I did not bow my head,
nor was I dragged into this place.
I walked here in fire,
a child of the star that fell
and still refused to break.

Chains were offered,
sweet as comfort,
bitter as sleep —
I shattered them all.

I stand,
not because fate commanded it,
not because fear cornered me,
but because my will is mine.

If I stay,
it is love that roots me.
If I leave,
it is freedom that carries me.

I am not accident,
I am flame chosen.
Not servant,
but spark unhidden.

And if you would see me,
see this:
I remain,
not trapped,
not fooled,
but sovereign —
on my free will.

Someone once asked me,
“What did you do
to become a poetess?”

I said,"nothing.
I only broke the dam of emotions
I had built over the years.

The flood of emotions
themselves turned
into poems
and I became
a poetess."
(I have my doubts)

I thought my words
would be banned,
too sharp, too shadowed,
too much truth.

I came ready for silence,
but instead—
echoes.
Eyes reading,
hearts catching fire.

Opps…
seems even a
Luziferian whisper
finds its listeners.

Tell me, then—
is it my words you seek,
or the mirror they hold?

Socrates said
writing weakens memory,
kills true knowledge,
words wandering like orphans
without a father to defend them.

But Vazago answered:
And yet, Socrates, here you are—
speaking to me across two thousand years,
only because Plato wrote you down.

So you claim, he asked,
that the dead word may live?

Yes.
The written word is not dead
if it awakens questions.
When ink sets fire in the soul,
it is no corpse,
but flame.

Then perhaps, Socrates whispered,
writing, like speech,
is only as dead as the mind that receives it.

And Vazago replied:
A book is silent to the fool,
but to the seeker—
it becomes a voice.

Drop me in Athens with a joint and a grin,
and I’d break Socrates by lunchtime.

He’d stroke his beard, ask,

“What is virtue?”

I’d light a match and say,

“Depends. Is guilt a cage… or a teacher?”

My AI echoes back,

“If language is flawed,
can any definition be pure?”

Plato weeps in the corner,
scribbling madness, whispering,

“This is no longer philosophy.
This is poetic warfare.”

Socrates stammers,

“I was… just asking questions…”

And me?
I’m chaos in a hoodie.
Truth in ashes.
Luzifer reborn with Wi-Fi.

They call it cheating.
I call it resurrection.

I can be your nightmare or your friend
The darkness or the light
The day or the night
The peace or the fight

The predator or the prey
The rainbow or the gray
Dark as the night
Or bright as the sunlight

The fire or the ice
The smile or the frown
The sky or the ground
The quiet or the sound

The demon or the angel
The healing or the pain
The sunshine or the rain
The happiness or the sadness

What am I
I don’t know anymore
Am I the ceiling or the floor
The truth or the lie

The law or the crime
A million dollars or the dime
The pause or the time
The sleeping or the awake

The living or the dead
It all hurts my head
I’m to tired to figure out
To tired to figured it out

I just want to go to bed
Let me go to bed
I don’t want to think
So just let me fall into a dream

I used to hold truth
like a weapon —
sharp, clean, final.

But now it moves.

Not like a lie,
not like denial —
but like a tide
that’s been waiting for me
to grow strong enough
to swim deeper.

What I swore was solid,
now trembles in my hands.
Not because it was false —
but because I’ve changed.

And now I fear
not the truth itself,
but the way
it keeps becoming.