I was once the calm before the storm,
Soft-spoken, eager to please.
I bent and bowed to every demand,
Hoping for some small reprieve.

I was the sun behind the clouds,
A gentle light to guide.
But you saw me as weak, as nothing at all—
Just someone you could bide.

You shaped me with your empty words,
Your lies, your games, your hate.
You laughed as I stumbled and fell,
Thinking I’d accept my fate.

I silenced my voice to soothe your pride,
I smiled through all your games.
I stitched my wounds with fragile hope,
Yet you fed them with your flames.

But storms don’t stay quiet forever,
And wounds don’t heal by chance.
I picked myself up from the wreck you made,
And now I rise, not dance.




I did not create the storm—
I simply became it.
I did not leave it all to chance,
Though that's what you named it.

You called me fragile, weak, a pawn,
A shadow beneath your rule.
But every whisper, every slight—
You fed the fire of a fool.

And now the fool stands cloaked in rage,
Her fury sharp and wild.
You played your games, you stacked your cards,
But you forgot—storms have a child.




You’ll taste the ruin you left behind,
Feel the wreckage you thought was mine.
Each word you spoke to tear me down
Will now burn through your spine.

I am the echo of all you’ve done,
The screams you tried to drown.
The wrecking wind, the searing rain—
I’ll bring it all crashing down.

You’ll hear my name in the howling winds,
Feel my wrath in the quake.
You stole my peace, you shattered my soul
Now the storm is wide awake.


No mercy will I leave in my path,
No corner safe to hide.
Each piece of your fragile world will fall—
I’ll rip it from inside.


Your lies will hang like broken glass,
Cutting through your pride.
And every tear you tried to deny,
Will flood you like the tide.

A reckoning is coming, dear,
You’ll beg for the pain to end.
But this isn’t justice—it’s destruction’s kiss,
A storm you cannot mend.

You’ll know the torment you inflicted,
Feel the cold blade of regret.
For every wound you carved in me,
I’ll leave your soul in debt.


Let your castles crumble, your masks dissolve,
Let chaos reign supreme.
I’ll unravel your world brick by brick
Your life will be my dream.

And when the storm has taken all,
When nothing of you remains,
You’ll finally see the power you gave
To the storm born of your games.

The ramshackled town falls quiet
to the artist’s eye in the retreating light.
The old houses will truce their aged lumber,
antiquity, for the invading dark beauty of his creation.

He lived here once as a boy, in the sadness of his angels,
held hostage (he thought), by the catechism of  church
and steeple, becoming  a refugee from sawdust and faith,
believing being an exile will open his eyes to the truth.

He had returned from his long sojourn in the East
after seeing and experiencing the freedom of the world,
determined to posses this tract, once green space,the mountain beyond— to surrender it all, to the truth he  knew.


The canvas submitted to his violence.  The brushes
knew again, the small wars between mind and nature.
The hunger, the hunger, the hunger of eternal creation  
that rises from the wanderlust in every artist and poet.    

He did not listen to their prayers for mercy.
He wailed in his starvation “Come! Come!”
The shades of town, mountain, flower, deer, came.
And, as he must, he destroyed and devoured it all.

We were born in the forest,
Living in the shadows,
Clinging to our loved ones
In the dark, under the trees.
Life was good then,
We had picked fruit from branches
And swung on them for joy.
And there was no greed
Or jealousy.
Over millions of years,
We lived in harmony,
Until the forest changed;
The garden shriveled and
Faded away as we watched.
Our lives were rearranged.
Some among us ventured out.
Giving in to our sin: curiosity.
We turned the grasslands
into pavement and stone
And we endured pain to walk
Down in the street, surrounded
by canyons of concrete and steel.
The powerful gather now
and hoard what was once shared.
Hors d’oeuvres are served,
Placating the hunger of the omnipotent,
that is never stated;
They will keep taking from us
As long as we allow it.
Even as they wallow in wealth,
They plot to plunder riches
and destroy the world,
scraping the land
and scouring the sea.
But one day, some loner, a rebel
May emerge from the shadows,
Dark-clad, filled with inchoate rage.
He will find like-minded souls
Who use the new machinations
To topple the oligarchs,
Empty their accounts
And give them to the world.
Chaos may follow,
But out of it a new humanity
Might arise.

a sense of desertion
combined with
a sense of purpose
is a lethal combination;
false, or true.

a gust of wind sweeping through
an abandoned campfire,
in the right direction
(𝘰𝘳 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨, 𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦)
will take down the
entire forest.

A field of grass, flowers peppered,
Dandelions flying, beauty treasured.
The world was blessed,
Blessed with wonders.
But not with fate,
Soon struck, the thunders.

It was their fault,
But does it matter?
They fought blindly,
Killing each other.
The world glowed brightly,
With the souls that default.

Their powers, too destructive.
Killing everyone along with enemies.
The reason, so dense,
Useless to die with valiance.
They are cruel, THEY ARE WORST.
They show love, pointless, due outburst.

Countless universes,
Countless destruction,
The outcome is same.
Even if they reset the verses,
Even if they save every person,
The. Outcome. Is. Same.
Always…
Always…
Please just STOP IT…

… There was a field, flowers peppered,
Dandelions flying, beauty treasured.
Now lies the blood and corpses
And the destruction they cause.
The world was blessed,
Now is in coldness and graved.

to the little bird on the side of the road
i’m sorry i crushed you to bits.
i thought you were just so pretty
that i held you in my soft palms
and crushed you
until my hands were stained with red.

to my friend with the little black curls
i’m sorry i gouged your eyes out.
you see, i thought that i could get lost in them
and since i wanted to remain focused
i dug my nails into those sockets
and ripped them out.

to myself, as i write this,
i’m sorry i tore my heart out.
it was beating far too fast
beating far too lovely
and i left a hole in my chest
because i love myself.

to a name i refuse to say ,
i’m sorry you hurt me.
i’m sorry i hurt you, i mean
you left me… untouched
but since i loved you, loved you so very much
i let you go.

trace your words up my neck, baby,
undress my wounds with your lips,
peel back the gauze that’s wrapped round
tight,
and become my own arterial tourniquet.

your presence amputates
a lifetime of hurt,
your touch the saw, the undertaker of extremities lost,
but not missed.

chopping the rot off clean,
you stitch worship into my jagged flesh,
ripped and pulled apart from years of battle, of begging,
of broken bones.
how many times did i perch upon my bed, knees up,
reckoning with fate?
how many times did my eyes flicker across your face,
gazing at a chance of absolution,
unknowingly?

to be close to the knife is my tragedy,
slip the blade through my ribs and i’ll pull in closer.
but some cuts are needed,
and my skin is your canvas,
though, you have never been a violent man.
it is your gentleness that unmakes.
my sweet unraveller, carve out the infestation with soft hands,
repeat the ritual until purity;
it is simple, just as i taught you:

gut the fish,
clean out the belly.