I’ve hidden sermons inside my casual breath.
I folded them tight, pushed them into sarcasm.
We laughed at the joke—you missed the ambiguity.
Some words don't quite hit until their form leaves a chasm.
Some things we call unstable, unkempt, or unfit—
Become the relics we look to once their time is gone.
No one hears the meaning of a prophet mid-scream,
But we quote them in the wake of their truth breaking dawn.
Some of us never even ask to be understood,
We can only hope to echo in someone’s afterthought.
Because truth isn't loud—it’s subtly dissonant—
So it's often mistaken, or ignored, left to rot.
I live like a myth half-believed by its maker.
I pulse in and out, like static through wires.
My silence burns louder than sermons of choirs,
In golden temples built upon sinful desires.
I left signals in inkblots; on letters I couldn't send.
And in the way that I’d pause before saying goodbye.
Hoping one day you’ll study those absences closely—
Hope they sing you my song when I can no longer try.
Because I once left my heart outside in the rain
To see if it rots, or if a new one would sprout.
Turns out, it likes to sing—but it only sings backwards,
And only to those who try blocking it out.
This left me so lost, that I swallowed a compass
Just to feel something real pointing at a real me.
But the needle kept swaying like my body always does.
Some directions have been tested, but some are still yet to be.
If you were to ask me what my words really mean,
I might say, “What makes you think they must mean anything?”
Because meaning is a parasite; it only lives when it’s fed—
And I’ve been deliberately starving it to death, beautifully.
There’s a hallway in me that will never lead out—
It just loops on itself to ensure you're always alone.
The paradox is fixed. You can’t change its course.
You’d rather tread it blind, but it demands being shown.
I once carved my bitter truths into the air.
Wouldn't see them, but you’d cough, And know they were there.
You’d call them smoke and you'd call me unstable.
You’d ignore the intention or might not even care.
And maybe I am filthy, misbegotten, and unstable.
But when my tremors stop, you might see my real frame.
And the glow that I buried might finally surface.
Then you might love me for the darkness you'd shamed.
You might quote this cleanly, rinse my words of the blood.
Say my signals were sent from the God in your head.
When you quote my sonnets, you might guild them in gold.
Oh, I promise—This all sounds much better when I’m dead.
