Crowd noise — silent tones said under my breath, as my faith’s
HP is beeping so loud, that I’ve learned to ignore it. I’m semi-
crawled, half-walking toward a maze of unknowns, given just
enough truth to fold and tuck inside the mind.

But I guess it’s the advice to mind your step… especially when
overstepping your reach, as the hand that lives in poverty often
feels cut short — and life itself is even shorter. You exercise
your right to live, but the final test is only passed at your passing.
And right now, I’m growing into my own powers, but even I can
get overpowered by my pride — refracted slightly; border-jumping
into lives I was never really invited into. An alien, indeed.

See me hovering like a UFO above heads that don’t know me, but
still see me appear in their atmosphere. And I don’t fully enjoy this
alienation… and sometimes I wish I could just land and be human —
and to actually feel grounded on this Earth, so that the atmosphere
of my prayers don’t feel so tight. As the atmosphere of a prayer feels tighter when the pain of your struggles, wraps its hands around
your ribs — a tightened breath, and even tighter belief.

When it gets so hard to say thanks when you’re hurting, harder
to say Amen when you're unsure if the line still connects. As the
mind feels so crowded — a room full of voices, echoing opinions,
guilt, hope, and noise. And sometimes I wonder if the silence in
between prayers, becomes the answer to help me feel better with
it all.

I am lost — without a horizon. Tell me:
what is it like to live without a conscience?
Learning how to freefall in the golden patterns
of parachutes, each moment feels like sunrise
blooming in my eyes.

Dreams are like aged photographs, as we
live in their flat silence, posing in fragments,
dancing around opinions in wide, unguarded smiles.

But under a blasting sun, its rays hit like bullets
piercing ivy-orange through my chest — autumn-hued
wounds that hope to shimmer like the gleam of sunset.

So I gather what glows, from scattered light and broken
frames, trying to make warmth from splinters, and to name
it hope. Even in freefall, there’s beauty in how we land.

Fee-fi-fo-fum— as we weighed love by
an empty ounce, and paid it all back by this
sore pound. They yell: “come now or begone,”
and if you can’t produce the sum for what’s
been done; flee to fine some… or find none.

An anguish in fornication, and a touch that speaks,
but means nothing at all. No real stimulation—
just hunger in the guise of heat, and shame where
love was meant to meet. As some feather-dust their
guilt, pretending to have clean intentions. But we’ve
only used each other to air out our frustrations.

These old recycled themes; ******* from peers,
spilling from worn-out jeans, and spreading
dreams like genes, without real meaning in between
the fabric of time.

But tell me, do you still not see the giant problem?
Or are you too big for yourself, to fully measure up
to your own faults?

This is the prelude to a corny poem — not by genre, but by gesture.
The kind of moment you text someone who can never quite let go.
A character who, the more you explain yourself, builds up their
anger, like Lego — stacked tight, no gaps. Great, now you're blocked!
It’s the same game; they say they’re breaking down like Tetris,
but you’re the last crooked piece, a corner away from clarity, from
giving out a proper response, but you're stuck at a stop sign called
Writer’s Block.

(Not to say I grew up on the streets —but a soft smile is what I
use to pave the way of finding peace.) And whether this turns into
a path toward a kiss all depends how well you’ve cemented your
foundations, for your intentions to come out firm and concrete.
Not to sink into gossip, like spilled tea on the front steps of the
neighbour down the street. Because not every door you knock on
is one built for your peace. Not every neighbour you greet is a
neighbourhood of people open to giving you some peace.

Community grief isn’t all of our concerns to give… so call me rude,
but I don’t like to deal with everyone’s grief. So when I see you
approaching, I might walk in the other direction of this street.
Especially if I’ve already read all the signs but you chose to walk
into that direction. Now you stand in your wreckage, asking me
for directions, as if I’m still your GPS for healing.

Making me appear lost for words, stuck again at Writer’s Block —
where metaphors turn to mortar, and the silence right between us
starts stacking brick by brick. A friendship we were supposed to
build up as something worthwhile. But the foundation we built
it all on was something we never hoped for.

I watch nostalgic shops come down and malls rise up—
mauling the memories I once had of me growing up;
Old theatres turned into churches— looking fancy now,
as if church was always about that constant outward wow.
And I question if the practice echoes all that they preach—
the birth, the walk, the cross, the rise, and the reach
of Jesus—exactly what the Gospel of Luke is about—
But it's just loud; more about, what a good look is about.

An unfamiliar reflection grins from this house—
built up for the buzz, and chasing every new bounce.
Busy like a bee's buzz, grinding daily with mugs in hand,
all of us are chasing a good kind buzz in a restless land.
But I knew my youth had quietly slipped away
when I stopped sprinting to match its pace each day…

I just pause and recall how life once came wrapped—
the best gifts were in the present, untouched, perhaps.
And to admire it all like a lover I once held tight—
a fleeting embrace, now only found in a silent night.
She’s both a memory and a moment I meant—
constantly arriving early, and urging me to repent.

So I write, not for fame, but for legacy's seed—
literally a literary testimony – my children will read.
Not just someone who preached, loud and devout,
but one who lived it—so much they breathed it out.