She spoke of silver in my hair,  
A tarnished crown she couldn’t bear.  
If grief has painted strands with time,  
Then moons must fault for nights sublime.  

Each tear I shed spoke of my loss,  
Each dream a wake beneath its gloss.  
Reprove my truth? Oh, let it stay,  
We’ll echo dusk, both turned to gray.

Love isn't just a sweet soft kiss,
Nor how many times you feel such bliss.
It's not the touch that quickly ends,
Or fleeting comfort that it lends.

True love's a warmth that softly stays,
Through quiet nights and busy days.
A gentle echo, deep and true,
Long after the sweet kiss is through.

It lives within, a tender glow,
A quiet river's steady flow.
This gentle feeling, deep and vast,
Is made to last, forever last.

A void resides within my soul,
No treasure to bestow, no role.
What I lack, I cannot prize,
My heart, a barren, empty guise.

No love I offer, cold and stark,
For love unreturned leaves a bitter mark.
A fool I was, a foolish plea,
To give and give, eternally.

Life's harsh lesson, etched in stone,
Kindness now, a path unknown.
For kindness given, unreturned,
Leaves wounds that fester, unreconciled.

And if you're late, my patience wanes,
No sorrow felt, no empathy strains.
Your shirt, half-open, a careless grace,
Reveals a world beyond this place.

A world where fleeting moments fly,
And love's true worth, we barely try
To grasp, to hold, to understand,
A fragile thing, across the land.

A feathered sting, a bone-deep ache,
My breath caught, for goodness sake.
An arrow's flight, a sudden blight.

I pulled it free, the wound still raw,
And turned to see, ignoring law.
Whose hand so sure, brought pain so pure?

Not when the barb ripped flesh and bone,
Did life depart, and I was flown.
But when I knew, the eyes of blue,
My dying started, and it was you.

They say youth fades, when hair turns snow,
They do not see the heart's true light.
If only they could truly know,
The passion's ember, burning low.

The soul holds fast a secret plea,
To keep the spirit wild and free.
Hearts live and beat, no matter years,
Beyond the whispers and the fears.

When eyes behold the one they love,
The world around blooms like a dove.
The pulse awakes, a trembling beat,
Like dawn arriving, fresh and sweet.

This silver hair, a gentle veil,
Covers a truth that will not fail.
Deep in the heart, a fire's core,
Burning bright, forevermore.

Come closer, dear child, and listen to me,
A simple truth whispered, for all eyes to see.
Not in loud battles, or crowns on a head,
But deep in the world, where power is spread.

Much gold sent by coach, on a long, winding road,
Brings loss and regret, a heavy, sad load.
In times of grim war, the enemy takes,
In peace, sneaky thieves, for their own greedy sakes.
So much money vanishes, swift as a dream,
A fortune just gone, a sorrowful stream.

But listen to this, a power unseen,
More strong than a king, or a grand, legal scene.
Give me the threads of a nation's own coin,
The flow of its money, where all things conjoin.
Then let others make laws, or draw up a decree,
For I hold the pulse of the land, wild and free.

Yet, beyond all this, a truth softly sleeps,
A power so tender, the whole world it keeps.
Look at my child, with bright, hopeful eyes,
My child is the true might, under all skies.
Their spirit, their future, their simple pure way,
Is the power that governs this world of today.

So come closer, my child, let your mind understand,
The true forms of power, across every land.
From gold disappearing, to wealth's hidden hand,
To the small, growing life that lights up the sand.
These lessons are waiting, for all souls to see,
The real strength that shapes all that's meant to be.

I am her *******, humble, soft, worn thin,
A silent witness to her hidden life.
I’ve known her body’s secrets, close and deep,
A second skin, I clung to flesh and bone.
I have tasted her sins, the bitter proof,
Felt the deep tremor, held the quake of thighs,
A vessel for unspoken, urgent needs,
The silent echoes of a hurried touch.
I have worn scents of nights that would shame saints,
Of raw desires and whispers in the dark,
The heavy perfume of a world unseen.
Each stain a story, etched into my cloth.
Now, press me closely to your patient ear,
And I will speak what only I have known.
My fabric holds the truth, a living scroll.
No hidden part of her escapes my grasp.
I will name every man, each grasping hand,
Every woman too, whose waiting lips did part,
And the precise hour, when they broke her open,
To spill her secrets, whispered in the night.
I hold the ledger of her pleasure, pain,
The hidden history within my weave,
and the very hour when her heart opened wide.

To free oneself from boundless chains,  
Dismiss the weight of others’ reins.  
No judgment shapes the core you keep,  
Your dignity unfolds so deep.  

With kindness met, let kindness flow,  
A quiet strength to softly grow.  
Depart from scorn, let peace reside,  
Your worth is etched, not falsified.

I spent my life weaving my sails,
And when the dream was complete,
Thirst swallowed the sea.

When I shattered its wood with my hands,

The rain returned
And that was my sin.

Fourteen years old, a time so new,
I heard of love, a word for few.
My mother, father, said it true,
But not the love I looked for, through.

Night and day, in books and rhyme,
I searched for answers, all the time.
Just four small letters, plain and clear,
But what they meant, brought me to fear.

One morning, on my school way,
A homeless woman, old and gray.
Her eyes like glass, a broken view,
"Young one," she whispered, "Listen to this."

"You search in vain, you seek it wrong,
You must walk this tunnel, dark and long.
Go in alone, where shadows creep,
Some go inside, and never keep
Their minds quite right, they lose their way."
She turned to mist, and slipped away.

I stood there stiff, with shaky knees,
Heard echoes deep, inside the space
Was that love screaming? Or just pain’s trace?

Then faces moved, a shifting light,
I saw her there, so clear and bright.
She glowed, a ticket in her hand,
A victim too, in this strange land.

An arrow struck my pulsing heart,
Another tore my soul apart.
And still I walked, the path untold,
Into the hum, a story old.

The tunnel had no end, no sign,
Just unseen hums, a scent so fine
Of old, old rain, a whispered quest,
My own voice spoke, putting to test:

"Love isn't found, it finds your soul,
And leaves a wound, beyond control.
A mark that never truly heals,
But beautiful, your spirit feels."

I never saw that woman more,
But in the dark, I hear her roar
Not at me, but with a grin,
Like she knew all: the way out, further in.

In shadows deep, she bore the flame,  
Her woven grace, none dare to blame.  
Within her arms, my grief would fade,  
By her truth, the world is made.  

Her heart’s a well of honest tide,  
No insult dwells where love abides.  
When I do love, her soul shall mend,  
The woman holds what earth defends.

Your hands compose an echoed hymn, a whisper sung in shadowed dim. No brittle notes, no fractured tune, just soft-sweet murmurs, worn in bloom.

Where silence thrives, your fingers speak, a fluent warmth, both strong and meek. Each brush unfurls a secret art, the quiet lexicon of heart.

Knees snapped backward,
forced into worship without choice.
Was it triumph, or was it hunger
that made you loom so big and tall?
Did you drink the pleasure
of frightening the small?
Monster black-furred tyrant
you thrashed the skyline
to clutch a young heart in your fist.
But even kings have rivals.
The lion wears a crown
dripping with other creatures’ blood.
The ram carries prophecy
etched deep in the bone of his skull.
The bull dreams with one eye open,
hooves stamping the earth into gold.
All rulers, beast or man
hold their toys
until the toys grow teeth.
And teeth, once born,
chew tomorrow into shape.
The mind alone
is the crown that lasts.

Three women at the river’s edge,
bare feet digging into the cold,
playing that wicked game
hunting guilty pleasures,
dragging sin from her dark bed,
laughing loud, trembling wild
in the ruthless lap of lust.
Their hands don’t just touch
they carve borders into flesh and bone,
claiming, mapping,
finding fierce truths in each other’s fire.
Behind them, a desperate cry:
Don’t stop. Don’t ******* stop.
The river doesn’t care
she rages beneath their skin,
this Love they name a curse and blessing both,
the song tearing loose:
Oh my God, oh my God,
oh my ******* God
don’t stop, you savage witch, don’t.
**** all men and their chains.
The water shudders
bearing the heat of fevered bodies,
waves crash like a scream,
wild, sharp, relentless
******-waves breaking, breaking.
At the river’s ragged edge,
they spill their longing like blood
holy, savage, untouchable.
This is their cathedral,
their war-cry,
and no shadow anywhere
dares claim they weren’t here.
Love calls.
Love burns.
Love breaks everything.

Between question and answer runs a river of blood
each question births its own fierce reply.
Silence is a shroud we drape over the self,
and in the age of ****, silence is a crown of fire.
Poetry sheds its skin of metaphor, naked and raw;
the question strips the poem to its bleeding bones.
Strike a poet with your thought
but beware, deepen your metaphor before you knock.
I have heard the clumsy verdicts of my time
ears deaf to beauty, tongues sharpened as swords.
I answered harsh when the hour demanded battle,
sweet when the story’s soul cried for grace.
Rhymes are prisons and wings alike;
sometimes I pass through as a ghost,
more often they seize me in a tempest,
and I pour the hunger of my craft into their veins.
I drank deep from the storm of eloquence,
kept wild bees buzzing in the nectar of the line,
drove wolves from the bloodied pool of metaphor,
wrestled lions in the arena of chaos and form.
I have played the lute that blooms like a war cry
for the cities and for the Bedouins’ raw, untamed howl.
I have read to poets whose hair turned to silver ash,
while their verse remained green
poems born in joy,
and poems that claw at the guts of grief.
Some verses are prayers that thunder like storms,
some are lust’s own savage offspring;
from these, I have cleansed myself
like washing away a dark, ancient curse.
Poems are women, each a flame,
each a world of light and shadow.
And beauty itself is a poem
a young woman distilled
from the fierce nectar of femininity.
Yet still
I devour poems.

tight enough to hear my heartbeat in its seams.
Sir’s scissors slid up my thigh,
cold bite tracing the vein,
a slit opening like a whispered threat.
Safety pins hold the wound shut
for now.
The hem’s been hacked raw,
frayed strands kissing the tops of my stockings,
air licking skin that should be hidden.
Three shots of Chivas burn through me,
liquid courage, liquid sin.
I lean in close enough for you to feel my breath,
close enough for my lips to graze your ear,
and I say,
Some women wear lace for beauty.
I wear it to watch men bleed.

The priest came to the king,
bowed, and begged:
“Ban alcohol, sire
it’s destroying families, the whole ralm.”
The king said, without hesitation, “No.”
As the priest turned to leave,
the jester whispered:
“You should’ve asked while he was drinking.”
The priest nodded.
Too late for wisdom.

I am her *******.
I have clung to her hips like a worshipper
and knelt in the dark between her thighs.
I have drunk her sweat
until the salt burned my threads,
and I have learned her rhythm
how she sighs before she sins.
I have been the altar for her midnight prayers,
the veil for the tremor of her flesh
when the moon pressed its cold kiss there.
I have swallowed the bite of his teeth,
tasted the copper of his hunger,
and carried the scent of nights
she will deny with her lips
but never with her body.
I am the silk that trembled
when her fingers shook,
the lace that remembers more
than her mouth will speak.
And if you dare press me to your ear,
I will tell you
how she laughed when she came,
how she wept when she wanted more,
and how I still ache for her skin.

Who quenched the light in the eyes of the seeing,
and taught him that trust is a blade
that turns upon its bearer.

He who now seals his heart
was once a house with open doors to every wanderer,
until he gave them sight
and they repaid him with blindness.

May the darkness they planted in him
take root and choke them,
and may the spirits cry their names
through a night that shall never know dawn.

Aman

Come closer
my father once told me
that between my *******,
between my lips,
between my thighs,
lies a power without mercy.
I have learned to wield it like a blade.
My mind is the theatre,
my thoughts the stage where you are both
the hero and the sacrifice.
I will not simply kiss you
I will bind you,
thread your breath through mine
until you cannot remember
where you end and I begin.
I will lead you by the hand into velvet darkness,
make you believe it is safety,
then whisper the truth in your last moment of doubt:
I am the enchantress they warned you about,
the poison they served in a crystal glass.
They call me femme fatale,
but I am older than the name,
more ancient than fear.
I do not ****
I make you walk willingly
into your own beautiful ruin.
I blow a kiss, goodbye.

They asked me about the human soul.
I smiled,
and leaned close enough for them to feel my breath.
They say man is a microcosm
and the heavens the vast world.
But, love, they have never wandered your inner night.
The outer sky is a candle’s flame
fragile, flickering
while inside you,
I have sailed an endless sea of dark honey,
its tides made of dreams and pulse and breath.
The true vastness is in the chambers beneath your ribs,
where my hands have learned the maps
no star could chart.

She came to me beneath a crescent moon,
her hair perfumed with night jasmine,
her eyes heavy with the knowledge
that I was born of spells and dark milk.
I laid her down on the silk of my shadow.
The stars leaned close,
each one a witness to my mother’s prophecy
that my touch would burn without flame.
Her breath caught in the hollow of my throat.
I kissed her as the desert drinks rain:
slow at first,
then with the hunger of a century without water.
The witch’s blood sang in me,
chanting words no priest would dare to hear.
Her body opened like a forbidden garden,
and I,
its serpent and its angel,
entered with reverence and ruin.
When she cried out,
the night shivered.
Owls turned their heads,
the wind held its breath,
and the moon closed one eye in envy.

O She who rises from the womb of the sea,
crowned with foam and crowned with flame,
whose breath stirs the tides
and whose glance births blossoms from barren stone
Bearer of the golden girdle,
keeper of the wine of longing,
mother to the song that awakens the flesh,
and the dream that burns in the marrow.
Aphrodite, hear me.
Pour into my heart the wine of its desire,
and in the cup of that union,
let there be peace.

I like my labneh
full-fat, whole-milk
heavy with promise,
soft as surrender.
Flaky sea salt
melts on its skin,
olive oil glistens
like desire in the sun.
A breath of za’atar,
a trace of mint,
a brush of thyme
and I am undone.
That’s how I like my lover
ripe,
reckless,
and impossible to leave.
Yummy…

For their ink is not ink, but the distilled venom of memory.
They will etch your name upon the black tablets of time,
where even the rain cannot wash it away
and the centuries will taste it like iron on the tongue.
This is no mere revenge
it is the curse of the storyteller,
and I, child of the witch,
have mastered it.

The passing of people is a wound,
but the passing of trust is a death.
When people go,
they leave their shadows in the rooms of memory.
When trust goes,
it steals the light from those shadows,
and sets fire to the bridges
that could have carried them home.
Trust, once broken,
is a mirror in ruins
even if you mend it,
the crack still hides in the glass,
waiting in your reflection.

Forgive the rough edge of my words
they were born in the heat of a breaking heart.
I don’t need you to tell me it’s done;
I’ve seen the cracks widening,
heard the silence growing louder than our laughter.
The fire has been dimming for a long while,
the touch between us turning to stone,
the moments of wild devotion
fading like old paint in the rain.
Now I wear the emptiness like a badge,
my hands remembering
what they can no longer hold,
my body locked in rust,
my soul aching for the ways you once
turned me into a living flame.
And I miss you
not only your mouth,
but the magic it spoke
in the language only lovers know.

While your soul writhes in unrest.
Cursed be he who walks away,
forgetting the bond, never once looking back.
Should he return, trust him not
for hearts that dared the darkness
will return clad in masks not their own.

Cursed in the religion of the Most Gracious
is he who imprisons a people,
who strangles a thought in its cradle,
who lifts the whip over flesh,
who silences the tongue of truth,
who builds walls to cage the living,
who raises high the banners of tyranny.

Cursed in every creed and scripture
is he who squanders the rights of humankind,
even if his lips murmur prayers,
even if his hands scatter alms,
even if he walks the earth
clutching the Bible in one hand
and the Qur’an in the other.

The first gift you take from this world is a breath,
and the last you give back is a sigh.
Between that drawing in and that letting go
lies but a brief caravan of days.

So be merciful to your heart,
tender with your soul,
and do not weigh it down
with the dust of what bears no fruit.

The good is the mirror of mercy upon the earth
forgiving as the sky forgives its clouds.
Yet when he turns away,
he returns to the silence from which he came.

No road reaches him except through the heart’s light.
And he who has never known that light
will wander forever among the shadows.

where the last coal of creation still glows.
If you reach in with moonlit fingers,
hunting for the soft vein of my weakness,
the fire will climb your veins
and crown your limbs in smoke.
Beloved
I told you: my heart is poetry,
and poetry is the heart of the witch’s son.
Do not wound it,
lest it choose the hour to wound you.
And when it does,
its betrayal will taste
like pomegranate in the dark
sweet, and red, and endless.

I am not a poet.
I am only a wanderer in the marketplace of words,
a fool who follows the glimmer of syllables
as others follow the scent of bread.
Poetry is not ink on paper.
It is the pulse beneath the page
a breath moving through the hollow reed of the poet,
a secret that leans close to the ear of the heart.
When I meet a poem, I bow.
I circle it once,
then twice,
then again,
as though it were a shrine whose mystery
can never be entered in a single step.
Each reading strips away a veil.
Sometimes the veil is my own blindness,
sometimes the poet’s mercy in hiding the flame
until I am ready.
There are nights I leap from sleep crying, I have it!
and mornings when the truth laughs,
gently reminding me:
Child, that was only the shadow of the meaning
come back, and drink deeper.
Poetry is a journey without map or return.
It is the caravan of joy
that passes through my heart again and again.

You came without footsteps.
I did not hear the door
only felt you
arrive
beneath my ribs,
like smoke curling into a sealed jar.
I was praying,
but you were the breath I used to say your name.
Now I live
in a room without walls.
No ceiling, no floor
only your nearness,
pressing me open
from within.
I am not asking for paradise.
I am asking
for the warmth of your palm
on the small of my back
when I am weary of seeking.
I am asking
to lean into you
as a tree leans into wind it trusts.
Let the world do what it wants
let time collapse,
let stars fall into rivers
but let me keep
the wine of your presence
on my tongue
a moment longer.
There are days I am nothing but hunger.
Days I mistake your silence
for absence.
But then a bird lands on the windowsill
and it is you.
Then my spine tingles
for no reason
and it is you.
And when I weep without knowing why,
it is because you are
too close to name.
You are the touch I can’t return.
The kiss I give inward.
The home I carry
in the hollows of my being.

Oh devil,
play your crooked song.
My cup was born empty
not for lack,
but for the thrill of being filled
by hands unclean.
You danced,
not in shadows,
but in candlelight and clinking glass.
You sang not sorrow,
but sweet sugar lies
dipped in honeyed brass.
I did not fall.
I followed.
The path was perfumed,
the rhythm too rich to refuse.
Sin, in satin slippers.
Wickedness, with wine on its lips.
Yahoo for me
I did not burn.
I became the fire.
I outshone the flame.

I drink to forget
my keys,
my pain,
the clatter of bees in my head.
But the French cognac tastes of door handles
and old brass prayers.
Each swallow lights another hallway
in this crumbling hotel I call me.
Pain sharpens
not like a knife,
but like a mirror
with too many faces.
And then
cold metal teeth in my palm.
A familiar bite.
Yes.
Of course.
The keys.
They were conducting an orchestra
of forgotten errands
in the soft cage of my hand.
Stupid French cognac.
Stupid hand.
Always holding the answer
like a riddle too proud to speak.

And the fool said quietly:
Look at the man carrying the words of God,
and still, he has no idea how heavy they are.
He cared too much
more than his heart could hold.
It spilled over,
like a cup with no rim.
He pushed his soul
past what it was built to bear.
And over time,
his face changed.
People didn’t call him by the same name.
His words sounded strange
in places he used to belong.
His trust dried up
like grass under a burning sun.
His strength faded
like the last inch of candlelight before dawn.
Because everything has a limit
the stars in their paths,
a widow’s tears,
a man’s time,
even him.
Even me.

Once, the word was a whisper
carved into a cave wall
by a man who saw lightning
and wanted to marry it.
He did not know grammar,
but he knew:
****.
It is the sound a soul makes
when it remembers it left the stove on
in a past life.
It is a sneeze of truth,
a hiccup of the cosmos,
a four-letter eclipse
of reason and restraint.
“****,” says the poet,
when words betray him.
“****,” says the scientist,
when atoms refuse to behave.
It is the punctuation of panic,
the jazz note in an otherwise silent scream,
the laugh-track of God.
It means everything
when you don’t mean anything,
and it means nothing
when you feel everything.
It is both
the crime
and the confession.
The knock, the door, the absence of door.
So how do you write it?
You don’t.
You exhale it through clenched teeth
as you fall in love with a mistake.
You etch it into the back of a napkin
after three whiskeys and a revelation.
You scream it into a pillow
until the pillow understands.
Then you kiss it.
And never speak of it again.

It hurts
like trying to hug a cloud
that owes you money.
You live in my heart
rent-free,
but my arms?
Evicted.
You are emotionally Airbnb
booked out,
but the photos were misleading.
Pain is elegant.
It wears a tuxedo to breakfast.
It sighs like a French poet
watching their croissant float down the Seine.
And elegance is everywhere
especially in the unseen.
Like your *******.
Yes, those
the hidden diplomats of heartbreak,
curled like sleeping cats
at the bottom of your laundry basket,
smelling faintly of rebellion and lavender-scented denial.
Keep them fresh.
Not for me
I’ve joined a monastery made of memes
but for the next poor soul
who mistakes your playlist for a spirit.
Let him be dazzled.
Let him be devoured.
Let him know, too late,
that lace is a trapdoor.

Love…
a powerful, complicated thing.
It lifts us. Shapes us.
And sometimes, quietly…
it breaks us.
It colours our days with joy,
gives meaning to our silence,
and turns the ordinary into something sacred.
But when it leaves
when love is absent
it doesn’t just fade.
It echoes.
We feel it in the cold space beside us,
in unanswered messages,
in glances that once lingered...
but now pass right through.
The lack of love
it’s not just loneliness.
It’s a weight.
A reminder of our need to be seen,
held,
understood.
So, we turn to words
to the poets, the broken hearted prophets,
to those who have tasted the silence
and made music of it.
They speak for us,
those who have felt unloved,
unappreciated,
or have struggled with the hardest kind of love
the one we owe ourselves.
“Love is the absence of judgment.”
Such a simple phrase,
yet it speaks volumes.
True love does not correct or condemn
it welcomes,
without a checklist.
And sometimes
it’s not the person we miss.
It’s how we felt beside them.
The way our laughter filled the room,
or how our soul exhaled in their presence.
We crave the feeling,
not the face.
Love is…
when you shed a tear,
and still want him.
When he ignores you,
and still… you love him.
When he chooses another
and you smile, and whisper,
“I’m happy for you,”
though your heart cracks with grace.
From the absence of intimacy,
a truth emerges:
We don’t seek perfection.
We seek presence.
Not fireworks
but a hand that stays.
And even in the deepest absence…
there is something that never leaves:
Hope.
That love true, fearless,
and whole
will return.
Until then,
we listen.
We feel.
We heal.
And we love
quietly,
bravely,
still.

Step right up for a whirlwind tour through the wild, wordy world of poetry and where creativity runs free, metaphors get dramatic, and commas have emotional breakdowns.

We’ll dig through the dusty scrolls of history (don’t worry, no Latin quizzes), sip some cultural tea, and find psychological comfort in realizing that poets have been just as confused and emotional as we are for centuries!

Join us for laughs, deep thoughts, and possibly a few dramatic sighs.

I would paint her, my dancer
not in pigments, but in flame,
the fire that devours prophets,
the thirst that undoes saints.
She is lust and lawless mercy,
a chalice of sin kissed by angels.
No heart beats in her breast,
only a temple of mirrors,
each one reflecting your hunger.
She kneels not to worship
but to undo.
She makes men weep
in the tongues of old gods.
She makes them beg
not for heaven,
but for her ruin.
Her father a shadow of Solomon
taught her the craft of wisdom
laced with whoredom,
of speaking riddles in silk,
of binding empires
with the sway of her hips.
And I
I hate her as I hate Iblis,
for the pride she wears like perfume.
Yet I love her
as the mystic loves his wound,
as the moon loves the tide
that breaks her in pieces.
O sons of dust
you who bear the names of kings,
you who drink from the well of power
why were you given love
like the sting of a hidden thorn?
To burn,
to ache,
to be calmed but never healed,
to haunt the soul long after flesh forgets.
You were offered wisdom, joy,
beauty, and vision
but before all else,
you were cast into the furnace
of desire.

To “read” a painting is to listen with the eyes.
Begin with silence. Stand before it not as a judge, but as a guest and a stranger in a land of symbols and hues.
Describe what you see, as if describing a dream, you’re not sure you had: the colours, the lines, the tension, the flow. Is there chaos? Stillness? Invitation? Resistance?
Then ask the questions the paint does not answer:
Who made this, and when?
What storm or serenity shaped the artist’s hand?
What did the world look like when this pigment first touched canvas?
This is the visual pilgrimage:
from surface to structure, from brushstroke to breath.
You trace the grammar of form and the logic of light
how shadows fall, how space unfolds.
You seek the why beneath the what.
But to read a poem
Ah... to read a poem is to let it read you.
You bring all that you bring to painting attention, analysis, context.
But then you must offer something more:
your ache, your longing, your bruises, your silences.
You must bleed a little.
You must taste the honeyed poison of words too true to ignore.
Where a painting might say, “See me,”
a poem whispers, “Feel me and dare to be changed.”
In poetry, time distils.
A single line may carry a century.
A single word may resurrect a forgotten wound.
And so, the witch’s son says:
To read a painting is to walk through a doorway.
To read a poem is to fall through it, willingly
drunk on the sweet wine of beauty,
cut by the edge of truth.

My Lord,
pluck out my eyes
for now I see.
Listen,
I have sinned.
I loved the lie
and spat upon the truth.
She came
beautiful,
a marvel of flesh and voice,
and sang,
"I am the devil."
And I,
a fool,
did not believe.
Now I love the sinner.
Now I hate the good.
Now I worship power.
Now I bow to injustice.
She was the devil
or her shadow.
Evil, with a honeyed tongue,
converted me
into a rewound soul,
a God-hating ghost
wearing the rags of flesh.
O God
bless me with Your power
and
**** me
now.

Didn’t I tell you, baby
No one could ever love you like I do?
Didn’t I tell you, baby
You were my world, my sky so blue?
Didn’t I tell you, baby
A million times, I love you?
Didn’t I tell you, baby
You reigned in my heart, my queen so true?
Didn’t I tell you, baby…
But still, you chose to walk away
To chase what they now call self-love.
It didn’t bloom like you hoped, did it?
And now, after breaking my heart,
You turn to come back.
Forgive me…
For taking back my vulnerabilities.
They were too sacred to leave unguarded.
And now, I think I’ll keep them.
True.

"Behind every successful man, there is a woman."
To which George Bernard Shaw, with his cutting wit, replied:
"Yes—but the man would be greater without her."
And I?
I say this:
"I do not conquer her
I submit…
like a sinner to the sweetness
of sin,
drenched in its lust,
lost in its pleasure."

They didn’t say goodbye to me,
They never saw the pleading in my eyes.
They left… they left…
And left me cradling silence, my dear.

They walked away to distant lands,
And I was left, a soul unmanned.

My love was still so young,
It hadn't bloomed or sung.
It never had its chance to breathe,
To kiss, to laugh, or to believe.

Yet they’re the ones who frown and cry,
Though I’m the one left wondering why.

How lucky are the envious and they slept,
While we, the broken-hearted, wept.
They slept in peace the night they tore us apart,
While my tears baptized my hollow heart.

No matter how the days may stretch or bend,
Their image in my mind won’t end.
They remain, more precious than the precious,
A weight more aching than the relentless.

Love sold me out,
And the cheap ones bought me.

Ooh, man
the cheating woman plays with fire,
but it is only smoke she leaves behind.

The maiden dreams of a knight on a white steed,
riding to crown her longing.

The widow weeps for dreams
she lost too soon
or never dared to chase.

But the married woman...
She is a flame kept quiet too long.
She burns to fulfil her hidden dreams,
and she will give you
much
without shame,
without measure.

So choose wisely, man.
And if you must sin
at least enjoy it.

Love in its fullness comes but twice: first, in the mirror of desire; second, in the ruin of illusion.

Why won’t you stop
shut up,
or even die?
Why must you speak
in words just as cruel,
just as useless
as the old path I swore to leave?
Oh God
**** my hand,
**** my mind,
or please...
**** my pen.
I’ve thrown you a thousand times,
but like a phoenix
you always return,
refusing to burn,
refusing to die.
I’m done with you, Pen.
Your ink is endless pain.
No more of you
in my realm.
We’re finished.
Today.
My pen looked at me with a snaky eye,
and whispered
I only speak
because you never could.