They argue in threads they barely read,
Just dopamine and capslocked tweets.
No questions asked, no space to try —
PEOPLE READ, NOT TO UNDERSTAND BUT TO REPLY.

here's one for life's pocket folder
we're not getting old
we're just getting older

They say we are free.
Free to bark, if no one listens.
Free to scribble, if no one prints.
Free to inhale, if it doesn’t cost too much.

This is not anthem.
This is not lament.
This is autopsy.

Let the ink blister the page
for those whose stories
were throttled before sunrise.
Let the silence rupture into
a thunderclap of what should have been...


Judas of the Womb

Her name was reduced to a whisper.
Her death, a technicality.

She died of sepsis? No!
She died of legislation—
the sanctified paralysis of law.

Izabela.
Thirty years haunted by patriarchy.
Twenty-two weeks into a doomed gestation.
One human life overwritten
by a cluster of cells wrapped in legalese.

“They’ll wait until it dies,” she wrote,
"Or I will."
She did.

The state shrugged.
Three men in coats clutched
their degrees like shields.
Guilty, but not too guilty.
Penalized, but not inconvenienced.

And somewhere behind a mahogany desk,
a BBC editor ticked the
"Do Not Disturb Poland" box.
Because truth, like radiation,
is best contained to domestic fallout.


The Jester Beheaded by Branding

He made them laugh.
He made them uncomfortable.
Then he made them look at themselves.
That was the mistake.

He survived presidents.
But not the quarterly earnings report.

The axe did not fall.
It slid.

No cancellation. Just de-prioritization.
No outrage. Just polite press releases
and quiet exits.

The revolution will not be televised.
It was tested poorly with key demographics.


Soft Guillotines

Not fire.
Just foam padding and soft lighting.

No jail.
Just "violated community guidelines."

No riot gear.
Just Terms of Service.

They won’t stop you.
They’ll just stop broadcasting you.
They’ll hide you in the cellar of the algorithm,
behind un-skippable ads and SEO oblivion.

Your words are welcome—
as long as they sell soap.
Your outrage is valid—
if it fits in a drop-down menu.


The Global Echo

Warsaw, Manhattan, Manila, Paris.
Different names for the same soft boot.
The same velvet rope
around the neck
of the narrative.

They don’t ban the voices.
They dilute them.
Filter them.
Render them un-shareable,
un-searchable, un-fundable.

We live in a marketplace of ideas,
where truth competes
with cat videos and loses.


The Hollowing

When liberty must pass through a monetization filter,
it is not liberty.

When satire must first clear advertising compliance,
it is not satire.

When journalism fears its own clicks,
when editors redact themselves,
when profit margins call the morning meetings—
we are not in a democracy...

We are in a theme park of tolerated dissent.


The Sliver of Soil

But still—yes, still.

There are cracks in the concrete,
uncatalogued by surveillance,
unpolished by PR.

In those fractures, we gather.
Not to shout—but to build.
Not to trend—but to outlast.

We will forge our voices into chisels.
We will scratch our stories into steel.
We will be inconvenient.
Unprofitable.
Relentless.

So write what they won’t publish.
Speak what they won’t air.
Sing the verses
that sour their brand strategy.

And if we rise, not in hashtags,
But in habit—
not in virality, but in volume—
not in fury, but in fidelity—

then liberty may yet bloom.
Not fast.
Not free.
But truly ours.

isn't it enough that the wind
makes tumbles of the umbrellas

that dark staccato notes of rain
strike with such force that we pause
  
our busy little lives and marvel at it?
isn't it enough that the very next moment

the sky turns so impossibly blue
that we remember we all have wings?

its hard to fit in when you carry around pockets full of dreams
and if truth be known you have no wish to hammer yourself a round peg into a square hole. So you wait and search for the way out of a life you really do not belong in, its a secret you were born with, that refuses to be ignored....

I love when traffic flows like dreams –
said nobody ever, in rush hour screams.
And Mondays? A warm embrace.
Especially with deadlines breathing in your face.

“Please, more spam emails,” they plead with grace –
said nobody ever, not one trace.
I cherish the printer’s stubborn stall,
mid-report, mid-panic, down the hall.

Dishwater coffee, ambrosia divine –
said nobody ever, not even in line.
And meetings that could've been one line of text,
are truly the moments I cherish the next.

Oh joy, another group chat ping! –
said nobody ever, in the midst of a meeting.
There's nothing like socks lost in the wash,
or autocorrect turning love into squash.

But still we smile, and carry on,
with half-done mornings and the curtains drawn.
For life’s absurdities have a clever tether:
they’re oddly poetic - said nobody ever.

Sometimes, I hear a song
through someone
else’s headphones,
 too quiet to name
 but loud enough to feel.

I never ask what it is.
Letting it stay anonymous
 feels more honest.
It’s not mine.
I was just near it.

A violin behind a closed door
  in an apartment I’ll never enter.
Footsteps on an old wooden floor above me
  like a rhythm nobody meant to write.
A man humming in the metro
  not to perform,
  but because he’s alone
    and forgot the world has ears.

There are moments I’ve been completely undone
  by a melody I never fully heard.

Half of it lost to the train.
Half of it blurred by walls.
But something in me
  was tuned
    just right
      to catch what escaped.

We think music is what’s played.
But maybe it’s also what passes through
      when we weren’t looking.
      When we didn’t try to hold it.
      Or name it.
      Or own it.

I wake up to nothing
       but chirping birds
            and the drip of coffee
                   pouring down,
            and wonder how I feel
       about it all—
             and find it refreshing
       to know I see it
            like a fairy fountain,
       standing tall—
calling me to slip on shoes
    and even walk on air
         if that’s what I choose.