I do not know if I’m sleeping or dreaming,
If I’m dead, or barely breathing.
Maybe I’m trapped in a nightmare,
Fighting pain carved deep in bone and air.
I wait to wake
To find rest,
To find peace,
To feel less.
Or maybe this is that rest,
And rest is just this numb unrest.
I do not ******* know
Where I am,
Who I am,
What this is.
Maybe I’m asleep
Or maybe
I’m in ******* hell,
And this is not a dream.

The wind passes by, as if it knows me well,
It brushes my cheek with a fleeting spell.
Then drifts away, as if to say:
"Be patient the dawn is not far away."
The world leans close and softly speaks,
Even the stones beneath my feet
Whisper, "You are not alone
You are remembered, though unknown."
I walk a line both thin and deep,
Between the waking and the sleep.
A call I hear, too faint to know,
Yet in my chest, it starts to grow.
My heart—it knows what I do not,
It carries truths I long forgot.
And when I place my hand with care,
It feels as if it's borrowed there.
A guest am I, in flesh confined,
This body hosts a wandering mind.
So kind it is, yet weary grown,
It longs to know when I’ll be gone.
I cherish now my speechless grace,
A silence full of sacred space—
A hush where other voices meet,
Where soul and silence gently speak.
Who hears this speech? Who truly sees
The quiet depths of silences like these?
One dawn, I dreamed a door of light—
It opened wide, and in its height
A voice said simply, "Go back now."
But I had not yet left, somehow.
I am both here and yet elsewhere,
A shadow cast from future air—
An echo not yet spoken true,
A presence split, in me and through.

He stands on the pulpit, voice calm and wise,
Telling the poor to seek heaven's prize.
"Shun the world, take little, be meek,"
But never does he name the strong who steal what the humble seek.
He speaks of virtue in tattered shoes,
But not of the hands that tighten the noose.
He blesses hunger, calls it divine,
While feasting in halls built from stolen time.
He says, “Your burden is sacred and light,”
But his silence is heavy, darker than night.
For truth, when bent to serve the blade,
Becomes the lie by which justice is betrayed.
So, mark this preacher, soft of breath.
He sings of peace, but sows in death.
If he blesses chains and praises grief,
Then he wears not faith, but the cloak of a thief.

I need no steel to make them yield.
My pen’s the sword, my truth the shield.
I conquer in silence, in stanzas and cries,
And write what no tyrant can shackle or buy.

We, the people of one face,
will not wear masks
not for peace,
not for praise,
not to be spared by silence.

We are carved from the same fire,
lit by a single flame of truth.
Let the wind howl,
let the crowds vanish,
let even love turn its back
still, we will not cover what is real.

If it costs us everyone,
so be it.
Better to walk alone in light
than march together in shadow.

Yes
that is us.
Unhidden.
Unashamed.
Unmasked.

You write to lift the heavy heart,
To pull the shadows far apart.
Your words, a balm, a gentle breeze,
That sets the weary soul at ease.

You offer joy through ink and rhyme,
A gift more precious than all time.
A poet’s pen, both sword and shield
A garden where the hurt is healed.

So thank you, friend, for all you give,
For helping weary hearts to live.
May peace and love be yours, always
In silent nights and shining days.

Truly honored to share this space with you. Keep writing, keep healing.

Thank you 🙏

I married for love,
and love has a price
not in gold,
not in coin,
but in patience,
in silence,
in sleepless nights.
In the slow surrender of self,
until the edges blur.

Yes, I married for love
not for comfort,
not for gain.
But love is no gift freely given;
it asks for everything.
Time.
Trust.
Sometimes, even your dreams.

Love is beautiful
but it leaves marks
where it’s been.

Yes, I married for love.
And no one warned me
how deeply love can wound
how much it takes,
how little it sometimes gives.

Still…
yes,
I paid the price.