightless ink,
brushing the sky with feathered sighs,
folding themselves into silhouette dreams.

Olive fields hum,
rustling evening’s breath,
leaves whispering secrets to the wind,
soft earth cradling the roots of time.

Ladders lean
old embrace,
tracing the spine of the sturdy trunk,
where children once climbed,
their laughter spun into bark—
a lullaby left behind.

Noon melts,
slow honey,
sinking sweetly in waiting arms,

while the moon watches,
                quiet, whole,
                        a silver lantern hung in sleep’s embrace.

Ink must flow in lines,
metered, measured, high-minded
else it is not art.

They sneer at free verse,
counting feet like prison bars,
locking out the wild.

Rhyme too clean? Too trite.
Rhyme too loose? Unrefined slop.
Gold melts in their hands.

Ancient names they quote,
wielding rules like brittle swords
paper cuts still sting.

Silence when they read,
hushed as if the gods had penned
what they claim to own.  

Yet wind speaks in gusts,
rivers carve new paths through stone
poetry is free.

Empty days drift in a world made of smoke and disguise,  
Made-up lies, a life of despise while she hides.  
A castle of echoes, a throne built on fantasy,  
Her lack of reality—this is her majesty.  

A queen in her kingdom of neon-lit haze,  
Words set relationships ablaze,  
Pretending to raise while seeking pity then praise.  
Where nothing is real, yet she basks in the sunlight, acts brave.  

She dances with thoughts of grand junction, whispers her name—total dysfunction.  
Plays puppets with fate in her self-written game.  
Muppets won’t hide herself-pity and shame, just blames that always remain all the same.  
The mirror reflects, but she twists what she sees,  
Always you, never she—in judgment, this be the plea.  
A mask over sorrow, a false masterpiece,  
So-called naps her peace, or a ***** release.  

She climbs to the sky with a pill in her palm,  
Living a life of self-made harm.  
Falling through clouds that are never too calm,  
Deception from rejection—a subtle balm.  
Each high is a kingdom where no one can stay,  
Wakes up with nothing planned for the day.  
Here, she rules it alone 'til it fades into grey,  
A princess used to just getting her way.  

Fingers trace scars in the shape of regret,  
Asks for forgiveness yet never forgets.  
Yet every wrong turn is a debt but never regrets,  
Loves the game, making blind bets.  
Blames fate, blames love, blames the air that she breathes,  
Blames life for the moment and strife.  
But never the hand that tugs at the seams,  
Never the reason for the clouds with no dreams.  

Jealousy coils like a snake in her chest,  
Wants investment but keeps losing the test.  
Clinging to ghosts, never laying to rest.  
A doll made of glass, fragile, untrue,  
Cracks in the surface let everything through.  

She plays at being something—a star, a delight—  
But eager to always stir and fight.  
Yet sinks with the sunrise and fades with the night,  
Porcelain dreams crumble fast and never last,  
Leaving her lost in the wreckage that won’t pass.

Timed Achievement  

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

Peaceful Resolve  

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

Fading in Shadows  

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

Bound by Purpose  

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

Ignition of Dreams  

Mediocre sparks,  
enthusiasm fans new flames  
ideas come alive.  

Roots of Achievement  

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

Climb to Victory  

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

Lift Each Other  

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

Choices that Ripple  

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

Steps to Achievement  

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

Reaching for Stars  

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

Enduring Wisdom  

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

Beyond the Fear  

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

Choosing the Path  

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

Harvest of Effort  

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

Giving and Letting Go  

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

Effort Rewarded  

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

Bright Anticipation  

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

Listening to Truth  

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

Genius Within  

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

Strength and Balance  

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

There once was a man quite outrageous,
Who’d pull out his ****, quite voracious.
At a wedding, a store,
He’d show it once more,
And the cops found it truly audacious!

At the courthouse, he made his big stand,
With his **** in his hand, quite unplanned.
But the judge said, “Oh please,
This is just a disease,”
And they banned him from all public land!