Desire burns through night’s deep shade.  
Tongues of heat lay silence bare.  
Each breath a prayer, untamed fire.  
In ecstasy, agony feels divine.  
Flesh whispers what words cannot.  
I am undone; I am reborn.  
Shivers stitch my body’s hymn.  
A wild hymn echoes creation’s core.

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?

She said, “My dear, I want you
Come taste the honey that drips from my mouth.”
“Take it slow,” she begged, “but hurry
I’ve waited long enough.”
“Just so you know,” she whispered low,
“I’m the only daughter of my father and mother
The mint that grows along our orchard fence,
Shaded by banana leaves from prying eyes.”
“In the game of love, I was Napoleon
But now my carriage has stalled.
Even the banded wheels won’t move.”
I filed a complaint with the Mayor.
He sighed and said:
“Your case is adjourned—until the end of time.”
The mint of music rested on her lap.
I asked her name.
She smiled and said,
“It’s written in the clouds above your head.”
I looked up and saw: Blue Sky.
Her hands were kissed by henna,
Six golden bangles danced at her wrists
A shimmer of wealth and mystery.
I said, “Yes… yes… and yeah.
You are green as spring,
Yet burn with the fire of the devil.”
Innocence and seduction
All wrapped in one.
A beautiful teen,
The chaos of heaven in a single form.
Yes, I would love to taste your lips...

A shy rose smiles, a blush of dawn,
A whispered secret, softly drawn.
I, son of wood, with words so keen,
By witch-mother, a mystic scene.
A thousand whistles, sharp and clear,
To rouse the trees, dispelling fear.
And when I call, with voice so low,
The roses answer, soft and slow.
A tender love, a whispered sigh,
As petals bloom beneath the sky.
A silent dance, a gentle grace,
In nature's heart, a hidden space.
The morning dew, a diamond sheen,
Reflects the light, a perfect scene.
My witch-mother, with eyes so deep,
Her wisdom whispered, secrets to keep.
The wood awakes, a verdant hue,
As love and beauty, fresh and new.
The shy rose smiles, a blush of gold,
A story told, a tale unfolds.

Upon Sidon's altar, bathed in golden light,
Where fragrant breezes danced throughout the night,
Sidon's women, with grace and nimble feet,
Did weave a ballet, a celestial treat.

Around the stones, a vibrant, living hue,
Their bodies moved, a rhythmic, flowing view.
With effortless steps, a tapestry of art,
They crushed the flowers, a delicate, sweetheart.

Meadow blossoms, soft and fragile white,
Beneath their lightness, lost in fading light.
A symphony of motion, swift and free,
A dance of worship, wild and ecstasy.

The altar glowed, a beacon in the air,
Reflecting beauty, beyond compare.
The women's spirits, soaring, light and bright,
In graceful circles, bathed in sacred light.

Their movements spoke of joy, and love, and grace,
A timeless rhythm, in this hallowed space.
A fleeting moment, captured in the past,
Where Sidon's women danced, forever cast.

Among the vast, adorned and proud,  
A tender soul shines through the crowd.  
No crown can gild a heavy heart,  
True grace resides where egos part.  
The humble step on lofty stairs,  
Their quiet strength, the world declares.  
For beauty grows where pretense flees,  
And simple hearts move like soft seas.

The weight still lingers, burdens remain.  
Years of giving, silent, unclaimed.  
Not greed, just kindness I implore  
A touch to heal, restore once more.  

Soft hands to soothe this aching tide,  
Yet empty space is what’s supplied.  
The smallest ask, a tender plea,  
Too vast a world to give to me.

Soft lines draw me, slow, unchained,
Your hips that call, my hands restrained.
The hollow throat, the ******* that rise,
Full moons that darken eager skies.

Your skin, a canvas, flushed and bare,
I trace its heat through breathless air.
I long to taste, to press, to part,
To lose myself where bodies start.

Your lips, wet fire, parted, near,
Invite my hunger, raw, sincere.
I drown in you, no space, no name,
Two shadows burning into flame.

They said: Be like us.
I said: Sorry my mother is a witch,
and I am the son of a delicious sin.
I'm not built for statues or titles.

As long as I’ve stolen nothing but hearts,
and wasted nothing but time
in the arms of beautiful women,
leave me as I am:
a blueprint for a postponed scandal.

As for the sheikh
he paused, cracked his back,
then said with a smirk:
“The world, my son, is three things:
A ***** that confuses logic,
A glass that makes logic forget,
And a cigarette... that burns logic altogether.”

We all laughed
then returned to lying,
as always:
In the name of morality.

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…

If success crowns you with arrogance,
its jewels are glass, not gold.
True triumph bends the head in thanks, not lifts the nose in scorn.

If failure kindles deeper fire,
then it was no failure at all.
For the soul that rises from the ashes
has never truly fallen.

Hand on hand my heart stumbles, my mind resists.
Reason is sharp, but the heart always bleeds its way to victory and that is my sweetest agony.

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.

I want to taste the sweetness of your lips again
again, and again
'til sweetness turns to ache,
and ache becomes need.
Old wood is best to burn,
old wine to rot in the blood,
old friends to betray,
old books to whisper truths too heavy for the day.
But your lips
they are the darkest wine,
fermented in silence,
laced with lust,
dripping the sins saints dare not name.
Fill my cup.
Let me be drunk.
Let me forget the light.

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.

Shadows dance, light sways in tune.  
Roots and winds share ancient secrets.  
Darkness whispers truths, unbound, untamed.

The light bends, tender, in knowing embrace.  

Harmony hums where opposites collide.  

Steps falter, rise, then learn to fly.  
In balance, stillness moves, serene, alive.

Soft, a familiar seat.
She walks in, fire in summer heat.

A pact we made, a whispered vow:
No touch, no kiss, just here and now.

We clink our glasses, amber bright,
And talk of dreams that fill the night.

Of love we sing, of *** we jest,
Avoiding truths we keep suppressed.

Once a month, this sweet escape,
A ritual, a carefully shaped

Perception, a joy we share.
Six days until she will be there.

The wait, a burn, a silent plea.
To want so much, and never be

Allowed to reach, to hold, to claim,
The bittersweet and silent game.

I value her, this bond so true,
But oh, the ache of wanting you.

Do not beg the winter's tongue,  
for warmth in frost was never sung.  
A cracked earth holds no verdant plea, nor blooms arise from lifeless sea.  

To stone, no pulse will ever tether,  
where silence binds like stormless weather.  

Seek not love where love wonot dwell, for hearts of stone have naught to tell.

Sound the horn between our ribs,
let the skin split like banners in wind.
Your mouth is a blade, my tongue a spear, and every kiss is a clash of steel.

We charge, not across fields, but across sheets, drums pounding in our veins, armor shed, shields burned.

My hands grip your hips like soldiers clenching their last flag. I will not surrender.

Your nails carve into my back,
war-paint of blood and salt,
a map of victories.

We shout without words, a battle cry rising from throat to spine, breaking the silence like fire breaks night.
Every ****** a cannon,
every gasp a trumpet,
every cry a sword raised to the heavens.

And when we fall spent, conquered, breathless on the ground of each other’s chests, the war is not over.
It only waits, ready to rise again at the first whisper of your lips.

We grow not by the ticking hand,  
But by the weight of hearts unmanned.  

Each loss, a root beneath our feet,  
Each storm, the shaping of our heat.  

Maturity bears no time-bound chain,  
But sprouts through joy and tempered pain.  

A silent bloom where trials ignite,  
The soul grows wiser in their light.

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 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.

Compassion weaves where love may falter,  
A steady flame, no winds can alter.  
It holds the weight of sorrow's hue,  
A quiet strength, both deep and true.  

In tolerance, it finds its grace,  
In kindness, shapes the softest space.  
While love may burn and often fade,  
Compassion's roots are ever laid.

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 asked the donkey:
“O long-eared sage, how do you know the mark of a lie?”

He swayed his tail and said:
“O son of the witch, beware the tongue that swears too much.
For the oath is the cloak of the weak,
And the lie leans on it like a ******* on a crutch.
Truth needs no witness but itself;
It shines, and belief follows.”

I laughed:
“So, donkey, you are wiser than many who walk upright.”

The donkey brayed in laughter:
“Hahaha!
And that, my friend,
Is the very truth that enrages them most.”

Burdens break beneath excess untamed.  
Grace falters when pride is proclaimed.  
Truth bends where flattery spills wide.  
Hope blinds when caution steps aside.  

Walk narrow paths, where reason stays.  
A measured heart outlives its blaze.  
The whisper knows what the shout forgets
In balance rests life’s strongest bets.

A whisper bends where wisdom hides.  
The skies will split, the wind decides.  
The hoof shall strike where truth resides.  
And rivers glow in mirrored tides.  

The prophecy rides on shadowed beams,  
Its voice a shatter beneath the seams.  
Where donkeys chant in broken streams,  
Their bray ignites the sunlit dreams.

The rushing stream, it knows its bed,
The silent thought inside your head,
It needs no shout, no forceful plea,
Just patient steps for all to see.

The donkey grazed, then looked anew,
"The loudest boast is rarely true,
So listen close, and understand,
The quiet heart holds fertile land."

Dreams burn gold, then turn to ash.  
Life whispers lies in mornings’ light.  
Bright hopes fade under shadowed skies.  
Aching hearts learn the weight of night.  

Coins clang harsh in the hollow hand.  
Truth grits like sand between our teeth.  
Trade dreams yet, though dull they seem.  
This is life, begin, or let it die.

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.

They told me in the hospital,
with white walls echoing like a tomb,
"Your wife is dead."
I stood there, hollow,
my ears ringing with the absurdity of it.
I wanted to go home,
sit at her feet,
and tell her what happened
so she could tell me what to do
because that is how life worked:
I carried my burdens,
and she untied them with her hands.
She was my wife, yes,
but more than that
she was my mother when I faltered,
my friend when the night grew too heavy,
the compass I leaned on
when the road split into shadows.
Without her,
the air has no map.
The rooms in our house
stare back at me like strangers.
The bed is an endless field of absence.
Oh God,
why is it that women
are not like her anymore?
Why must her kind vanish
the kind who pour themselves out
until the world is softer,
the kind who hold you steady
when you don’t even know
you’re falling?
If love was a language,
she was its first word
and its last silence.
And now I am left,
stammering,
trying to spell my life
without her name.

Sweet begins the heart's embrace,  
Joyful chatter, a fleeting grace.  
Chewing truths, the zest will fade,  
Echoes linger where bonds were made.  

Tasteless whispers haunt the air,  
Once was vibrant, now laid bare.  
People’s sweetness, a transient art,  
Gone, yet sticks to the waiting heart.

Carve beauty from the rising dawn,  
Each moment glimmers, soon it is gone.  
Do not await another's spark,  
Your hands must light the coming dark.  

The days rush swift like streams that sing,  
And time is but a fragile wing.  
Seek joy, for it will not delay
This world is yours; make it your day.

I walk like smoke,
thinned out,
a shadow nobody notices.

Every word I speak
feels too loud,
like a spoon scraping metal,
and I see the wince in their eyes
before they hide it.

I laugh at the wrong time,
stay too long in the doorway,
trip over my own name
God, how tiring it must be
to endure my presence.

I used to think I mattered,
that someone would miss me
if I disappeared.
Now the silence answers for them,
and it is sharp.

I am a weight they do not ask to carry,
a stain they cannot scrub,
a voice that echoes only against
the hollow walls of my own chest.

Lost.
Unwanted.
The kind of forgotten
that feels like being erased
in real time.

If I am annoying,
then let me be forgotten quicker.
If I am forgotten,
then maybe the ache will quiet.

Until then,
I shrink,
I fade,
I turn my own heart inside out
and whisper apologies
to no one listening.

Do not poo-poo the ****, my friend,
it is nature’s truth from end to end.
A daily gift, a humble sign,
that all is working, all is fine.

Doctors may boast of pills and care,
but nothing speaks like what is down there.
A **** a day will keep them away,
a throne-room triumph, hip-hip hooray!

So lift your head, sit proud and true,
this sacred duty calls on you.
For in the flush, life’s proof does swoop:
behold the wisdom found in ****.

I reached for gold, sweet and bold,  
the air clutched back, refusal cold.  
Crumbs mocked my palm, dreams unmade, a bitter hunger the risk repaid.  

The feast was grand, only in thought,  
a lesson patience painfully taught.  
The biscuit fades, but risks persist,  
a ghostly allure I can't resist.

The rarest gem will guard your shine.  
The truest love will ease your ache.  
The steadfast friend will mend your heart. Beyond these bounds, let silence speak.  

Do not chase shadows, stay or part.  
Be firm in grace, or let it go.  
The certain heart shall never stray.  
The doubtful one is not your home.

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.

Stop and hold your breath, rewrite longing on my chest, dreams carved in stillness.

You, the ink, my final draft
a script where love writes itself.

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.

These days, I cannot stop writing
words fall like rain,
endless, wild, cleansing.

Writing is my hobby,
my healing,
my hallelujah.

Hooray for my wicked pen,
my faithful pad
together, they save me.

Thank you, poetry.
Thank you.

These words are for my grandchildren to read when I’m gone.
May they find in them a trace of who I was,
a glimpse of the battles I fought quietly,
the love I carried deeply,
and the truths I dared to speak.
If nothing else, let these words remind them:
I lived, I felt, and I left something behind that still breathes.

The shadow of death is me,
or maybe I’m its shadow.
The angel showed me light
then whispered, “go back.”
In hell’s name,
can someone tell me why?
“Even though I walk through the valley
of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil,
for You are with me;
Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.”
I trust in God
in His presence, in His protection.
I long for rest.
For salvation.
For peace
in me,
and in the heart
of this world
still crying
for f**king peace.

When you love, a strange thing starts,  
You wear new hearts, play different parts. A playful child, a sturdy friend,  
A comfort near, until the end.  

You laugh a laugh that is not yours,  
Explore new shores, unlock new doors. You see the world through borrowed eyes, Beneath new skies, full of surprise.

Though the captain falls to fate or flame,
the ship shall not yield, nor drown in shame.
For the crew, bound by oath and star,
shall steer her true, no matter how far.

Storms may howl and shadows creep,
but loyal hands the course shall keep.
And evermore, through night and scar,
they sail her home, led by the gods afar.

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.

Her voice, a river of steady flame,  
Eyes alight with purpose, untamed.  
Depth in silence, a boundless creed,  
Each word she breathes a living seed.  

A truth she holds, fierce and alive,  
Through storms of doubt, she’ll always strive.  
Passion, her compass, her soul’s demand,  
A world ignites beneath her hand.

They call her stripper here,
but in every city she wears another name
temptress, witch, sinner, saint.
Under the bruised red lights
she moved like smoke,
her fingers dragging over her own skin
as if summoning fire.
Men watched with hunger,
their eyes begging,
but the fool in me
was fixed on hers.
The law was carved into the walls:
watch, do not touch.
Yet she broke distance,
closing in,
her weight pressing on my lap,
perfume like poisoned roses.
She danced,
smiled
a lily of sin blooming in the dark.
Her eyes sparked like razors in the night,
cutting clean through me.
I whispered, hoarse,
“Your eyes are beautiful.”
Her lips bent into something sharp.
“Are you here to watch me tear myself open,
or here to drown in my eyes?”
I told her,
“Your eyes.
Through them, I see your soul.
Through them, I touch your heart.”
Her mouth brushed mine
a kiss like a knife,
soft and lethal.
Then she slipped away,
claiming the next fool.
And I sat there,
bleeding from a kiss
I would never forget.

My grandmother told me,
“Even the donkey learns
once bitten by the pit,
he walks the other way.”
Yet I, stubborn heart,
return each time,
to fall,
to bruise,
to call the hole my fate.

The crow perches on stone and calls it a summit;
the falcon rises, carrying the summit in its wings.