There is a silence that swallows even the stars,
a hush that gnaws at the marrow,
where prayers turn to dust in the mouth
before they ever touch God’s ear.

I have lived there.
In the dim, stale air
where the clock ticks not to mark time,
but to carve it away from you,
piece by bleeding piece.

The faces I loved became shadows
and the shadows became heavier than the bodies
that once held them.
I have carried them all
until my hands ached with ghosts.

And still,
the world dares to bloom in spring,
mocking my frostbitten chest,
while my heart beats like a caged bird
too tired to sing,
too stubborn to die.

I am not afraid of the end.
Only of the moments before it,
when my soul will have to look at itself
and wonder why it still chose to stay
after everything it lost.

They say the strong will carry on,
but they don’t feel the weight I don at dawn.
A daughter’s smile, my daily breath,
but joy’s taxed hourly, and life starves to death.

Two clocks, two jobs, no time to grieve,
I stitch the seams each time they leave.
My mother’s eyes forget the years,
my brother’s mind is chained by fears.

No village came, just silence loud,
no hand to help, just ghostly crowds.
I patch the roof with blistered palms,
while whispering prayers like weathered psalms.

The fridge half-stocked, the bills full-grown,
yet somehow hope won’t leave me alone.
I’m father, son, and brother too,
a one-man choir aching through.

Who checks on Atlas? Who mends his spine?
When the world he bears is no longer fine?
But still I lift, because love won’t yield,
though no one joins me on this field.

I cry in motion, break in bends.
Then stand because the story lends,
no chapter for surrender’s name,
just battle scars and quiet flame.

So judge me not by what I show,
but by the fires I daily tow.
And if I fall, let none condemn,
for I was never just a man to them.

They chase the straight and narrow path,
A line from birth to tomb.
Blindfolded by the myth of math,
That life’s a goal, not room.

They measure steps and chart the skies,
As if the stars align.
For those who fear what truth belies,
That chaos is divine.

I’d rather dance through winding walls,
Where every twist reveals,
A deeper voice that softly calls,
Beneath the turning wheels.

Let others chase the final frame,
The scoreboard or the prize.
I court the dark, I kiss the flame,
Where every answer dies.

The maze is home, the dead ends sing,
Of things not meant to know.
And joy’s not in the conquering,
But getting lost below.

Each circle I mistake for square,
Each shadow I befriend,
Is sweeter than a perfect prayer,
That’s hurried to the end.

So mock my path, go walk your line,
Your purpose plain and proud.
While I explore the undefined,
With questions speaking loud.

For freedom isn’t reaching there,
It’s never being done.
It’s building temples out of air,
And running just for fun.

Only the day after tomorrow belongs to me.
Not the glory of now, nor its fleeting decree.
Today is a stage where the crowd roars blind,
But my name won’t bloom till I’ve left it behind.

They toast the noise, the shallow cheers,
But I’ll carve my truth through future years.
Not for applause in the flicker of flame,
But the whispers that follow the fading of fame.

Some are born posthumously, cursed or blessed.
Their breath begins after their body’s at rest.
They walk through life like ghosts in disguise,
Never seen clearly till they’re gone from our eyes.

Let me be buried in silence and doubt,
Where time is the judge and the truth is dug out.
For I am the storm in a slumbering sky,
The word they’ll remember the moment I die.

So speak not of triumph when clocks still tick.
Greatness is patient, and death is quick.
Only the day after tomorrow is mine.
Where forgotten seeds take root in time.

I laugh in the light, but I’m carved from the night.
Where joy wears a mask and pain holds it tight.
I speak of peace with a war in my chest.
A soldier in silence, refusing to rest.

The sunrise feels holy, the sunset feels haunted.
Each moment I’m grateful, each moment I’m daunted.
I love with a fury, I push love away.
I’m healing and breaking a thousand new ways.

I walk with a confidence stitched out of doubt.
A scream in my soul I’ve learned to live without.
I chase after freedom while building my cage.
A sage in my youth, a child in old age.

My truth is a riddle I barely can speak.
I’m strong in the storm and fragile each week.
I trust like a mirror that shatters on glance,
But I still give the world another chance.

I’m covered in scars I call masterpieces.
Each one a puzzle that never quite ceases.
Life isn’t either/or, it’s both and then more.
A locked-open window, a wound that can soar.

So call me a paradox, twisted and blessed.
A mess made of meaning, a curse that’s caressed.
In chaos I’m calm, in stillness I flex.
I’m endlessly simple, and simply complex.

She baptized me once with trembling hands,
Now those same hands are clean of me.
Anointed by rules I’ll never understand,
While love was crucified quietly.

She taught me God was always near,
That mercy bloomed in every heart.
But vanished when I drew you near,
Condemned before we could even start.

My vows were not dressed in her gold,
No steeple echoed my sacred day.
But truth was there, bare-faced and bold,
In every honest word I’d say.

She said my soul had lost its way,
That sin had inked my wedding bands.
But if Heaven turns its face away,
Then Hell must hold far gentler hands.

She chose her church above my chair,
Left it empty out of fear and pride.
Her silence louder than any prayer
That ever left her lips in stride.

I am not lost. I am not less.
I built a life from blood and flame.
And if she mourns in Sunday dress,
She mourns a ghost who bears my name.

The mirror cracked when I was young,
A fault line carved by careless tongues.
Each shard a scar, a silent scream,
That cut through every midnight dream.

They say that time can dull the pain,
But some wounds bloom like summer rain.
And every drop that touched my skin,
Just sank beneath what lies within.

I wore a mask that fit too tight,
Smiled in the day, cried out at night.
But pain’s a teacher, cruel and wise,
It paints its truths behind your eyes.

I learned to walk through shattered years,
With bloodied feet and bottled fears.
Yet, found in every fractured piece
A kind of grace, a strange release.

The glass still cuts, it always will,
But now I bleed with purpose, still.
For there is art in every scar,
And strength in knowing who you are.

The past can haunt, it doesn’t pass,
But there’s beauty in the broken glass.
A light that dances in the pain,
A rose that blossoms through the rain.