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.

I dwell now at a nameless address
Where words no longer visit.
I no longer write
Nor do I wish to mesmerize.
Yesterday,
My home was your heart.
Now I echo through absence.
They say,
“’Tis better to have loved and lost…”
But they forget
Lost time
Is never found again.

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…

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.

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.

*******.
I don’t need your flowers.
Then I ran to the hill
screaming, dancing your name
into the sky.
“Follow me, *******!”
A teenage heart
with a woman’s craving for love
yielding, radiant,
beautiful,
****,
full of lust, honey.
Come, fill your cup.
Come, warm your blood.
I am your dream, teen.
I am your soul’s dare.
Come to rest,
come to burn.
My wine was stored in animal skin
aged in darkness,
waiting to be broken.
Sweet, sweet me.
Come and have me.
I dare you to my madness.
I dare you to be brave.
I dare you
to enjoy my wine.

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.

Never trust again
nor reconnect with
anyone who tried to silence your voice,
break your spirit, or shatter your being.
A snake, no matter how smooth
or beautiful, only sheds its skin to grow.
But never forget:
“a snake remains a snake”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

One of the harshest things I have ever read! "And I have pardoned so that we will not meet again with God."

I have pardoned
not from love, nor grace,
but to unthread your name
from the fabric of my fate.

No thunderclap of anger,
no blaze of righteous flame,
just the quiet closing
of a door that once knew your name.

I set you free,
not to hold your hand again in light,
but so our shadows
will never cross in God’s sight.

No reckoning in heaven,
no parting words to send
I forgave you only
so this could truly end.

So if you seek me
on that final, sacred shore,
know that my forgiveness
was the lock upon the door.

I’m the one now
sitting in the old chair,
saying all the silly,
mischievous things
to my grandchildren
and somehow,
they love it.
They laugh and call it Grandpa Wisdom.
I just call it joy.
And oh, how I love it.
Thank you
for that joy.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Death is nothing—no endless divide,
I’ve only strode to the other side.
I am still I, and you are still you;
Our love remains, unwavering, true.
Speak my name as you did before,
Soft and sure, as in days of yore.
No need for silence, tears, or guise
Let laughter rise, as in brighter skies.
Remember every shared delight,
The tender jokes, the sparks of light.
Sing my name, let it softly ring,
A living breath, an endless thing.
I linger near, not lost, not gone,
Just past the dawn, beyond the lawn.
No need to yearn—I’ll wait right here,
Until you round life’s bending sphere.
So smile, and dance, and let love show,
For though you cannot see me so,
Our bond still holds, our light won’t fade
I’m just around the bend, delayed.
Delayed.

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.

**** 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.

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. 🤡📚🤣

Your dear one is like a lost hunter
blind to direction, unsure of his prey.
Content, it seems, to stir up chaos,
spreading trouble near and far.
I already see where this story leads.
All I can do is stay grounded.
But he’s not hunting to survive
he’s hunting to ****.
And he doesn’t care
who gets hurt along the way.
God, please
don’t let him find my way.

"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."

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.

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.

Two words—clean cut,
Sharp like truth,
Simple as spit,
Understood in every pit
And palace.
Money talks.

******* hell
So do my prayers.
Two words,
No frills,
Just fire and air,
Shot through ceilings,
Blown through cracks,
No echo back.

Money talks,
But prayers?
They whisper to walls.
They dance in smoke.
They choke.

Yahoo to my prayers
Sent to the stars,
To the sky that shrugs,
To heaven
Where silence
Claps in all languages.

Where rest is set and peace is sown,
The sunrise and dawn are mine alone.
A covenant forged—just God and me,
My church stands high, stone-built and free.
Upon a mountain, firm and wide,
An orchard blooms on every side.
Each ration blessed by Heaven’s hand,
Planted with care, by love unmanned.
What more creed does one require?
Contentment douses all desire.
The richest soul is he who needs
No more than what the spirit feeds.
I sing my song with head held high,
No shame, no sorrow, no goodbye.
My wine is sweet, and purely mine,
Pressed in stillness, aged in time.
In solitude, I find the way
The questions gone, the answers stay.
I’m priest and penitent in one,
My absolution, self-begun.
So thank You, God, for this great gift:
The sacred silence, the spirit’s lift.
Solitude and I walk blind
Together lost, yet not to be found.

My friend, take hence a letter to my dear,
Perchance he sees the weeping written clear.
Between the lines, let silent tears confess
A love that words alone could not express.

Tell him I’m lost, by longing overthrown,
My heart, from parting’s fire, is cracked to stone.
What good is distance? Shall we choose to part,
When all that’s good is living heart to heart?

I asked the night: “Have you not felt him near?
Did not his shadow stir your silence here?”
The night replied with tears upon his face:
“My patience, too, has waned in love’s embrace.”

The moon declared: “I basked in all you said,
But when you cease, my light itself is shed.”
O you who poured sweet love in every vein,
How shall I live in mask and cold refrain?

So when you reach him, let this message shine:
I am in love with his name is etched in mine.
My life was penned with hope and passion true,
And every breath I take still longs for you.

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.

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.

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.

I’m weary of your winds,
soft whispers that promise fire,
then vanish in the hush of “just friends.”

You speak like a lover in the moonlight,
then vanish at dawn with your walls drawn high.
Yet when I smile at another flame,
your silence burns louder than words.

What is this dance you lead me in?
One step forward, two steps back,
your heart a maze I cannot read.

Am I a passing breeze in your garden,
or a root you dare not let grow?

Speak, Lily
not in riddles, not in sighs.
Tell me where I stand in your sky,
before I drift too far to return.

Me

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.

"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."

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.

We met on the sea’s edge,
where moonlight kissed the tide.
We danced through the salt-heavy night,
drank sweet wine as you spoke
of a million myriads
stars, souls, or stories, I never knew.

Tipsy, tipsy,
till the dawn broke us apart.
And then you were gone.

Sailor, where are you now?
Do you whisper my name to your myriads,
the way you once whispered theirs to me?

Who wrote to you that night,
when I wrote you into my heart?

Tonight, I raise a glass to the sea,
and to you,
wherever the tides have taken you.

Cheers 🥂

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.

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.

Pleasant to contemplate
Sweet,
Warm.
To share it,
or savor alone?
Maybe.
But more than likely,
a dream never to be realized.

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 😜

Is it enough to let the eyes skim the page,
To count the words like stars in a cage?
To say “I’ve read” and pass along,
While meaning fades like a forgotten song?
Reading is not just ink and air,
Not just the weight of facts laid bare.
It’s stepping into thought’s quiet hall,
Where questions echo, and meanings call.
Observation may grant you sight,
A glimpse of truth in borrowed light.
But understanding lights the fire,
Turns cold recall to soul’s desire.
In schools we learn to fill the test,
To chase the grade, outscore the rest
But who will teach the heart to see
What all these numbers mean to me?
To read is more than moving eyes,
It’s letting words inside arise.
It’s asking “Why?” and “What comes next?”
It’s living with the living text.
So read, yes
but read to feel.
Read to shatter, bend, and heal.
For the deepest truths are not just scanned.
They’re held, they’re lived,
they’re understood,
they’re planned.
Enjoy the delight.

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 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.

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…