The noise of words spins our heads,
a blur in a world stripped of silence.
We climb mountains—jagged and steep,
we sink beneath the sea’s heavyweight,
but even there, no refuge,
just the desperate cry of our inner voice,
parched and pleading for the quiet we’ve lost.

In this world, hunger is a flaw,
abundance, the god we serve.
Where simple feelings fall out of fashion,
it’s all or nothing—nothing at all.
And the lucky ones?
They’re the blind, the deaf,
unaware of the chaos,
immune to the chase
for what’s hollow and fleeting.

We drown in a flood of excess,
where the loudest noise wins,
where desire is currency,
and silence, a rare and dying breed.

I choose to stay hungry,
untouched by the clamor of more,
but full—nourished by my silence.
Let the world rush,
let it howl and roar,
I’ll carve my space from the quiet,
where the only voice that lingers
is my own.

There’s a murmur underfoot—
a soft echo of something turning back,
where the air feels lighter,
as if freed from an unseen weight.
The days shift,
and the city stirs,
caught in its usual rhythm,
but something lingers—
a sense of pause, of waiting.

A wind rises,
not just to stir the leaves,
but to erase what was,
a golden herald to something colder,
something that clears the way
without revealing its purpose.

To begin again,
one must first unmake—
release what clings too tightly,
strip down to the simplest form,
until what’s left is just enough,
bare and ready for what comes next,
a quiet return to the start,
where the loop begins anew,
and what was lost
is found in the silence between.

I’ve always thought
stones held secrets—
pressed one to my ear
like a seashell, but quieter,
waiting for its sound
to rise through my fingers.

They’ve been here longer than us,
I figured,
so they must know
what we’ve forgotten.
“Paint your name on a rock,” I said once,
to a friend who laughed,
called me strange,
but still brushed his letters on stone,
tossing it in like a dare.

I followed with my own—
silent hope
wrapped around its smooth face,
wondering if the ocean would read it
or just swallow it whole.

Years later, I’m here again—
another stone,
another story.
“You still listening?”
someone asks.

I shrug,
smiling,
before the stone meets the waves.

“Maybe.
Or maybe it’s all in there
waiting for someone else
to find the message.”

Two anchors drag me down—
one guilt, the other hate.  
Walls press ******* either side:  
who I was,  
and who I’ll never be.

I can’t rise,  
nor can I fall.  
And then —  
a key grinds in the lock.  
Pounding fists hammer at the other door,  
each strike a bruise behind my eyes.  
I can’t breathe, can’t feel,  
just one thought:  
make it stop.

I try to speak —  
words rust in my throat,  
splintering on the taste of betrayals,  
but neither pain nor rage  
lets me through.

I used to savor paradoxes,  
the way life twists like a knife,  
but this?  
This is a battlefield,  
and I’m done fighting.  
Where’s the lever to pull,  
the edge to step off?  
I’d carve this day out clean,  
leave nothing but a scar.

And then—  
the key shifts again.  
The door doesn’t shut,  
doesn’t swing wide,  
just hangs there, ajar.  
The silence throbs,  
heavy and thick,  
waiting for the crack,  
enough to let me breathe.