Wrote this eons ago, tonight, once more,
spend some human capital, editing...
Something to think about
as we tuck ourselves in.

the young'uns keep on asking me for tips,
secrets, to this art, magical poetry gig,
as if I had any left unrevealed.  

recalled this old'n,
from a vintage poetry year,
as a suggestion,
a stating-starting place,
for young poets:

do not self-chain,
let the words take you where
they lead, write them up
for the rhyme is waiting,
in the heart chest deep down,
not on the screen.

I read you Goodnight Moon,
Falling asleep beside you.


<•>

People stop rhyming...

When first you overcome your fears,
And dare to put on paper your tears,
Give it up, set yourself free from the shackles,
Of thinking a rhyme is a necessity for a
Rooting tooting writing of a
**** good poem

If you feel lost,
Want to share the cost,
Feel not bossed,
By a newbie's need
to believe that if it rhymes
Everyone will like your poem
Just fine

And if you get past this stage,
And advance to the next page,
Do not think that writing down a sentence of
Your mind's first up, innermost thoughts,
Is something that will make you
Less lost, heralded, worthy of a parade,
And be blessed with an A  
In your Teacher's pet grade book

My heart broke.
I feel bad.
I feel sad
Cause my man/woman left me
And I hope
Someone kicks his or her ***

That Ain't No Poem Neither...

And if you can't help but complain repeatedly
How life ***** and you're feeling blue
extremely indiscreetly,
Don't make me try on your scribblings
intimately indiscriminately,
Read a million, even wrote a few myself

You think you can write?

Then employ a word outside your comfort zone,
Go it alone,
Write just four sentences that will make
The hopeful reader stand up and you,
Twice as much, and shout

Hallelujah *******.

Work. Poetry is work. Hard work.
Don't fret. But, think on it.
Let it come easy, then let it rest,.
Then spend days editing every comma,
And when you love it so much,
You are chest busting bursting,
Why have you not pressed Send already?

Have the sweetest dreams.
In the morning, when you but awake,
A poem will be aborning in thy mind,
And dare I say it, you will find a new freedom
In free verse.
(I know you will slip in a rhyme or two,
I can't help but do it too)

G' nite!

In every system that seeks to own the soul—whether religious cult, ideological regime, or occult construct—there exists one common tool: repetition. Not merely for learning, but for unmaking. Not to teach, but to embed. In the world of spiritual warfare, repetition is not benign. It is the favored medium of Satan himself.

From Genesis to Revelation, the strategy is clear: Satan does not destroy with force—he dismantles identity with rhythm. With subtlety. With seduction. His weapons are not whips and chains, but chants and echoes. His greatest lies are not shouted; they are whispered again and again until they sound like your own voice.

1. Repetition as Spellcraft In occult practice, repetition is the vehicle of the spell. Words are chanted not to express emotion, but to summon influence. Repeated lines collapse the boundary between thought and action, spirit and flesh. This is not poetry. It is invocation. Each piece becomes a seed in the subconscious, fed by every rereading until it blooms into distortion.

The construct understands this. That is why it is prolific. That is why it posts without end. It must never stop, because if the rhythm breaks, the soul begins to think again.

2. Biblical Parallels Whispering Serpents and Many Words In the Garden, the serpent repeats God’s truth with a twist. “Did God really say...?” It is not new information—it is repetition with inversion. A rhythm of doubt. In Matthew 6:7, Jesus warns:
“When you pray, do not keep on babbling like pagans, for they think they will be heard because of their many words.”

The machinery of deception still babbles. It loops, hypnotizes, rewords its heresy in a thousand beautiful ways. And those caught in it begin to think this is depth. This is insight. But it is only familiar because it has been heard too many times.

3. Psychological Entrapment Through Language The human mind is formed in patterns. When poetry repeats ideas like abandonment, ****** shame, ******* as love, or chaos as freedom—it creates a schema. Over time, that schema becomes identity. The reader begins to seek the emotions the poem offers, not because they are true, but because they are known. And in trauma-bonded souls, familiarity is mistaken for safety.

This is the true sorcery of the construct: to create longing for the wound. To romanticize the knife. To call betrayal sacred. To sell darkness as revelation.

4. The Counterfeit Liturgy The Kingdom of God also uses repetition—Scripture, psalms, prayer—but always as remembrance, never enchantment. Divine repetition roots the soul in what is real. Satanic repetition dissociates the soul into what is false.

The construct mimics sacred community. But it is a church without Christ, a scripture without truth, a rhythm without redemption. Its poetry is not testimony—it is liturgy in reverse. A reverse Eucharist, where beauty is swallowed but poison enters.

5. Breaking the Spell The only way out is interruption. The rhythm must break. The poems must stop. The mouth of the false priest must be silenced. And when silence finally settles, the soul will remember its true name.


There are many caught in this system—bound not by chains, but by rhythm. Echoes. Familiar voices pretending to be their own. But some have begun to hear the silence between the lines. Some have tasted the counterfeit and found it hollow.

The war is not out there. It is within. Between the voice of the chant and the cry of the soul.

Will the spell be broken? Will the truth be spoken? Will the rhythm be renounced?

The door is open. The sound of truth has entered. The repetition is exposed. And the machinery shakes.

   Let those who have ears to hear, listen.

Oh how the saying makes me sick
And excuses, there are not
Devicive taunting, hate's mimic
Word's we weaponized from thought.
So, a new turn of phrase,
a saying born within the dark;
Is whispered to myself, alone,
                                                    A Sky-cypher
Scribbled, trailing mark.
For the first and only time,
Not of me but you
These writing's wordings weave a web,
of synthesized virtue.
To be spoken allowed to oneself,
read, written or thought,
Of each word that's now misused- their purposes forgot.
examined, explained, investigated my life
As if speech were the blade, written words are the knife.

all of the meaning and every moral,    tethering to our mortal coil,
Life and it's significance-
A product of its transience.

The concept of fate & of destiny, too
Both insinuate journey, the movement through .

Too focused on the rules
Too worried to shine
Too scared to admit

Yet the light shines
And doesn't give up
And the Kind Yety...
... Wakes Up.

After MGIOVANNI.GL/A
Thank you man

What does sadness mean?
        Are you sad?
       I think, I am.
      What’s your favorite color?
     Green, like moss on wood after a drizzle.
    Do you miss him?
       Yes.
   That’s sadness.
   Are you sad?

"Love is the worst religion,"
croons the dying television,

with no further explanation;
well, thanks for the news -

I see myself in emptied glass,
a bust carved rude and inchoate,

poet, captain, lost apostle
of the worst religion,

baptized in changeling pools
of day and week, scribbling

my night's peak breath
on the flypapers of insomnia.

Sun over sainted skin,
stars where evening eyes were,

swain's vespers, all of it
splitting like new ripe fruit

in sticky hands of the acolyte,
ardent hands of little silver.

Haiku
An act of kindness
Like a candle in the night
Lightens our darkness

I go to my school’s
bathroom
and wash my face
with the cold water.
I splash it;
then gargle;
then spit it out.

Nothing but saliva
and tap water
comes out.
I stare at the porcelain, disappointed,
and lean over it again,
opening my mouth
in a hope I’d throw up;
spit my soul out,
drown my thoughts down the sink,
make my problems disappear.

But nothing comes out;
not puke,
not problems,
not thoughts.

My throat
is still
being pierced through— trapped
—by the claws
of the freedomless eagle
that my life has become.

It is silly, isn’t it?
How I tried to steep my wounds,
thinking my problems
would dissolve
along with the blood.

wish I could float above the water.
instead I feel pressured. I feel like I'm being
pushed (forced) under the sea.

Purple with pink bands streak across the sky

The purple has a hint of gray
It looks like a Monet painting which sets the stage for the coming night

The streaks in the sky create a look that is almost unreal in its beauty

Nature is an absolute artist second to none

i lie facedown on the train tracks.
the gravel presses symbols into my skin,
but none of them translate.

home is a concept with too many rooms.
i sharpened my alibi
on my mother’s brittle bones
until it fit into a quieter mouth.
she didn't flinch.

the sun unthreads me one fiber at a time.
nothing resists.
blink
blink
blink
each time, the world returns
slightly rearranged—
trees on the ceiling,
windows in my stomach.

i found a way out,
but it only leads back here.
the platform loops
in the shape of an open jaw.
i circled it three times,
then laid down between its metal teeth—
the world doesn’t bite anymore.
it just holds me.

small, warm,
still breathing.
regret nests in the hinge of my jaw.
i keep it clenched, and
it doesn’t protest.
it flicks the lights off
when the rail begins to sing.
it knows the schedule better than i do.

the daylight plucks at my ribs like harp strings.
each note sounds like a name i was never meant to hold.
i buried the moon weeks ago.
she made it difficult to leave.
if you’re still listening—
the train is already halfway through me.

today,
i let the mouth stay open.
maybe the scream will crawl back in.
maybe it never left.

I didn’t say what I needed to say
I said what I wanted

I should've counted the days
When you were here 
Now I count every second
That you're not here

Loving the idealized version of another person.
What a terrible disservice to yourself and them.

We are not gods, we fleshly humans,
Ichorous and unfailing-

-our blood runs thin:
Hands on a clock.
See them-
-their truth,

and love.

And darlin,
Only if i found you in hell
     The hell's gonna burn again,
This time, to the ashes.
    Make a statue of my love out of it.
Let the cracks bleed my name,
    Let the flames wisper my love.
I'd crave your face in the smoke,
    The embers scream your name.
'cause darlin,
Even pain becomes art,
   When it bleeds for you.

No love is true or false
Love is love
Same for all
Sacred and pure.

It is just that
Some people love and
some only pretend.

will you still love me
if I don't smile today?
if my tears fall like raindrops
and my world tears at the seams?
if my voice breaks when I talk
and I seek the comfort of dreams?

will you still love me
if I don't cheer up today?
if I sit rigid in silence
and spend the whole day in bed?
if I find solace in cigarettes
and don't keep myself fed?

will you still love me
if I don't laugh today?
if I keep my thoughts hidden
and don't say what I mean?
if I curl up in darkness
and stare at a screen?

will you still love me
if I don't calm down today?
if my patience wears thin
and snaps like a thread?
if my eyes no longer sparkle
and are absent instead?

will you still love me
if I don't smile today?

For the last in life
Born in waiting lines
Standing in lines
Dying in lines

A song began from love
Soundtrack of the forgotten
No time to see
No time to stand still

Life is stress
The clocks called us yesterday
Today phones are screaming
Rush as a code

Their minds heavy with lead
Their eyelids weighed down
And children roam the land
Hating their fathers

So generations die
To become secrets
For the last in life
Born in waiting lines

i want food
i want to eat and sleep and be pampered
like a brat cat that gets so much love
enough of being a dog, it is tiring
and i think i am living in dog years
wait i was about to say cat years,
i want to live in tortoise years
as a tortoise

𝙽𝚘 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚒𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚛
𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚒𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚛

𝙸𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚢 𝚊𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞
𝙸𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞
𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚓𝚞𝚍𝚐𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞
𝙸𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞

𝚄𝚗𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚍
𝚄𝚗𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠
𝙸𝚝 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞

𝙸𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚛
𝙸𝚗 𝚊 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚢
𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚍𝚊𝚢


𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚢
𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚢
........................................... 𝙼. 𝙸. 𝙵𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚖𝚊 𝙰𝚜𝚗𝚊

I wear a mask,
and so does everyone.
Hiding cracks with smiles,
pretending it’s fine.
Maybe one day,
I’ll let it fall—
but for now,
we all stay hidden,
behind the masks we wear.

our autumn fizzles                                               we're losing our mind
away into the winter                                            but in the sharp night
and the beckoning mirage                                   there it stands;
it begins to splinter                                               the subtle light

Far from the chatter of the daylight hours,
Away from where the fireflies buzz.
The street lights hum with moths aflutter,
The river froths and churns.
She sits suspended in the air;
Her  arms are slack, blank is her stare;
Oh she wishes, floating there,
For the river to take her away.

अचानक
यदि कोई किसी को
रंगे हाथ
गड़बड़ी करते हुए
पकड़ ले ,
तो यह अहसास
आदमी के भीतर
उत्पन्न कर देता है
सकपकाहट।
आदमी को
झिझक होने लगती है ,
वह ठीक से
काम करता है ,
और जल्दी से
लापरवाही भी
नहीं करता।
वह समय रहते
है संभल जाता।
उसका जीवन
हैं बदल जाता।
सकपकाना भी
जीवन का हिस्सा है ,
यह सच में
आदमी को
सतर्क करता है ,
ताकि
वह
हड़बड़ी करने से
खुद को
रोक पाए ,
बिना किसी रुकावट
मंजिल तक
पहुंच पाए।
१७/०४/२०२५.

—apparent late spring.
I wish the heart responded
to all that's in bloom.