Do you see
The Light
I Said
DO you see
The the Light
yes
I Can't Hear You
YES
What's it Say

ER Hummm

Shall I tell you
Yes
It says
I say it says
To Enter the Light
You must Read between
All These LIES Or be thrown
Into the Pits of Hell
Of Your Own Ignorance
DO you See the Light

SILANCE

Stand before your mirror.
Look yourself in the eye.
Don’t blink.
Don’t flinch.

Ask the question
you fear the most.

If you dare to listen,
truth won’t lie.

They took the rebel,
with dirt on his feet
and fire in his voice,
and dressed him in silk,
floating
like some sainted mannequin
in Saint-Tropez.

He flipped tables —
now they kneel at golden ones.
He fed the poor —
now they feed on gold-plated prayers.
He walked with ****** and thieves —
now they polish marble for the pious.

He healed on the Sabbath
just to make a point.
Told the rich,
“Give it all away.”
He spat truth like lightning
and stood firm in storms.

But they couldn’t control that man.
So they made him God.
Not to lift him —
but to bury him in worship.
Because if he’s God,
you don’t have to follow —
just bow.

They crowned him
to silence him.
Sanitized the sweat,
bleached the blood,
branded the rebel
as royalty.

But I remember the man —
not the myth.
I see the dust,
the rage,
the truth that burned in his chest.

And I say:
bring back the fire.
Let him walk barefoot
into temples again.

You can hold me —
but only with open hands.

You can call me —
but only with a voice soft enough
to leave my name free in the wind.

Control once broke me.
Chains once fooled me.
But I’ve rebuilt my soul
with scorched truth
and stubborn fire.

So trap me again, if you must —
but only with love.
Only with warmth.
Only with the kind of touch
that frees
while holding tight.

Because I will never kneel
to anything less
than love.

I stood still,
not because I’m weak,
but because I thought
you needed somewhere safe
to swing your pain.

You said I was your punchingball —
and smiled,
as if the truth was something
I should be proud to carry.
As if bruises count as love
when they come from you.

But I bleed in silence,
and you don’t see the cuts
because they don’t show
on skin.

They show in
numb mornings,
tight throats,
quiet yeses.

You still think
I stay because I can’t leave.
But I stay
because I choose to.

Don’t make that choice
feel like a mistake.

The fan hums like a tired monk,
failing its one holy task:
to make me forget
the sun exists.

Yoghurt sweats beside lemon fizz,
a silent prayer in raspberry and bubbles,
while water waits —
blessed, bland, necessary.

The **** stares at me,
half judgment, half comfort.
Like,
“Yeah, it’s hot… but you chose Spain, didn’t you?”

My mouse sticks to my palm.
My spine is soup.
Even my thoughts wear sandals
and mutter in broken Spanish.

And still
the sun looks down —
not angry,
just… indifferent.

Because mercy
requires a soul.
And the sun?
It just burns.