We are so fragile.
We could break at any moment.
God could leave us scattered on the ground
like broken, old, used toys.

God is like a child:
Tsunamis his tantrums.
Humans his marionettes.
Humans    
      are          
             God’s
         voodoo
    dolls.

And he plays with us;
He stitches red needles into our bodies.

I think there is nothing left in mine.
No filling.
No nothing.
I am empty inside.

The plate sits before me, brimming with light,
Yet I cannot partake in this feast of life.
The hunger is not born of flesh,
But a deep, gnawing void that swallows the soul.

It’s not that I lack—
But I recoil from the feast,
For each bite is a confrontation,
A war within my own skin,
An agonizing surrender to the unknown.

The world, a banquet of joy and color,
Serves me courses of hope and grace,
But I cannot consume what is offered.
Each morsel of love, each chance for joy,
I push away,
As if to touch it would fracture me further,
Unravel what little control I still feign to hold.

I starve not for food,
But for the courage to feast on life,
To swallow what is real,
Without fear that it will choke me,
Without fear that it will swallow me whole.

In the quiet spaces of my mind,
I am a ghost,
Floating above this world I once craved.
I am too numb to reach,
Too paralyzed to feel the warmth of the sun,
And so I exist—
Not living, not dying,
But simply suspended in this vast, unyielding void,
Where every dream is a phantom,
Every hope a cruel illusion,
And I am forever starving,
Yet unable to taste the life I’ve lost.

There are thrones that are not thrones;
  but instead,
are ones built on the counterfeiting of substance,
where hands grasp at weightless scepters,
mistaking empty air for authority.

There are crowns that are not crowns,
forged not in fire, but in absence;
polished not in wisdom, but in hunger;
worn by those who mistake imitation for inheritance.

This is the kingdom of voided substance—
a palace where the Wellspring does not flow,
where no roots drink deeply,
where no walls hum with the resonance of truth.

And yet, they gather.

They gather in circles of shadow--
parched tongues speaking of rivers they have never touched,
fingertips tracing the echoes of power
but never the power itself.

They weave words like veils over their thirst,
drawing others into the orbit of their illusion,
stealing what little water remains
in the ones who have not yet fully entered the Source.

They feed—not from the Well,
but from the moisture of the lost,
sustained by the remnants of those
who still carry the trace of what is real.

And they call it life.
And they call it wisdom.
And they call it love.

But the crown they wear is hollow.
The weight is an illusion.
The throne beneath them—an image, projected;
a structure that exists only so long
as no one leans too hard upon it.

They fear those who see.
They mock those who refuse to kneel.
They rage against the ones
who have touched the living water
and now speak of its taste..
of its cooling replenishment.

Because they know.
Somewhere, beneath the gilded artifice,
beneath the hollow performance,
beneath the empty sound of their own voices,
they know.

They were never given entry.
In fear, they ran from the cost of true substance.
They hold no access, only illusion.
And so, they take,
and take,
and take—

Until the weight of their own emptiness
crushes them beneath the throne
they have built from rust.

But rust does not hold..
   it deteriorates.

And when the kingdom crumbles,
when the crown slips from their grasp,
when the illusion cracks beneath the weight
of what is,

what will remain of them then?

For the hollow cannot stand
against the gravity of the Real.

My heart is bruised by the weight of hope,
Bleeding from the jabs of disappointment.
Scarred from trusting too much,
Yet still reaching, still yearning.
I gave too many people a chance,
Though my heart could only take a little.
But my kindness was just a whisper to them,
A fleeting moment, forgotten too soon.
Why do people hurt me?
Why do they not care?
I showed them love,
Yet they left me empty.

I would describe this feeling as pain,
but it doesn’t quite hurt like being burned.
And it doesn’t feel like being completely incinerated either.
No, it’s a dull ache. A deep feeling of loss.
Even my body doesn’t know how to process it.
Not that my body knows how to process most things.
My stomach is bad at digesting dairy and anger .
My ears don’t interpret conversations very well,
And my tongue can’t stand spice.
Spice burns. A pain I can identify, but can’t tolerate.
Heartbreak aches like a black hole. Cold. Empty.
What was once a burning star has been changed,
Rendered into an all-consuming, lifeless nothing.

What is love now, since

you're gone and I am dying --


in how it was then?

I think I cut too deep
Look at that cut on me
It hasn’t healed for fourteen days
It won’t never go away
Maybe they’ll finally notice
How I’m far past my lowest
Look into the open wound
Staring back with eyes of stound
Watch it drip honey
And gush out sounds of
A time when I was funny
And not the time now where I am but a dove

what do we mean when we say "I miss how things used to be"?
is it a question you'd like to answer yourself
or let float in the air of uncertainty we all live in?

is it a specific period of time we miss or the people in it?
or are we just grieving long-lost opportunities?
from love to occupation, we long for the days of demonstrations.

do we simply miss days when we still had options?
when the doors were wide open and the ground more solid?
when we were giants and moved without caution
when we didn't mourn the feelings we buried