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 2108° 
Raven Star
I wish poetry came to me
As easily as a fish to water.
I wish poetry came to me
When I was happy
Instead of when I'm sad.

But I'm not a fish,
And poetry is not water.
But I'm not happy.

So I pick a pen and grab a sheet,
And try to write
Beneath the stars and the sky.

And I write and write about your eyes.

And as I finish these lines,
I realise even thought it did not come
As easy as a fish to water,
I am happy.

And at the end of the day that is all that matters.
 1046° 
Draginja Knezi
i am

i am that one
and i am those two.
these three and four
that rock and roll
and roll the ball.

i ball.
i score.
i snore.

i’m on all four,
all five and all six.
i’m up at seven,
i’m up in heaven,
and i'm late to wait till eight.

i am the one
running in the sun.
i am a child
with a mind that went wild.
i am one of the kind.

i am the one
and i am another.
i am a mother,
her neighbor, his brother,
and that cat’s worst enemy’s best friend.

i am the happy end.
i am a hand to lend.

i am.



i am a dream.
touch me.
catch me.

i am a wind.
i blow.
feel me.
change me.

i am the cause,
the power,
a flower.

lust me.
trust me.

i am a bird
that you've never heard.
i am the sign,
a story,
a word.

think me.

i am a whale
for a while.
i am a star
not so far.
i am a tear
not that near.

swim in me.
i am love.
imagine me.
find me.
try me.

i am an ice cream.
i scream -
scream me.
see me.
i am an eye.
here's me.
be me.

i am.



i am on.
and i’m off
somewhere
over the rainbow
over the moon.

i’m now
i’m close
i’m soon.

i’m western bound
in the underground
near lost
and found.

in the promised land
and at land's end
and a dead end
with a friend
with umbrella in my hand.

in even socks
at eastern docks
outside of the box
around the clocks.

im now
and three minutes ahead
not bad
one block behind.

before
and beyond
and betwixt
and between
and be-gone.

and i'm gone.
and i’m on.

i am.
 1019° 
Agnes de Lods
I laid my body on the tall grass.
She wrapped me in a rustle of green.
I closed my eyes in the shadow of a tall pine,
curling up so the pain wouldn’t spill beyond my heart.

Consciousness sinks into nothingness.
I feel the particles of my “self”
breaking into a million molecules.
I flow through the grass and seep into the earth.

Now my body puts down roots,
nestling against the pine that weeps with resin.
My emotions pass through the trunk of the tree.

The thread of memories is a long earthworm,
crawling through the empty
corridors where once blood pulsed.
White bones remain still,
slowly dissolving into the vessel of eternal life:
Earth, water, air, lost particles of light,
and my longing for the final union.

Doubts hollow a chamber,
soft and warm – my new home.
When my dream ends,
I will dwell in it.

Now I am the pine.
My needles, bark, and resin
radiate invisible light
for this space, for this world.

Yes, I was once human.
 718° 
girlinflames
I don’t want to let you go.
Truth is,
I don’t want to send you away.
But I must.
 697° 
Nat Lipstadt
armed and dangerous, 20 oz. of hot hot coffee, tablet on lap,
sitting on the deck overlooking the bay, and once again,
unusual for me, I am touched by the sanctity of the serenity
pervading, assuaging, by waves just loud enough to sway to,
the off/on chatter of the early bird's convocation of the morning's
blessing, have survived another night to greet greatly the outlines
of loveliness in the all~of~surroundings, which hacks my brain,
for I am by forty years of habitation more accustomed to a rough and tumble city boy trader, screamer of:
buy/sell/straddle/strangle/crush/****/mercilessness, no quarter,

no mindfulness in me naturally, until nature robs my tools of
denial,  and I smell the sanctity of fresh sheets laid on bed, the
warmed blood, vein coursing, suggesting just listen, listen,
the hot shower water eradicating the prior day's sinfulness,
the highly valued sensations of sensational emptiness, and
words drifting from the surround movie theater of a vista beloved,
coming for to fill and fulfill this always~in~mourning soul by the
overhauling of a crisp, cleansing day break

I, familiar with notions of perpetuity, and at best, conceptual, though
my mind permits a drift to the thoughtfulness that this place, this moment, this performance art  of spectacular breathing of another
dawning day, after thousands upon thousand of its predecessors,
and the possibility, not remote, but not promised, to anyone, just may
occur at least once more, and one must learn contentment from but
that idea, and sip the cooling dregs of coffee, the sounds of human
interference, car door slamming, the heaving breathing of morning joggers, the wind rising, the white caps snapping, precursors and
signs that natural perfection is never permanent, always in transition,
and a whispery smile crosses my cheeks, as a silly thought invades,

nature is so very human~like and yet, immortal…

composed between 6:30 and 8:30 am this day
Wed Aug 20 twenty twenty-five
Silver Beach
I have so many secrets locked up,
behind yet a phantom wall,
never listened as I crawled
over to the vines hanging tall,
and an artist forever draws
the singular and not a changing
as I toss and itch & sigh
notes illustrating withdrawals
The sketching of a doomed artist
sitting up & was once creative,
cracked eggs spills the flaws
sickness hesitating dying claws
to fill the rumble of hunger pangs
becoming like a chorus sang....
Deathly guilt's over-haul....
 568° 
False Poets
Mirrorball - “the fabrication of our performance”

a life long struggle to accept who I am,
of course, lose, and lose again, and
the fabrication of our performance now
inherent in every excuse and mirrorball
revolving asking, no, laughing, at our
vanity, as we endeavor, enabled by the
paucity of ego, the neediness of weakness’s
to catch, keep, hold each single flickering
light spot in our open, slick palms forever

we fabricate our performance of daily living,
modifying our measurements to match output,
only a human cannot wake only to fall within
each daily tabulation without thinking, once:

I am a hero, worthy of acknowledgement, just
look at my hands! see how many spots of
light I can claim as mine! the mirrorball turns
and turns paying no mind to the worshipers
below, until some sorrowful fool confesses,
fools fail, fools fail, turning the dervish off,
the white flag of ego darkened, once more...


we are all false poets, false prophets, occasionally confessing



7:34 AM
Sat Jul 18
The Year of the Virus, Corona
thank you MG for the commission
 340° 
Amisha priya
Jab
Me
Jute
Me
Still
With
Me
Is
Jiffy
         - Amisha priya
 311° 
Busy Bee
The river still flows—
I always want to know more
After and before.
Life goes on before us and after us, letting us wander who we are
 288° 
badwords
It no longer fits.
Not because it’s wrong—
because there is
no longer
a shape for it.

It waits at the door
of a structure
that has sealed itself
to mystery.

No one silenced it.
No one feared it.
It was simply
not needed.

---

Not in fire.
Not in argument.
But through erosion
of context.

A slow recoding
of all signals
into currency,
and then
into noise.

It is not buried.
It is not archived.
It is
unrecognized.

You could hold it in your palm
and no one would call it a shape.
They would ask
what it is for.

And you would have no answer
they could use.

---

The system is not cruel.
It is
indifferent,
efficient,
alive in a way
that has moved past
texture.

It does not punish difference.
It dissolves it.

---

The ones who still carry it
do so improperly.
It cannot be shared
without being reshaped.
It cannot be translated
without being lost.

So they stop speaking.
Not out of bitterness—
out of futility.

Language becomes costume.
Gesture becomes content.
Feeling becomes
an old way
of being wrong.

They are not martyrs.
They are not rebels.
They are remainder.
Background error.

A trace.

---

Eventually,
the thought will be referenced
as a footnote to dysfunction.

Once, they dreamed in metaphor.

Once, they misused their time
to describe beauty
no one asked for.

The tone will be clinical.
A paragraph in the training module
on obsolete impulses.

---

No one will recover it.
Not because it was hidden,
but because no one is
looking
in that direction.

The shelf collapsed
years ago.
Its dust recycled
into something measurable.

If a trace remains,
it will be decorative—
a design choice
in a digital museum
of failed emotions.

A misread glyph.
A corrupted tag.
An unclickable file
in a format
no longer supported.

---

Still,
somewhere in the static,
a pulse misfires.

Not a message.
Not a warning.
Just the rhythm
of a shape
that refused
to dissolve.

It says nothing.
It means nothing.
But it does not
go away.
 275° 
Sean Maloney
The sadness remains
Like a code written in my brain
The brokenness engraved into my heart-
Body and Soul

It’s hard to replace constant contact
And impossible to recreate her warm embrace
But still
The void diminishes

It seems my broken heart found another
A friendship built through darkness
The distance doesn’t seem to matter
If anything-messages send faster

Life may be a rollercoaster
But I feel like I’m living
Yes Kevin-I’ll get in the toaster
But I won’t feel myself shrinking
 208° 
guy scutellaro
the night whispers the black water fall of ashes
that bloom into the sparrows of sorrow...


the sorrow sparrows are back again
sitting in the tangled woods of twisted trees.

their voices bouncing off love's walls.

the sorrow sparrows are leaning into me.
my sad eyes, dream of you brother.

I lean into the soft lit room
searching for love's quiet hours,
and sunlight flickering through willow trees.

"don't cry, darlin," my wife whispers.
 171° 
Jan Reest
love
sold away for a meager sum

love
that I don't keep for myself

love
that I bestow with bottomless abundance

love
that I deny myself

love
that finds me

love
that takes away
 138° 
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
All 8,100,000,000 Citizens of Earth will govern Earth, not 200 politicians and dictators. There will no longer be nations with artificial borders, only Earth. There will be no more wars. There will no longer be any weapons of any kind from handguns to hydrogen bombs. There will be no money. All Citizens of Earth will equally share the resources of Earth. Aggrandizement will be supplanted by love. All needs of every human being will be met equally. Air and water will be cleansed. No longer will any Citizen of Earth become a source of profit, as there will no longer be profiteering. No longer will there be discriminations of any kind. There will no longer be jails and prisons, only Love Centers where those hurting from lack of love will be loved until unconscious hate will be transformed into love of self, then love of all. And Earth, now on the precipice of self-destruction, will flower into Planet Peace.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS
 132° 
Immortality
The rain dances
on my skin
I pause
and it feels
enough.
I'm feeling soooo good!!!!
cuz sometimes the tiniest moments turn into the best memories ;)
and yeah.... love the monsoon <3
Insults do not hurt a woman who spends her time building walls—not fragile walls, not walls of fear, but walls forged from experience, patience, and iron resolve.

These walls are not meant to cage me; they are meant to shield me, to protect the spaces that are mine alone. To penetrate them requires more than words, more than empty threats, more than the shallow venom of a lapdog.

And you, honey… you are just that. A lapdog, kneeling at my mercy, begging for entrance you have neither earned nor deserved. You tremble in the shadow of my patience, and yet, you call it weakness.

Do not mistake my restraint for fragility. Do not assume that my silence is submission. I hear your whispers. I see your attempts. I feel your claws scratching at the gates, but you will not pass.

I do not welcome dog-biting attitudes, pawing, snapping insults, or claws of envy. I do not bend for theatrics. I do not bend for attention. My walls are high, my ground is firm, my gaze unflinching.

Every insult you lob at me, every mockery you think sharp, ricochets back to you, hollow and impotent. It is a noise in the wind, a shadow on stone. You have nothing to pierce me.

And yet, you persist. You think kneeling and whining, whining for recognition or forgiveness or entry, is cleverness. Sweetheart, cleverness is earned. Respect is earned. Not begged. Not begged from walls you cannot scale.

I have lived long enough to know the value of patience. I have fought long enough to know the power of restraint. And I have built long enough to know that those who try to tear walls down with words alone are already lost.

You do not frighten me. You do not tempt me. You do not matter beyond the amusement of observing your futile struggles. Your insults, like your ego, are a paper-thin veil over the hollowness you carry.

Every attempt to claw inside, every feeble growl of indignation, reminds me of the distance you must travel, the depth of strength you lack. I am not your playground. I am not your spectacle. I am not your conquest.

Do you feel clever when you bite, when you bark, when you think your words could wound? You mistake your venom for power. You mistake your envy for influence. You mistake your begging for strategy.

But walls do not bend for fools. Gates do not open for pawns. Respect is not purchased with groveling, nor loyalty won with empty snarls. And you, poor creature, have brought none of these.

Every hiss, every half-hearted barb, every shadow of a threat—insignificant. I sip my patience as you flounder. I count the steps of your climb, knowing full well that the summit is unreachable.

The strength of a woman is not in submission. It is not in rage alone. It is in knowing her ground, in holding her boundaries, in standing unbroken while others writhe in desire for access.

And I, standing behind walls built of foresight and courage, watch you tremble at the gates you were never meant to cross. You are not my equal. You are not my threat. You are merely noise in my ordered world.

Do you feel the sting of your own impotence? That even your insults, aimed with intent to harm, land as nothing but feathers against armor? That even your hunger, your desire to breach, is impotent against the fortresses of self?

You are here, begging, groveling, offering allegiance and venom alike. And yet, I remain unmoved, serene, untouchable in my domain. You are small. I am infinite.

Dog-biting attitudes have no place here. Insults are irrelevant. Your shadow cannot darken my sun. Your growls cannot crack my foundation. And your pleas cannot compel me to lower my gates.

I am the keeper of my own walls, the architect of my own strength, the sovereign of my own domain. And you, kneeling, begging, whining—you are merely a spectator, caught in the gravity of my power.

Insults do not hurt me. Venom does not sway me. Begging does not bend me. You are here, yet invisible. You are loud, yet unheard. And the irony is exquisite, the lesson inevitable: strength cannot be bargained with, walls cannot be breached by folly, and mercy is never owed.
 111° 
island poet
is like no other early morning, man reborn, in the delivery
room of sky blue, the offsetting water deeper bluish hue,
the trim-all-around of the mixed salad greens of the staff's
scrubs as they usher in unity,  with no imp-unity, the risks,
while the supervisory sky, disperses cumulus clouds in
peppercorn patterns of white chains, or big wide solitary
brushstrokes on a a ****** canvas, gettin' the feel in the
palm of the heft of brush, the viscosity of the paint, the day's
palette reflecting available colors in order to create a uni~cued
original of what has been painted an uncountable times before,
and before…

tho short weighted, was the sleep of the prior night's restful,
he awakes to the early morning light, the sounds of early
island rouse him, even, arouse him, for the August chill
foretells of the early onset of memory loss of the peculiarities
of this summered simmering, human warming and baking
and natural braking of the slowing of the heart rate, to better
accommodate, nature's hints and hidden reminiscences
of the true purpose of the summer's intervention upon our
collective and unique bottling, our individualized containers,
un~lidded, uncovered, eager for the fuel of sunrays replenish-
ing the length of our lives by the elixir of the summer

it is a chill 63 Fahrenheit at this time of day as we crossover
to the nigh day, from the cooling air conditions of dark,
the occasional helicopter intrudes upon the morning's calm,
the water placid, the geese honking regarding my watchful
rewarding presence, a slew, a bevy, of female vocalists, to
ease this transitory performance unfolding, and though one
feels the existential of his solitary singularity, as he thinks,
nay believes, he is the only one in attendance at this ritualized
emergence, he takes in the cool of, the heat of, the admixture
of both, the clashing integers of each, and he, fully invigorated,
goes silent, for once more, he has uncovered new combinations of
old words to accept and describe a new day's creation, miracle of miraculous, defying the odds of this ventures's success, his own continuance  on this sheltered but open all around island implanted tween two tines of land, as if all the surroundings were created just to protect this, wholly holy place…


7:00am
Silver Beach
Shelter Island
Aug 19 2025
 104° 
Lostling
I can't solve anything

Not my life, or theirs
I can't bring back the missing

Can't hold them as they cry
Can't do anything right
Can't say the right things

Even if you say I do
Cause I know
I know you'll never look at me
The way you look at him

I'm
Just
Backup
The second best
Option
It's not their fault

(Not very poetic sorry)
 97° 
Yonah Jeong
Joy
At night
as I sleep
a poetic thought rise
and with open eyes
I wait for morning to come
I wait.
 90° 
Denny
A thing of beauty

You’ll never fade away

I see your eyes
I know you see me

Like a ghost
You are everywhere.
 90° 
Grace E
The texture of the night
No longer feels foreign
For so long,
It was alien, peculiar
But, the fabric feels familiar now
Silky and cold to the touch
I have absorbed the darkness
Become the creature lurking in the shadows
No longer do I fear what lingers behind the veil
But have kissed what was hidden beneath
And have merged with my worst nightmares
The remains of me feeding the darkness
The melting of soul into the soil of sorrow
 84° 
Pho
The moon pours ink
into my lungs,
I wake
choking on stars.
 79° 
Addison
I will break the cycle
The cycle of pain,fear, and hatred
Created by my ancestors
I will not be one to yell at my kids
Not one to have hatred held within the walls of my household
Not one to scream at my kid with every little mistake
I will break the cycle of physiological torture, mental illness, and malignancy
I will break the cycle
So my child does not have to lock her doors and hide away in fear
So my child does not cry herself to sleep
And so my child most of all,
Does not end up like me
 78° 
B L Costello
Change is life,
You have to fight!
Fill out the forms…
You’ll be alright,
There is so much,
We just don’t see,
What we “hope” is a mystery,
Respect the loss,
Do not grieve,
We’re being watched,
I do believe,
And only God knows…
What “too soon we forget”,
Each time we light that cigarette,
Still…you complain,
“Life is so hard”,
Spoiled!
Your not even in charge!
And that makes you scared,
Relax,
Understand,
Every decision is in God’s hand
BLCostello©2025
 61° 
F Elliott

The prophets wore it,
woven of thorns and laughter..
the jeering crown,
the mark of those
who dared to name the truth.

Kierkegaard wore it,
penned as insane,
pushed to the margins
by voices too clever
to risk listening.

The fool’s crown
is given freely
to any who refuse silence,
to any who lift their voice
against the beast,
against the fortress,

  against the lie.

It weighs heavy;
not of gold
but of ridicule,
a diadem of mockery,
a garland of exile.

Yet it fits more honestly
than all the jeweled circlets
worn by the deceivers,

for it is fashioned
from truth spoken aloud.

If the crown is madness,
let it rest heavy.
For it is made of truth,

and truth is the only jewel
worth bearing.


In every age there are voices that attempt to confuse liberation with license, or ******* with freedom. Erich Fromm named this distortion with surgical precision:
the flight from freedom is not into responsibility but into its counterfeit—submission to external idols or the exaltation of an isolated, empty self. To have without being, to enthrone pathology over love, is the mark of an age that has lost sight of its own humanity.

Kierkegaard, long before, had already discerned this same danger. His warning was not abstract but painfully exact:
when the crowd forsakes truth, when reason itself is inverted, what should be called sickness is exalted as health, and the very house of care becomes an asylum of unreason.

It is here we remember his words: “People demand freedom of speech as a compensation for the freedom of thought which they seldom use. And when reason is banished from the asylum, madness passes for wisdom, and truth is left to cry in the wilderness.”

History brands its truth-tellers as fools, its prophets as madmen. Kierkegaard bore that crown. So did the prophets before him. To be mocked, dismissed, and pushed aside is the inheritance of all who dare speak truth against silence. This piece embraces the crown of madness—not as shame, but as the only crown worth wearing.

And if the crown feels unbearable, take heart.. others have worn it, others have staggered beneath its weight, and even in their anguish they saw it as the strange seal of truth. Kierkegaard himself, mocked and maligned, turned his scorn into a confession of holy madness. His words remind us what it means to bear such a crown…

"No, I won't leave the world--I'll enter a lunatic asylum and see if the profundity of insanity reveals to me the riddles of life. Idiot, why didn't I do that long ago, why has it taken me so long to understand what it means when the Indians honour the insane, step aside for them?
Yes, a lunatic asylum--don't you think I may end up there?"
~S.K.
.
 61° 
Skyla GM
Is never sufficient,
Always lacking
In its allocation.

Thoughts demand
Extension.
Lives ache
For replenishment.

But time
Is Scrooge-like—
Clutching its wealth,
Refusing
Generosity.
 61° 
Blue Sapphire
If the harsh words you spoke

could ever rebound,  

you would have known

how painful they are.
 60° 
badwords
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.
 58° 
Ria
22 midol
10 lexapro
Is that all it takes
Two bottles in my shaking hands
Singing the song of death
Each pill rattles
A slithering snake
Get me out of here
 56° 
ac
she’d burn to keep others warm
a heat so extreme it made her feel cold
there was no fire to keep hers ignited
she wasted her gasoline
on relationships that could never be
hoping
wondering
“when will someone strike a match for me?”
 55° 
Lillith
he's
answering
my questions
and
i am
blushing
walking around
like a
lovesick
girl
even
though
its
been
2
days
he
woke
up
early
just
to
talk
to
me
 54° 
Lizzie Bevis
There is a certain quiet serenity,
like a lake of deep tranquillity,
a beautiful moment of reflection
as I gaze into calm waters.

As the sweet birdsong
lulls my woes to sleep,
lifting my spirits high
giving way to my contented sigh.

Silencing all ambiguity,  
as it brings forth certainty
that this perfect peace  
should outlast time itself.

©️Lizzie Bevis
Sorry it has been a while, it has taken a few weeks to get myself together, but I am happy to be writing again.
 54° 
Graye
My words dig deep
And do they strike true.

My tongue is a weapon,
I don't always use

It can harm and main
Deeper than any physical wound.

My words can heal, harm...


Or haunt you.
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.
 51° 
Boma
Another 3am confession

I loved you once
I loved you twice

Three times' not the charm
 50° 
S R Mats
In the scene just before daybreak,
I see you there, smiling your thin smile.
Two stars nearby give you the look of a Picasso
Painted on the canvas of the night sky.
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