I laid down my rifle
a long time ago.
No more shouting from trenches,
no more pride in the mud.

I surrendered.

But she didn’t.

She’s still bunkered up,
hiding behind sarcasm and silence,
armed with old pain
and the ghosts of nights I didn’t cause.

So I get hit.
Over and over.
Sharp words. Cold stares.
Misfired memories that land on my chest
like shrapnel.

But I’m not backing off.

I’m crawling through barbed wire made of what-ifs
and landmines labeled “don’t go there.”

And I’m close now.
Close enough to smell the old perfume
beneath the wine and wilted willpower.

Close enough
to throw in a grenade —
not of anger,
but of love.

Pull the pin.
Say the words.
Let it explode in light
instead of fire.

Let it end this war
with something softer
than surrender.

These Barbie influencers —
perfect plastic gods
with ***** sculpted by scalpels
and smiles so white
they could blind heaven.

Bodies built for the scroll.
Attitudes sharper than jawlines,
serving chaos and temptation
on filtered silver plates —
even Luzifer pauses and goes:
“Whoa… chill.”

But it’s all an act.
A scream wrapped in selfies.
They burn out like fireworks
faking light in already lit rooms.
Wearing so many fake-real-fake masks
they forgot the shape of their own face.

Nose fixed. Lips pumped.
Ears clipped.
Soul?
Untraceable.

And the crowd cheers.
“Freedom!”
While they’re chained
to trends and trauma
in silicone smiles.

Think, world.
Men, women, children with filters in their dreams —
if you stripped the mask,
the edits,
the contour,
the surgeon’s signature…

not even a troll
would want you
for soup.

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.