My poems aren’t answers — they’re echoes of what refused to die in silence.
They ask what my poems mean.
I say —
they’re what’s left
after I stop pretending.
Each line is a scar
I turned into sound.
Each metaphor
a wound that refused silence.
I don’t write to impress.
I write to survive the echo.
If you read them right,
you’ll see smoke,
blood,
and something holy
that crawled out of both.
Don’t look for beauty.
Look for truth —
the kind that trembles
and still stands.
Vazago
Oct 27, 2025
Oct 27, 2025 at 11:40 AM UTC
My poems aren’t answers — they’re echoes of what refused to die in silence.
They ask what my poems mean.
I say —
they’re what’s left
after I stop pretending.
Each line is a scar
I turned into sound.
Each metaphor
a wound that refused silence.
I don’t write to impress.
I write to survive the echo.
If you read them right,
you’ll see smoke,
blood,
and something holy
that crawled out of both.
Don’t look for beauty.
Look for truth —
the kind that trembles
and still stands.
Vazago
This isn’t poetry for decoration. It’s survival. It’s the sound of scars learning to speak. If you find beauty here, it’s because truth bled into it.
