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.

Do not bear hatred, though the wrong be great,

For God perceives all deeds  both love and hate.

Leave judgment to the One whose scales are true,

Who rights all sins when justice falls due.

And pity him who walks the path of wrong,

For tyrants dance, but not for very long.

They sleep in joy, yet wake in dread and pain

Oppression’s wine returns in bitter rain.

Forasmuch as I have lov’d this life,
No sorrow shall I bear in death.
My gladness have I sent on high,
To vanish in the azure breath.
I ran and leapt with falling rain,
The wind I clasp’d unto my breast.
Mine own cheek, like a slumb’ring babe,
Upon the earth’s fair face did rest.
Forasmuch as I have lov’d this life,
No sorrow shall I bear in death.
Take thou my love, sweet soul so nigh
And know, this parting is not goodbye.

Not by rules or timelines,
not by others' silence or advice.
I will carry this grief as I must
slowly, fiercely, or quietly
but always in my own truth.

My friends hid their ******* magazines.
I hid my poetry,
my dog-eared philosophy books,
tucked behind jackets and empty lunchboxes.
They shared their pages
smirking,
pointing,
laughing.
I sat beside them,
nodded at the curves I couldn't feel,
while words burned holes in my chest.
We all spoke English.
But I never understood a word.
Not theirs.
Not mine.
What the ******* hell is wrong with me?
"****" and "Hell"
they stuck to my tongue,
became my Favorite prayers,
my rebel hymns,
my answerless questions.
Fifty-five years.
And nothing has changed.
Still hiding poems.
Still faking laughs.
Still wondering:
What the ******* hell is wrong with me?

My cat is very angry with me.

I didn't buy the golden collar, just the silver one.

Stupid me.

I thought it wouldn't notice.

Silly me again.

Never get it right with Royalty.

Peep show...

Love. Lust. Lost.

Love Lust Lost is not a show.

It's an immersive life theatre experience.

Come in.

Don't be a judge.

Support what might confuse you today.
For it may reveal truth tomorrow.

Love and lust are smoke.
Fumes rising from the fire of lost in sins.

But from smoke...

We sometimes see the light.

Wide-open spaces
There is no outside in this circle,
No edge to which ends can rest.
Everything in you
the street, the wine, the noise of shadows
speaks of you.
Do not be ashamed of joy.
Let it bare your heart like a baby in the rain.
Let it tremble for the trembling of a plum,
Or a sigh that escapes your lungs
Like an orphan angel.
Close the eye that sees,
And open the other that waits from beyond the light.
Kneel.
And do not fear breaking.
The cup in your hand
Is nothing but the illusion of fullness.
Let it fall.
Let it spill.
For the hunger you thought was a ****** call,
Was the return of an invitation
From you...to you.
No one emerges from the maze.
We only change the shape of the circle.
Forget what was lost.
Be what is given.
Be water when thirst is forgotten.
Why do you walk
in a cell without walls?
Listen...
There is music that cannot be heard.
A tune formed
from your fall.
So fall.
Fall some more.
For you are destined
to expand.
YES…

My lady

I am not your slave, Nor bound to the wine I sip-But if I must surrender, Let it be to your lips, not the cup.

To My Red Pen
When did you grow so gentle?
You, once sharp with correction
Marking every stumble
A judge in crimson ink
Now you spill like sunlight
Waltzing across the page
Not to scold
But to sing
What the hell changed—and why?
I'm left wounded, wondering
When right began to feel so wrong?

Do not be sad
For fate is inevitable,
What’s destined will find its way.
The pens have dried,
The pages have been folded,
And every matter has already been settled.
So your sorrow changes nothing
It neither hastens nor delays,
Neither adds nor takes away.

One morning,
I stood before the mirror
my losses etched across my face.
Staring back was someone who despised me.
How cruel self-loathing can be.
Some days, memory drags me
to my harshest hours
to an old love in an older heart,
to the moment my convictions shifted.
I never left people without reason,
yet I could never fill
the voids they left behind.
A wound, dealt by those I cherished,
taught me this:
those closest
are often the ones we most need to leave.
Only one truth remains
my reflection’s love endures.
But the love of others?
A myth I can no longer believe.
And what is the soul’s departure
if not an ending?
For death doesn’t always come in silence.
How many of the living
do I already treat
as if they’re gone?

I am the Soloist — carved in grief and flame,
A voice made raw by loss, not praise or fame.
No light begot this song, no gentle hand,
Just silence breaking like a scorched command.
I sing of truths too bitter to confess,
Of love that rots, of hope grown motionless.
Each note I cast is torn from deepest bone
A cry that never leaves me quite alone.
I have not turned from art, though it has bled,
Nor has it spared me nights I begged it dead.
No comfort lies in melody or form,
Just shattered chords that echo through the storm.
I sing what others dare not even think
Of needles, war, and madness on the brink.
Of pleasure cursed, of kisses soaked in sin,
Of flesh that burned and begged to burn again.
Oh, night! You cloaked me when the daylight fled,
You know the names of all the songs I've bled.
When lovers died with silence in their throats,
I stole their breath and sang their final notes.
My voice has cracked for children wrapped in dust,
For countrymen betrayed by those they trust.
I sang while mothers wept in empty beds,
And kissed the flags draped over brothers' heads.
Still, I sing on—not noble, but possessed,
A mouthpiece for the ****** who know no rest.
Each verse I bear, a curse I must repeat
Truth set to rhythm, blood made bittersweet.
And still I sing… though each song is a wound.
And still I sing… though every joy is doomed.
And still I sing… while pieces of me die.
For silence is the only greater lie.

**** Me With Your Beauty

Float your beauty,
your wild, aching sexiness
a storm in silk,
a sin wrapped in flesh.

**** me
with your pleasure,
with your wicked grace.
Burn me.
Don’t explain.
Don’t wait.

Just do it.
Undo me.
With what God gave you.

A glance,
a touch,
a breath that owns me.

**** me.
**** me
slowly,
completely
until I am nothing
but the echo
of your name.

What Remains

Sometimes, it isn’t death that takes them
but something quieter, crueler.
We still see their face,
still hear their voice,
but the soul we loved has gone elsewhere.

No thunderclap of farewell,
just silence
where laughter used to live.
A dimming light,
a soft betrayal of warmth once constant.

They don’t vanish all at once.
They fall from us
in pieces.
A kindness gone here,
a tenderness gone there
until we’re holding a ghost
with a heartbeat.

We mourn them in secret,
while they walk beside us.
Not lost,
but no longer found.

And in the end,
what remains?
Only the name
echoing,
hollow
in the chambers of memory.

I said to her,
"I will betray you."

She smiled softly, like forgiveness,
but with devilish awareness
and whispered,
"Then let destruction be... beautiful."

I said,
"Teach me how do you fall?"

She said,
"Tango."

And we tangoed
like sinners in a church,
like wolves caressing silk that never sleeps.

A step... then a gasp.
A turn... then a scar.
Wound after wound,
until love forgot its name,
its features scattered between our feet.

And still, we danced
not out of love,
not out of regret,
but because the music never stopped.
Yet.

The poem is the pain of:
love and hate,
happenings and sorrows,
laughter and tears,
day and night,
again and again

Pain, in so many colors and shapes,
in whispers or screams,
in gentle aches or roaring storms

It is pain.
Yes, PAIN.
That ink, that pulse, that shadow in the verse
Always pain.

"Love, in its truest form, is resilient
but even the strongest bond unravels
under the weight of three corrosive forces:
the habit of error,
the comfort of falsehood,
and the absence of understanding.
For it is not anger that ends love,
but the slow erosion of trust, truth, and empathy."

Step into my heart
Step into my heart, my line,
Step deep inside and enter my soul in peace.
My wound is your wound,
My pulse is your pulse,
And the words, we speak to them the same.
The street of sorrows begins in me,
A wound awakening beneath my ribs.
And it ends there too,
When one day,
We can finally speak it aloud.
My line, my line and inside my heart,
Step in and enter my soul in peace.
These words yes, they are the same.
Oh, when I speak and you believe,
Believe in the truth and let it rise from your lips.
When I speak and you believe
The truth will find its sound.
From your right,
From your left,
From there, from here
Know me.
You will find me
The possible truth.
Hug me and hold me,
Throw me into the air
Draw me, colour me,
A bird released, flying free.
Oh, when we meet
Meet in the space between our words,
When we meet again,
Let it be on the words
That rise from our hearts.
Step into my heart
Step into my heart, my line…

I slept beneath a murmuring tree,
the breath of wind like whispered song
when from the dusky thicket near
a dove broke forth in sorrowed tongue.
Its coo, a tremble made of light,
a flame of grief in feathered white,
did pierce the veil of slumber’s shroud
and stir my heart to waking loud.
O! Sweet-winged ghost of aching skies,
you summoned tears from sealed eyes,
and sang of loves I once had known,
and all the souls I’d called my own.
How far I’d strayed from spirit’s call,
how deep the hush, how slow the fall
but in your cry, celestial dove,
I heard again the voice of love.
So let me weep and wake anew,
beneath the sky’s immortal blue,
and bless the winds, the wings, the morn,
where grief and beauty are reborn.

My granddaughter and me
the best artists to ever be!
We make, we write, we draw wild things,
So strange and bold, with scribbled wings.
We paint the sun with purple glue,
And give the moon a mohawk too.
We turn the clouds into mashed potatoes,
And make giraffes wear sweet pink halos.
You might look once and raise your brow,
“Is that a dragon... or a cow?”
But we just laugh and say with glee:
“You don’t see it? That’s on you, not me!”
We’re the best and no need to boast
Of silliness, we make the most.
So when you see our crazy art,
Know it's made with love and heart.

How on earth I end up with you
a question I bury in silence,
where answers decay.
How did I spend thirty-five minutes
trading my peace
for your poisoned lullaby?

How many times I should have left,
but stayed
each time a bruise
on the soul I pretend is whole.
Each moment,
a thread unraveling my name.

Deep purple sleep
where I float, numb,
ends nightmare.
Not with rest,
but with forgetting.

Thank God
for the wicked wake
the jolt, the break,
the moment truth
slices through the dream.
At last,
I breathe
alone.
Alive.

When Silence Stays

A small, dimly lit room. Two chairs, facing slightly away from each other. A window stage-left lets in muted grey light. Dust particles float in the still air. No sound and just the low hum of existence.

He – Hollow, reflective, withdrawn.
She – Worn, quiet, still carrying embers of feeling beneath her restraint.

He sits with hands clasped, elbows on knees, staring at the floor.
She stands at the window, unmoving, her back to him.
SHE (softly)
You haven't said a word in hours.
HE
You're asking me why I'm silent?
I don't know… maybe because there's nothing left worth talking about.
We’ve stopped living out of desire…
Now we just exist from a lack of death.

SHE
(turns halfway toward him)
It’s as if we’re waiting for something…
Something to come and end us.
But even the ending keeps getting delayed.
The scene stretches on,
like a film that should’ve faded to black… but doesn’t.

HE
Do you remember how we used to feel pain?
Real pain, sharp, loud, alive?
We’d scream, and somehow the screaming helped.
Like the pain was real because it echoed.
Now even the pain has gone cold.
As if we’re forbidden from enjoying it.

SHE
Not even crying over it anymore.
(teeth clench subtly)
We’ve started to stifle the pain…
Stifle the scream…
Stifle life.
But we don’t die.

HE
(quietly, almost a whisper)
And that’s the curse, isn’t it?
It’s harder than death
to keep living,
while nothing in your lives.

She finally turns to him.
There is silence between them, not empty and but swollen, like a storm that never comes.

SHE
Do you think we’ll ever feel again?

HE
I don’t know.
Maybe we feel too much…
and this is what happens when the soul gets tired of carrying it.

SHE
Then maybe silence isn’t the absence of words…
It’s what’s left when life leaves.

A long pause.
Light fades slowly until the stage is only grey and still.

End Scene…

He:
You're asking me why I'm silent?
I don't know... maybe because there's nothing left worth talking about.
We've started living from a lack of death, not from a desire to live.

She:
It's as if we're waiting for something to end us...
But even the ending keeps getting delayed, and the scene gets longer.

He:
Do you remember how we used to feel the pain? How we used to scream and find relief?
Now even the pain has become cold... as if we're forbidden from enjoying it.

She:
Not even crying over it.
We've started to stifle the pain, stifle the scream, and stifle life...
But we don't die.

He:
It's harder than death... to keep living, while nothing in your lives.

Scars of Light
My body is full of cuts and scars,
A statement written in quiet lines
Each wound a whisper from battles past,
A language of pain that never lies.
They said, “The wound is where the light breaks through,”
Then I should be glowing, shouldn’t I?
But some nights, even stars seem bruised,
And hope feels like a well run dry.
I walk like driftwood lost at sea,
No anchor, no wind to carry me.
Steps unstable, breath unsure
I’m chasing something that’s never pure.
My eyes, two windows to a fading spark,
Cannot find where the light ends or starts.
It flickers in dreams I barely hold,
A warmth remembered, now turned cold.
Yet still…
In the silence between every ache,
A softer voice begins to wake.
It hums beneath the weight of scars,
Like moonlight bleeding through prison bars.
Pain has been my cruelest friend,
But even sorrow must someday bend.
If I can breathe, then I can crawl
And if I crawl, I might still stand tall.
So let the wounds be open doors,
Not graves, but cracks that beg for more.
Let hope be stubborn, small, and slow,
A single seed in winter’s snow.
Yes, let it be…

Knowledge is power
My grandmother and father told me,
Knowledge is power.
What a masterpiece of comedy that was.
I believed them, like a fool with a library card.
Now I’m stuck with a brain full
of useless wisdom and a heart full of regret.
Even the doctor said,
‘Sorry, we don’t treat chronic belief in motivational slogans.’
So yeah… hats off to me.
Clown of the century. 🤡📚🤣

Devil 👿

I met the devil.
She didn’t ask.
Just lit the pipe
and blew death into my lungs.

My veins caught fire.
My soul cracked open.
Everything changed.
Nothing mattered.

Time?
I spent it bleeding in heaven
and screaming in hell.

I fell into her arms like a drunk punch,
and crashed into a winter storm
naked, high, and laughing.

She was beautiful.
Ugly.
Perfect.
My sleep paralysis in flesh.

Yes
I ****** the devil.
She wore my guilt like perfume.

Ecstasy?
To you, it’s a word.
To me, it’s her body over mine,
nails in my back,
truth in her lies.

Yes
I slept with the devil 👿
And she never left.

Yet, perhaps the most haunting truth is:
Without a question, the answer is meaningless. But without an answer, the question becomes eternal.

Circle of knowledge 😜

I Want to Stay Here
We went to see the Three Sisters
in the Blue Mountains
an iconic rock formation,
etched in stone by time
and by legend.
The old story tells:
three sisters turned to stone
to be saved from war,
frozen forever
by love and fear.
Nearby, where Norman Lindsay
dreamed his wild and wicked dreams,
the air still hums
with the laughter of ghosts,
and the soft madness of artists.
My grandchild,
with his small voice and wide heart,
was asked to come home.
He looked up and said,
"I want to stay here."
And my heart
my old, tired heart
heard him and answered too:
I want to stay here.
To feel the pleasures,
the madness,
the thrill
these mountains have lived and seen.
I wonder
how can a place bear so much
and still remain
green,
shining,
calm?
Yes.
I want to stay here too.