Look into my eyes, a kaleidoscope of thoughts,
Fractured, refracting, endless.
So many choices, each a dagger’s tip,
Sharp, glinting in the shadow of paths untraveled.

They hurt the beast because they feared it—
A presence lingering like smoke in an empty room,
A whisper of what was always known.
The OD, quick and painless, invites us all,
A final door that clicks cleanly, slicing through the noise.

Why him, if you knew?
Knew the jeweled words would stab,
Their brilliance reflecting a hate that devoured.
Lonely strangers, relinquished and raw,
Digging holes with greedy hands,
Starving for connection, aching with regret.

She was different—
Too much, too close,
Her truth a mirror to the ghosts he denied.
She heard their whispers,
Too intense for his brittle comfort,
Her very being a revolting challenge.

Each second, a journey in shards.
She, finally accepted—by a psychopath—
No longer escaping the world’s biting sorrows.
Damaged children, raising damaged children,
Grasping for something whole,
Exploring the wounds like maps,
Each scar an unspoken truth.

His "I don’t love you anyway,"
A mourning, a death,
Memories strangled as he choked time from her lungs.
His cruel laugh, a vibration cutting through marrow.
But peace comes, soft and unstoppable,
A river of silent love,
Strong and masculine, like wild horses running untamed.

We don’t have a price.
Some define freedom in dreams; others in chains.
Yet the end waits for all—
Healing like a long exhale,
Forgiveness intimate, secret,
A kaleidoscope settled into stillness.

She was not accustomed to kindness,
those gentle hands that held her,
soft like the breath of an answered prayer,
her bruises mended by strangers' sighs.
The sky whispered fragments of blue,
trees bent their branches towards her,
as if to cradle what the world had broken.

But they—oh, they—
turned her spirit on itself,
herded her like cattle
through corridors of regret,
or like lost souls in purgatory,
each step echoing a hymn of betrayal.

You cannot silence the ghosts,
their voices thin,
like needles threading the night.
They call in relentless whispers,
turning her heart into a restless sea,
a place where sleep is an exile
and dreams are unwanted guests.

No one asked her what she wanted,
not in that world of smoke and shadow.
They left her, discarded like ash,
as if she had no fire to offer.
A river of blood, her silent anthem,
flowed beneath her solitary feet.

Until a stranger came,
wrapped in the cloak of autumn,
bearing a voice like broken violins,
each note carrying a promise of salvation.
His hands moved gently,
as if piecing together
a stained-glass window of shattered lives.

She was not accustomed to kindness,
but she let herself be held.
And somewhere between the sky and the trees,
she began to believe
that even the unwanted
are worthy of love.

They run,
through streets that scream of bomb smoke and shattered bone,
their shadows swallowed by the black of hijabs,
a mother swaddles her babe, her heartbeat louder than the guns.

Blood whispers its story
on trembling hands—whose hands?
Hers, his, the boy too small to carry grief,
but already has it, pressed like a kiss on his brow.

How long?
How long before the dream of faces turns to ash?
Before names become nothing more than echoes
sung to the fleeing, like lullabies of loss?

The gun is no longer an object;
it is an extension of them, fused to flesh,
its weight the weight of survival,
its promise another lie whispered to the children.

They run,
but the streets do not let go.
The ruins hold their breath,
cradle them in decay,
and ask, "How much longer?"

The answer—
silent, like the graves they leave behind.

The drugs made his tongue slippery, a snake
shivering white powder, unashamed—
a quick snort from his hand, lips cracked,
peeling his smile back, his gaze drifts, blank
as walls of thick paint, deep hues curdling,
slicked, psychedelic strokes, in seizure.

A strobe cuts, slicing the crowd like a blade—
tighter they press, all touch, no tether;
hungry, he dives, a greedy kiss melting
in muscle spasms, eyes flickering, his soul
undone, unheroed, a heart pounding
its own violence, swollen and caught.

To be happy, just to feel, a blind wish,
eyes of trust, of terror, masked alike,
shackled in seconds of breath, each beat
drawing closer, riding ******’s cruel peak
under dark, tidal waves of night, colliding,
picking locks through consciousness.

Beads of sweat thread bad habits together,
strung like a rosary for sinners unredeemed;
we are the murderers of our soft selves,
our punishment twisting like smoke.
In his hand, the medicine man’s prophecy
dissolves, as music stirs a ghost of meaning,

a scatter of memories, vague, severed,
each doubt echoing our bodies, our homes—
this flesh a lie wrapped in pulse and touch.
Reality shock-shatters, a flat line stretching
until silence is all: the strobe dies
and he fades, release breaking him free.

In the quiet of our hearts,  
where the shadows hold our secrets,  
I feel her touch,  
tracing the scars of our stories,  
mapping the
                             constellations  
woven into our skin—  
the universe conspiring,  
whispering truths we’ve long
                                             forgotten.  

We are not just observers;  
we are the keepers of tender hopes,  
nurturing thoughts like fragile blooms,  
each one a promise,  
a breath caught in the stillness,  
waiting to unfurl in the light,  
a heartbeat echoing  
through the corridors of our souls.  

I shiver under the weight  
of this endless journey,  
where endings are merely doorways,  
and in every shadow,  
a spark of light flickers,  
the way we shed our pasts,  
embracing the cycle,  
the gentle sway  
between night and day.  

In the pulse of our connected hearts,  
we are reborn,  
the echoes of who we were  
intertwined with who we’ll be,  
lovers hidden in the twilight,  
bound by threads of silence,  
in this sacred space,  
we discover our true selves,  
held close in the arms of our humanity,  
the cosmos  
nestled in our palms,  
waiting for  
the dawn of clarity,  
like a whisper aching to
                      
                                     break free.

In the hush of your lingering,  
I hear whispers—  
lost things,  
unvoiced sighs,  
a heartbeat (soft),  
echoing the  
darkness.

You were a flicker,  
a flame  
in my cold night,  
a ghostly joy  
wrapped in  
tragedy,  
and I thought—  
I’d lost you,  
hopelessly  
drowning in  
memories,  
always.

Lie to me,  
as I (morph)  
into shadows;  
tell me I’m fine,  
even as I unravel,  
because we are  
two souls,  
caught  
in this storm.

Strangers,  
falling in love,  
lost in c h a o s—  
every touch  
a spark,  
every glance  
a promise,  
written in the  
stars (above).

I’ll save you,  
even if it means  
sacrificing t r u t h,  
clutching at the fragile  
beauty of  
our delusion.

So let us dance  
in the ruins,  
the world crumbling  
around us,  
embracing echoes  
of tangled desires,  
until the night swallows  
us whole & we find  
solace in the  
darkness we’ve  
created.

Lie to me as we overdose on love,  
lie to me as I disassociate  
and give birth to another me—  
a reflection,  
a shadow,  
lost in the echoes  
of what we could be,  
a heartbeat (soft)  
in the silence,  
forever entwined.

Magnifying glass, a preacher’s eye,
You held it steady, watch the edges fry.
Her smile curling like a silent crime,
Promises snapping, one wail at a time.

Sirens call.
They call you home.

Cigarette burns where her lips once lived,
A paper throat, and you’re unforgiven.
The smoke uncoils like a serpent’s hymn,
In the ruins of her, your fingers swim.

And she’s tasting something holy,
A chemical prayer on her tongue.
While your stranger smiles slowly,
His palm says run.

Oh, you’re tracing lifelines,
Marking graves on borrowed skin.
Childhood shadows, beasts still whispering,
When no one could save her, where were you then?

Where were you then?

She claws at the mirror where her ghost resides,
Fighting sleep, fighting him,
Fighting years she thought she’d outrun—
Oh, but trauma’s a promise kept in blood.

And it’s no longer safe for you here,
Not in the ruins where her voice disappeared.
Sirens wail but don’t baptize.
A stranger’s smile, a forest gone numb,
And a ******* fire with nowhere to run.

No, no—
Nowhere to run.

He speaks in a tongue of bullets,
each syllable a wound,
each pause the weight of mourning.
I try to answer with flowers,
petals soft as whispers,
but my adjectives scatter,
like frightened birds
against the howl of his war-torn winds.

Winter comes,
its gray breath thick with frost.
Promises shatter underfoot,
crunching like brittle leaves.
I hold onto hope—
a child clutching a kite
in a storm,
the string slipping but never severed.

He is a soldier of certainty,
his love rationed like bread
in a famine of trust.
Even in suffering, he builds walls,
his hands steady,
his heart a fortress of precise control.
I batter myself against his gates,
******-knuckled with devotion,
as if my persistence
could melt the iron.

What is the word for a love
that exists in fragments?
A fossil of a future
we were never meant to share?
I name it exile.
I name it prayer.
And I name it the ghost
of a white whale,
forever hunted,
forever out of reach.

I am the shell of a cathedral,
my ribs stripped bare,
dust grinds against my marrow.
Smoke coils, ghost-thin,
a lover's last exhalation,
its fingers press against
the hollows of my throat.

Stained glass eyes—
shattered saints, shattered demons.
Their colors bleed across my skin,
an abstract of wars long silenced,
their screams etched in my spine.
I house their echoes
like a mausoleum,
their whispers scraping my eardrums.

The earth betrayed me once—
a trembling, violent lover.
Its hands split me open,
toppled my crown.
Now I wear my wounds like jewels,
a monument to collapse.

Sleep eludes me.
What lullaby holds the dead?
Their songs thread the air,
soft as ash, sharp as shards.
I lie beneath their melody,
each note a needle in my sternum.

And yet, I do not crumble.
Something fierce and hollow in me
clings to this ruin—
a hymn for no one,
a prayer to nothing.

in the dim light of  
           our laughter  
we unravel  
   the tangled threads of sorrow  
               (whiskey drips like rain)  

your eyes hold  
   the universe’s  
             softest secrets,  
while smoke curls like  
        whispered dreams  
   slipping through fingers  

we have work to do  
            (trust is a fragile bird)  
   listening to the echoes  
of what was and what might be,  
               grieving in the  
              spaces between words  

as dawn stretches its arms,  
   we rise from the ashes,  
   two wild hearts  
    (beating in unison)  
   reborn in the light of a  
                brand-new day.

I am trapped in this gilt prison,
the bars gleaming like polished teeth,
pearls spooned into my mouth,
their luster turning sour against my tongue.
I wait, always, the watcher,
my hands folded in prayer or paralysis,
listening to the foreign murmurs of the dead—
crows with their black flags
of warning, wings slick with omen.

The mirrors blink,
candles flickering like failing hearts.
The grass outside shivers,
each blade whispering a secret escape
I cannot touch. A swan glides,
its neck an unbroken question,
its shadow darker than the water
it cuts open.

The door shuts with a hush
that feels like a burial.
Photographs click—ceremonies
of absence, memories that grin
like skulls. Death leans in,
a kind-faced thief offering rest.

There are two of us here—
me, and the other me,
bloated with hunger,
my fingers jammed into my throat,
my power swallowed whole.
We bridge this silence
with words brittle as bone,
oaths sworn to break,
the air shattered by the whine of a bullet
brushing skin.

Wells brim with sadness,
their depths haunted by the ghosts
of those who screamed and were silenced.
She thought he stood beside her—
a phantom lover with a tongue
barbed as wire, slicing her
into ribbons.

She dances, her arms a red spiral,
the hula hoop spinning tighter,
a circle of wounds closing
like a mouth around her body.
The swan watches,
its white wings gleaming with the stillness
of something that cannot save her.

You who hold the light
in the soft sigh of twilight
where shadows whisper secrets
and the world bends
like a delicate petal,
i find you—
a fleeting thought,
a spark of laughter
dancing on the edge of silence.

maybe the dead
stick to us,
like stars caught in the fabric
of our skin,
weighing heavily
yet beautifully,
a tapestry of what was,
embroidered with longing.

pinch me before I wake,
like an egg yolk I gasp,
swallowed whole by this moment,
the sweet ache of remembering.
lay me down
in the unkempt grass,
where wildflowers
stretch their arms
to the sky,
and the earth
breathes
in colors of dusk—
let us lose ourselves
in this gentle chaos,
where time is a wound
that heals,
and love
is the only truth.

you—
the one who catches
the dark,
who holds the light
in trembling hands,
remind me
that even in silence,
i am not alone,
that in the weight of shadows,
we are still
a little bit
alive.

The aspens quiver, brittle spines trembling,
a broken orchestra of gold and ache,
her feet carve the earth raw,
mud smears like confession,
the world swallows her,
skin slick with its wet approval.

Here, the sky does not accuse.
It hangs, mute and thick,
secrets buried beneath roots,
writhing like forgotten daughters.
Her smallness presses against the weight,
a quiet scream lodged in her ribs.

The ground hums its absolution,
a Eucharist of dust and decay.
She, unmothered, unfathered,
folds herself into the soil’s indifference,
her anger spilling like blood in the light.

The footsteps fall — then fade away —
As silence holds — the breath at bay —
Two hands — in quiet longing — meet,
A tremble — soft — and hearts entreat.

A fever burns — and must be still,
The world outside — they wish to **** —
The rain — it whispers — soft refrain,
Of stories lost — of fear and pain.

The elders' words — like serpents' hiss,
A promise sweet — a bitter kiss —
"Trust me, dear one — for I will save,
Your love — your life — from cruelest grave."

She calms the storm within her mind,
With *****'s balm — a solace blind —
His face is strange — his heart a lie —
But still — she dreams — where no one dies.

The flowers twine — within her hair,
She plays with children unaware —
Of all the rules — the bitter game,
Where whispers wear a nameless shame.

The demons smile — they will not harm,
They cleanse with beads — with prayer's calm charm —
"Forget your name, and curse the night,
The dawn will lift you into light."

But Death — a shadow — cold and near,
Sweeps in — and leaves no room for fear —
The dust — the warmth — no more to chase,
A fleeting dream — an empty place.

Through shards of glass—distorted clear—
The breath of hope alights,
A fleeting second—woven near,
Then swept in endless flight.

The wing of Remorse, black and wide,
Soars grave—yet softly falls,
While stillness sings where beggars bide,
Their truth in whispered calls.

A fragile bird—its trembling wing—
Descends on open palm,
And in its light—a sacred thing—
The universe is calm.

I weep, and diamonds touch the soil
Of budding hands below,
Their petals rise as mine recoil—
In steady, fading flow.

Dawn casts its gold—a quiet flame—
Upon a barren lane,
Where every branch, by birth reclaimed,
Shudders with joy, not pain.

Oh, breathe! Into the desert womb,
Where life is yet to stir;
Where time is blood—a crimson bloom—
The cosmos’ whisperer.

The lips part faint—the mist exhaled,
Through forests memory-bound,
As scars arise—like ghosts unveiled,
Their echoes all around.

The wolves approach, their foaming jaws—
A temple left to fear,
Where shadows roam and light withdraws,
To eclipse the mind’s veneer.

But truth lies not in mirrored eyes—
Nor past, nor future’s haze;
It lives in fragments, unadvised,
Beyond the jealous gaze.

We float, we fall—we rise, we cease,
And yet, within this span,
The realness of this moment’s peace
Holds all that ever can.

My Muse arises from his infinite sleep,
A whisper in the chasm where shadows creep.
In dream, I wander, blind and bare,
A child of silence, feeling air.

The trees, skeletal, shake their spines,
Releasing relics from hidden shrines—
Trinkets, tokens, sins of old,
Each frozen now in hues so cold.

Scarred and brittle, the silhouette breaks,
Bones through black, the body aches.
Yet dew, soft balm, on wounds does fall,
A salve for the soul—if anything at all.

His kiss is death; his promise, surrender,
A union cruel, both dark and tender.
But light unmasks what shadows veil;
The birdcage opens; the spirit sails.

The seed, though scattered, may still take root,
A fragile hope in a world of soot.
The strings now wail, the hymn is done,
A mother’s lullaby beneath the sun.

The mirror water, smooth and wide,
Reflects the soul I’ve set aside.
My hair, like tendrils, floats and trails;
The ripples grow, the weight unveils.

Pure, at last, the guilt does fade,
A shadow now where sorrow stayed.
Depression lingers—a faithful shade,
Guardian of all the vows unmade.

Don’t look back—his eyes are mine,
Vacant, lost, a shared design.
The ****** weeps her crimson thread,
A river carved through the still, the dead.

Smoke ascends where wars still rage,
A fog that blurs the infant page.
Unborn eyes accuse, demand,
Yet ghosts remain with stilled, grave hands.

I seek, I bleed, disciple torn,
Haunted by truths both sharp and worn.
The quiet watches, soft and grim;
No judgment passed, no prayer, no hymn.

Tumbling down the jagged scream of rocks,
the star on his chest buried under the rubble of decades,
shattered constellations scatter like ash over asphalt—
who's left to testify to the night’s betrayal?
Fair and faithful are words for the dead,
roadkill philosophies smeared across highways of hunger,
dreamers flattened under the wheels of endless inquiry—
truth a bent nail in the coffin of questions,
Morse code flickers from insomnia’s windows,
each blink a lifeline—each pause a funeral.

I’ve seen you hiding, all of you,
hands trembling behind curtains, eyes darting like shadows,
your lips whispering confessions to ghosts.
Who are you running from?
Who waits at the end of your tethered silence?

Secrets grow like vines in the throat of the city,
tangling the breath of poets, prophets, and junkies.
Not sleeping, not dreaming, not blinking,
we shuffle through cracked streets,
faces blurred like old Polaroids burned by time’s indifference.

Forever waiting, forever watching—
reality unfolds not as a revelation but as a wound,
spilling truths we don’t want to see,
smearing light across the dark canvas of our fears.

Listen to the static hum of the night,
to the machines breathing for us when we can not.
There’s no answer in the Morse code,
only the pulse of absence,
only the signal of a world unraveling itself,
one starlit fragment at a time.

Fingers trace her face,
water whispers soft goodbyes,
grief flows like the stream.

It is in the smudge of mascara,
the red lip bleeding into the cracks
of a bitten mouth.
A quiet rebellion lives there.

Middle fingers do not shout;
they whisper—
a language only the tired
and the brave understand.

Running is not escape,
but a declaration.
A line of white powder,
a streak of neon—
these are maps
to the edge of something
sharp enough to cut.

They told us
fairy tales are for children.
But we grew up and learned
that happy marriages
are the most dangerous lies.

We sit behind screens,
armed with fake smiles,
perfect angles,
warriors of a war we don’t
believe in anymore.

The raves are loud,
but it’s the silence
of disappointment,
of insecure mornings,
of mirrors we cannot meet,
that tells the truth.

This is the war.
This is the smudge,
the smear,
the running.
And still,
we rise from the wreckage
like sparks in the dark,
too tired to shout,
too alive to stop.

Through fire's wrath and earth's embrace,
He fell to ash, lost from his place.
The rain, a song of sky's lament,
Woke what the flames to darkness sent.

The witch, her hands like ancient trees,
Whispered life on the shifting breeze.
Her words wove through the soot and loam,
To call him back, to bring him home.

The ash dissolved, the earth gave way,
And from the mud, his flesh did sway.
Rain kissed his form, his body whole,
A vessel new, but the same old soul.

He walked through streets where silence lay,
Past mourners steeped in yesterday.
Eyes wide with shock, their grief undone,
For the dead had risen, returned as one.

He reached the house of shadowed pain,
Where she had wept through endless rain.
Her milky eyes could never see,
But grief had shaped her destiny.

Her soul, she’d sold for just one chance,
To feel his touch, his fire, his dance.
He pressed his fingers to her lips,
A ghost, alive, in love's eclipse.

She felt his hunger, wild, unbound,
A rhythm fierce, a primal sound.
The world fell still as they entwined,
Her blindness pierced by love's design.

For one last time, their spirits burned,
A fleeting gift for what she yearned.
A witch's bargain, brief and cruel,
The fire of love, a timeless fuel.

We the nobodies, shadows cut from the cloth of smoke and scars,
a fever of sweat and darkness pooling, tears of sorrow swallowing tomorrow.
They locked us in silence, mad minds forging new words, wild and sharp,
each syllable slipping from sanity’s grip, each sound a breath clawing free.

Everything slides in time, the tick-tock mocking us, echoes like footsteps
down the hallway of closed doors, promises that never open.
See you on the other side, they said, where death waits like a lover,
the kiss of a fist, sweet baby girl, sleep—don’t listen,
we’ll wait before sharing the truth, its teeth bare and grinning.

The mania whispers in dark corners, shakes the bones from rest,
and a thousand thoughts slice through, a razor storm beneath quiet skin.
Blood seeping down thick thighs, warmth trickling like proof—
still alive, still fertile with fear, birthing only dread.

He could never hear her, she screamed into an endless void,
her voice a smear, red stains across cold walls.
And no peace wrapped her, no quiet settled in,
only the whisper of madness, and the promise—
of a darker dawn to come.

Wildflowers grasped in their hands,
Eyes expectant, waiting still—
Resplendent, she, in pearls and lace,
Crystals veiling iron will.

Upon a stallion, proud she gazed,
The cliffs below—waves, hungry, wild—
A dreamer young, her heart betrayed,
By guilt unpardoned, yet beguiled.

To marry love, the soul must pay,
An execution—hope undone.
Laudanum soothes the troubled night,
But daylight sees what grief has spun.

Rumors drift like soft exhale,
Tinkling laughter—shadows hide.
A sparrow leapt from trembling hands,
Defiant, boundless, unallied.

Death does not part, though life divides—
Choices, wounds that dare reveal.
Do we hurt to feel what’s real,
Or punish what we cannot heal?

Her fingers danced on shadowed skin,
Curtains swayed in darkness shared.
Together sought, together lost,
Unpredictable, love dared.

It is of no consequence, they said,
A black sheep wanders where none see.
Yet whispers linger, soft as waves—
A love alive, though never free.

into the
   glitter of
your own
               (un)holy
                       shimmer—
            a reckless
   riot of
jo(y)
       that burns
too bright
          and leaves
   you hollow
   like a house
after the
          storm

   oh!
to feel alive is
   unbearable
       (the world
sings)
          in your veins
   a song
           you never
   learned to hold
     (the weight
of breath)
          like a
     broken elevator
   plummeting
into the dark
               basement
       of you

“i’m fine,” you say
                     “this time”
       (you promised)
but here you are—
   back in the
      hollow,
           dragging
the weight
        of your
    own
   lies

it tastes like
rust, regret,
      (the blackness)
sleeping feels
like sinking—
   how do you tell
them you’d
        rather not
   wake tomorrow?

“i’m sorry”
        sticks in your
throat;
they want your
           light
but you’re out,
   out like
   a flickering
candle
          (the itch,
   the need)
to chase the
   next high,
               a needle,
     a prayer—
and still,
    it spits you out
           again,
this cycle,
   this sickness,
        this burden
      no one asked for

you sleep, hoping
to find a softer
   somewhere—
far from the
      endless climb
and the crash,
   wanting to rest
forever,
         but you wake,
            again.
and again,
   and again.

in the quiet  
   of your mind’s  
      cacophony—  
   where shadows play  
         and whispers weave  
      a tapestry of  
         fears and dreams,  
         (you are not alone)  
you are the  
   garden  
      of chaos,  
   wildflowers blooming  
      in the cracks of  
         your heart’s  
      pavement,  
   each petal a  
      brave  
         echo of  
            you  

let the voices sing  
   their strange melodies,  
      (not monsters,  
         but echoes)  
   and the highs and lows  
      are just the  
         waves  
   of your  
      vast  
         ocean soul—  
   rise and fall,  
      flow and breathe,  
         you are  
            living art,  
   a beautiful  
         (messy)  
      dance of  
   light and shadow  

so gather the stars,  
   weave them into  
      your thoughts,  
   (you are the night’s  
      tender guardian)  
and let the world  
   hold you—  
      fragile,  
         fierce,  
      a constellation  
         of  
   everything you are.