The nineties sold us unity:
bright sitcoms,
Benetton colors,
commercials where everyone smiled
as though inequity had been resolved.

But the decade bled on screen—
a Black man beaten on asphalt,
a truck driver dragged from his cab,
bomb dust in Oklahoma,
children hunted in a school corridor.
Unity was the costume;
violence was the stage.

Then came a Black president.
For a moment,
the story looked complete.
"Post-racial," they said,
as though history had closed.

But the mask split.
Social media tore out the gatekeepers.
The hate that had been muted
found its tongue,
found its profit,
and screamed into the feed.

Division pays.
Unity does not.
Violence is systemic,
holistic,
from home to street to state.
Silence makes it whole.

The ethic remains:
If it is wrong, you stop it.
Otherwise the cycle turns,
profitable, endless,
calling itself America.

I do not mind being a villain in your story. Let the pages call me wicked, cruel, the darkness you fear.

For you are a clown in mine, juggling lies and hollow gestures, a spectacle that entertains no one but yourself.

I do not mind being a witch in your story either. Call me what you will, label me, mock me, paint me as the nightmare you dread.

For you are a puppet on a string in mine, dancing to your own foolishness while thinking the world bends to your whim.

Whatever you throw at me returns—tenfold, precise, inevitable. Whatever malice you craft in secret boomerangs straight back to you.

Do not curse at me. Do not spit your envy in my direction. Karma, that quiet and relentless force, will handle it.

I am patient. I am quiet. I am the eye of the storm you never see coming, the calm that hides the coming reckoning.

Your insults, your whispers, your envy—they are nothing but echoes in a cavern where I am the only presence that matters.

I do not need your approval. I do not need your applause. I am the story you cannot control, the narrative that refuses to bend beneath your lies.

I do not fight for recognition, nor for revenge. I fight for myself, for clarity, for the elegance of knowing who I am.

I smile quietly, the smirk of inevitability curling at the corners of my lips—not joy, not malice, but the knowledge that all will be revealed in time.

Your clownish antics amuse me. They teach me. They show me exactly what I refuse to be.

I watch. I measure. I allow your poison to linger, heavy in the air, before it returns to its sender, multiplied.

I am the shadow in the corners of your mind, the whisper behind your shoulder, the echo of your conscience you pretend not to hear.

You think you control fate? You think you can shape reality with your small hands? I move with a purpose you cannot see.

Do not curse me. Your spells are weak, your intent hollow. The universe bends to justice, not your malice.

Each curse you cast returns, multiplied, as if the heavens themselves are laughing at your hubris.

I am the calm before the storm, the smirk on lips that no one dares cross, the patient force that watches while the world collapses around fools.

I do not bend for comfort. I do not bow for approval. I do not soil my hands with the dirt of your envy.

I am the shadow that lingers long after the laughter has died, the quiet storm no one notices until it is too late.

You will continue to juggle your lies, but I have no hand in your tricks. I watch, calculating, waiting, knowing the weight of your deceit will fall.

I do not chase closure. I do not demand apology. I do not wait for recognition from those who will never understand me.

I am soft-spoken. I am still. I am deliberate. Every glance, every silence, every smirk is a choice, a lesson, a warning.

You can label me villain, demon, witch, misfit—whatever suits your fear. I embrace it. It is freedom, not condemnation.

For in your story, I am the nightmare you cannot escape. In mine, you are a farce, a folly, a reminder of how easily truth can be hidden beneath laughter.

You dance on stages built from arrogance, thinking the world applauds. I watch, silent, noting every stumble, every misstep.

I do not need to fight. I do not need to argue. I do not need to explain. My life, my path, my peace—they exist beyond your reach.

Your strings are tangled. Your puppetry fails. I do not pull them—you do, unknowingly, against yourself.

Let them whisper about me in fear or disgust; I am already beyond the reach of their petty judgments.

I am the storm that passes quietly, leaving ruin unnoticed until it is too late.

Your envy is a candle. I am the wind. You burn yourself while I watch, untouched.

I am patient. I am deliberate. I let your malice collect, weigh, and return to you exactly where it belongs.

I am soft-spoken, but my silence is a weapon. My calm is a force. My smirk is a reminder that every action comes with consequence.

I am the quiet inevitability, the reckoning you refused to see, the shadow that never leaves.

Call me villain, witch, misfit, storm—I do not mind. I am free. I am unshakable. I am untouchable.

You are the clown, the puppet, the fool, and yet you strut like a king, blind to the truths you cannot see.

I do not mind. Let the story paint me dark, let it whisper my name in fear. I am the calm, the storm, the shadow, and the smirk waiting at the edge of your world.

And in the end, every curse you cast, every malice you harbor, every string you pull—it finds its home, tenfold, in the story that is yours alone.

You move like a shadow, silent and sly, smiling while plotting behind my back, and yet you think your movements are invisible. You believe the smoke you leave behind can hide the fire within you, but I have learned to read the embers, to see the heat of deceit even in the faintest glimmer.

You think no one sees, but I see everything. I notice every flicker, every hesitation, every whispered plan meant to harm, meant to manipulate, meant to control. You think cunning is strength, but it is weakness when the prey becomes aware.

The Leviathan does not roar in open waters. It hides in the depths, coiled, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. And you, in all your arrogance, emulate it perfectly. You move with the patience of a predator, the coldness of a storm that no one can predict, yet you underestimate me.

You call yourself loyal. You call yourself trustworthy. I have seen the truth of that claim—every word you speak is a hook, every smile a net, every gesture a trap. You live in deception, and you breathe betrayal like air.

I have learned to watch. To read the currents of deceit. To anticipate the tide before it crashes. Your hands may be hidden, but the ripples of your actions are never subtle enough for me to ignore. You cannot sneak past me anymore.

Every relationship you poison, every trust you break, every bond you twist—it all becomes a map of your own darkness. And I keep it in my mind, cataloging, observing, learning, turning your chaos into my clarity.

You thrive in shadows, in moments when others are blind to your intentions. You think cleverness is a shield, but it only exposes you to those who truly see. And I see you. I have always seen you.

I will not be caught. I will not be baited. I will not stumble into the traps you lay so carelessly. Your charm cannot fool me; your false concern cannot move me; your lies are transparent to the eyes that know the depth of truth.

You inspire me, yes, but not with admiration. You inspire me to be stronger, smarter, colder where you are reckless, patient where you are impulsive, and unshakable where you believe your claws can touch me.

I watch your back, but you cannot watch mine. My edges are sharpened by experience, honed by betrayal, fortified by every lesson you unwittingly taught me. I have become the storm that cannot be predicted, the depth that swallows deception whole.

You think you are subtle, but the Leviathan leaves traces, and so do you. Every whisper, every glance, every small manipulation leaves a mark. I see them all, etched in the ripples of your presence.

You are venomous, yet I am immune. I have learned to smile while striking with precision in thought, not chaos. I have learned that patience and awareness can turn the hunter into the hunted in ways you cannot imagine.

You inspire me to create walls—not for isolation alone, but as monuments to the strength that grows in response to betrayal. Each brick is a memory of your deceit, a reminder of the power you cannot touch.

I will forgive silently. Yes. But forgiveness does not erase the memory of the knife you pressed to my spine, the shadow of your betrayal, the taste of your arrogance. I will forgive to survive, not to return.

I will move forward, leaving you to swim in your murky waters, tangled in your lies, suffocating in the chaos you cultivate. You thrive on destruction, but I have learned to thrive in spite of it.

You inspire me to love truth fiercely, to protect loyalty like treasure, to respect bonds where you only see opportunities for self-interest. Every time you break trust, I rebuild my fortress stronger than before.

I will not look back. I will not stumble over your shadows. I will not descend into your darkness. I will remain steady, unwavering, the calm that no storm can touch, the light that no shadow can hide.

You are the Leviathan in human skin, but I am the lighthouse. I illuminate paths you cannot see, warn those you wish to mislead, and endure the waves you create without faltering.

Every betrayal you commit sharpens my perception, fortifies my boundaries, strengthens my resolve. Every dagger you wield, every lie you spin, every smile that hides poison, becomes another lesson etched deep into my bones.

And above all, you inspire me to be nothing like you. To never be hollow. To never betray. To never let bitterness poison my soul. I am stronger. I am wiser. I am free. You may move in shadows, but I am the clarity that cannot be obscured.

madness masquerades
as mornings that come
and go

and dancing madly backwards
Pan plays his lute
down desolate streets
disappearing into the raging sun
of all possibilities.

the sad mornings that come and go, and

all possibilities considered

far from the haunted clocks
and cracking glass
margins shout
where walls never meet

in forgotten stillness.
so dance on silent ledges,

walk the high wire,
jump into the fire,

welcome madness passionately.

do something completely unexpected.

enjoy the imperfections,
kiss a stranger,
laugh when you should be crying,

madness is magic,
so strip down
naked as the wolf in the forest,
logic be ******,
howl along with the howling wind.

Master of all lies. A man who cannot walk his talk is a fool. Sweetheart, you wear deception like a crown, but it is cracked, tarnished, and heavy upon your head.

You preach that gossip brings no wealth, yet you lap at every whisper, every rumor, every shadowy tale, as if it were gold dust falling into your palms. And yet, what have you earned? Not riches, not glory. Just enemies. Just the bitter taste of contempt.

Ah, I suppose I must be important then. After all, you spend your days, your hours, your every waking second, collecting fabricated stories as if they were treasures. Stories with no proof, no merit, no weight—yet you hoard them like a miser clings to coins.

Meanwhile, I hold a reverse uno card. I play when the time is right. I collect receipts, evidence, proof—a ledger of truth that outlasts your smoke and mirrors. I sip my piña colada in the sun, watching as the foolishness of your efforts collapses into absurdity.

You speak of honor, yet your tongue drips poison. You say discretion is valuable, yet you scatter secrets as if sowing weeds. How quaint, that you believe your duplicity is cleverness. It is folly, pure and unadulterated.

Every lie you tell is a stitch in the shroud you will one day wear. Every whispered rumor is a brick in the coffin of your credibility. You may not see it now, lost in your small victories, but it waits, patient and inevitable.

You paid attention to me, and in that attention, you thought to craft control. You spread my story as if bending it could bend reality itself. But reality, darling, is not yours to shape. It bends only to truth—and you are far from it.

You call yourself shrewd, a master of strategy, yet you cannot see that your currency is contempt. Haters, enemies, the shadows of those you slandered—they are your true legacy. Not millions, but resentment. Not respect, but whispers behind your back.

Be wise in investing your time. Time is the only coin that cannot be reclaimed. And yet, you spend it lavishly, casting venom where it serves nothing but your ego. Sweetheart, did you ever consider that silence and dignity could yield more than gossip ever could?

Some people pay back respect and silence. Quiet, unassuming, steadfast. They move through life with integrity, and their restraint becomes their armor. And others? Others pay back karma. Slowly. Deliberately. Remorselessly.

Do you feel clever now, as your words coil through circles, twisting perceptions, stitching shadows into my name? Do you not feel the weight of the eyes you cannot see, the judgment you cannot escape?

Your lies are like smoke. They drift, they burn, they suffocate. And yet, when the wind shifts, when the truth rises, you are left coughing, choking, grasping for a foothold that does not exist.

You cannot walk your talk. You cannot own your words. You cannot contain the chaos you so freely unleash. A man who spreads venom while preaching virtue is no master—he is a jester, dancing on the graves of his own dignity.

Haters do not build empires. Shadows do not create legacies. Gossip does not enrich the soul, nor the mind, nor the life. You trade ephemeral attention for permanent disgrace, and call it cleverness.

Do you hear it? The whisper of karma, patient, deliberate, circling closer with every lie, every manipulation, every act of malice. You cannot flee it. You cannot bribe it. You cannot charm it. It waits.

Time invested in venom is time wasted. Energy spent on deception is energy stolen from creation, from love, from truth. And you, master of all lies, squander both recklessly. Meanwhile, I sip my piña colada, receipts in hand, reverse uno card ready, knowing exactly when to play.

Some will remember your cruelty in silence. Some will repay it without words, letting the weight of justice fall unnoticed until it is too late. Some will let the universe itself deliver its verdict, patiently, with precision.

Sweetheart, you gained haters, not millions. You gathered contempt, not respect. And one day, perhaps, you will realize the truth too late: gossip is a currency the soul cannot spend, a poison the heart cannot digest.

Be wise in investing your time. Some people pay back respect and silence; others pay back karma. You will find which is yours, eventually. And when that day comes, the mask you wear will crack, the shadow you cast will falter, and your lies will finally meet their reckoning.

Master of all lies. A man who cannot walk his talk is a fool. And fools, darling, always pay their debts. Meanwhile, I drink my piña colada, collect my proof, and laugh quietly—because time and truth are mine, and yours are already running out.

Perfection; great illusion.
Tell me is that where your demons dwell?
Are they in the garden, or the bottle,
Or some supreme personal hell?

Is flawlessness a virtue,
Or a distraction for the mind?
Is the appeal of the ideal
Truly a goal that’s so sublime?

Could a diamond be a paragon
Of what a body’s meant to be?
A texture unattainable,
Lacking relevance, ridiculously.

Do you seek the pure?
And can such a thing truly be real?
Beware the call of perfection,
For, in truth, there is no ideal.