From ecstasy to anguish—
Now I fizzle out.
I have failed my task within,
That which I begun again with labouring chagrin;
And now it seems, evidently, I appear as apparition,
Walking the gentle tides of doubt.

Worth anything?
It’s killing me
Worth anything?
No, that can’t be.

My failures and mistakes
make up who I am.
So when you tell me that it’s okay
What am I supposed to say to that?

Do not come too close—God will cry.
A silent watcher in the endless sky.
A duty held for endless years,
Yet even gods can drown in tears.

To see it all and never change,
To watch, unmoved, through joy and pain.
What if, one day, He let it go?
A whisper lost beneath the snow.

Would He surrender? Would He break?
Would He abandon what’s at stake?
If even He could lose His mind,
Then what of us, so weak, so blind?

Folding thoughts like origami
fortress of the hectic army
a sea of fans cheering wildly
and nothing certain waning mildly.

A pile of notes and bloated files of writings,
the little terrors these forgotten worlds invite in.
A choir of friendly voices turning choices into stressful hourly junctions degrading your peace and eroding your mental function.

I write in lines the complex as the simple but between them find a blurred reflection, a swirling mirror in which I seek answers but find only an ever increasing number of questions.

bound by an oath you gave
before you even knew your own name,
held hostage to their righteousness,
consumed by the weight of their sins.
waiting for a punishment that never comes,
hoping for a timely release,
counting the days until you're summoned.
free at last,
free at last.
your only inheritance is fear,
bound by an oath you gave
before you could even speak.

I heard them—
low voices curling through the dark,
soft as breath, sharp as broken glass.
I wasn’t supposed to hear.
But I did.

My name—
slipped from their mouths like a secret too heavy,
like a blade drawn slow.
And suddenly,
the walls felt too close,
the air too thick,
the space between us, a battlefield.

I knew what this was.
I’d seen the signs.
The hush when I entered,
the careful glances,
the way the night swallowed their words whole.

I knew—
I knew.

So I lunged.
Didn’t hesitate, didn’t breathe,
just cut.
Words like wildfire,
rage like a flood,
my voice a wrecking ball crashing through their quiet.

And then—
stillness.

No fight.
No denial.
Just eyes wide, hands empty,
hearts bleeding from wounds they never saw coming.

A gift, they said.
A surprise, they said.
A moment of joy,
crushed beneath the weight of my fear.

And suddenly, I am the villain.
The shadow in the room.
The storm where there should have been sun.

I built a monster out of whispers,
let it crawl into my bones,
let it tell me the only story I wanted to hear.

And now, here I stand,
watching trust turn to dust,
watching love fade into silence,
watching them walk away—

because I never thought to ask
before I chose to burn.

Justified demise of another set of longing eyes,
is it that I'm comprised of a cacophony of longing lies
telling me I'm no good,
that no one should love me, how could they?
A roughly carved shape of a soul and the hole left by selfish doubt
a window to a world of reasons reasoning why I should be left out.

The continual fear that love is a trap designed to erode the calloused halls of frozen walls that carry reassuring tones that the cold is consistent,
that warmth is insistent on melting our walls and making survival an emotional chore when we could just avoid it all. And yet despite the comforting embrace of psychological hypothermia, we want more.

This fiend, he's black
but not in colour.

He tracks: not you
but your brothers' brother.

He wins and jeers
and sits and cheers
and loses and who says
strange words that confuses.

But for all his whim
and dashing trim
he's bound up, wound up,
he's ready for sin.

This skin he bears, drained and cold,
grows thin with wear, and frees his soul.

The Prantercalt lives inside
he's cosy, got a stellar ride,
but anger burning,
envy churning,
these the weapons at his side.
Don't let him out,
he'll run about,
and you'll find your mind'a turnin.

One day you made a choice
and felt that you'd done right
but now you fear
your eyes and ears
had twisted up the light.

Blinded now I see,
a timid child, the inner me.
I've crossed my roads
to come ashore
for more I wish I had,
more words and songs
to sing along
not memories I have.

I made a choice
I made it wrong
I'll sure be there again
long as I know
I shot for love
and think I made a friend.