Oh no,  
it happens every time.  

History repeats itself  
in so many variations,  
and we’re trying–

not to get lost  
in the lying.  

So many faces,  
vague yet familiar,  

it’s a race to the bottom,  
and we’re barely surviving.  

There’s a ghost  
in the town we used  
to romanticize–

the shadow of a demon  
we all tried to show  
the light.  

And he pointed  
to the mirror–

to show us how  
we’ve become  
a shadow of ourselves,  

a not-so-familiar guise  
we’ve grown accustomed to,  

just to give ourselves  
a glimpse  
of what it feels like  
to be fake happy.  

The past,  
present,  
and future  
are connected–

and it’s all  
going down  
unless we  
stop it  
from happening.  

We can put on  
a facade,  
but there are cracks  
in the foundation.  

History repeats itself,  
in many variations.  
I promise you–

we’re trying.

I was born already cracked,
a chalice of want spilling over.
Lust learned my name before I could speak it,
sin wore my face like a second skin.
I stood anyway, a statue made of nerve and lie, asking the air if consequence ever forgets.

Each breath is a dare to something holy,
each morning, another betrayal of night.
Is this karma, or just a looped confession?
Life keeps happening even when I stop meaning it.

Still alive, still gnawing at the
bone of tomorrow.
Would it matter if I died in this light?
The room would blink, but only once.
No regret, yet I’d crawl for
a second chance if
God left the door even slightly ajar.

Je t’enterre!
Je t’enterre!
Je t’enterre!

You were a cruel mirage,
a velvet chain I mistook for freedom.
I unshackle myself, only to realize
the cage was always me.

I made a decision— it lingers, enshrouding my mind; the crescent
of burning delight pulls at tonight’s darkness, as a flicker of light,
but also sliver of fright. My skin burns under its weight, while
wisdom crowns me in sleep; I dreamt of it all— and still, I woke
up uncertain.

On the hot tarmac of my dreams I’m nothing but gravel, caught
beneath the speed of passing lives. Small. Unnoticed. Wishing
to be seen— but wishing is a two-edged lie; a blade that glitters
hope yet cuts down to thought.

There’s a verse written in every tear, a scripture memorized by
sorrow, and the ocean inside me pours outward, salt and prayer,
a flood no shore can contain. And still, somehow, I give birth to
these shallow poems— though maybe shallow is just another way
to say they carry depth beneath the surface.

In the end, I return to the same place: the edge of decision, where
all of it—a dream, a wish, or a word— is nothing, until I choose.

And so I made a decision— a circle closing on itself, the beginning
rewritten, the same words, but now carved deeper in stone.

Among thousands of faces passing by Bearing the same name: human
But no longer knowing each other
This city grows tall
Touching the dark sky
We are busy building towers
Forgetting to build bridges And here,
I am still waiting for you At the same stop
Even though I know the train will no longer stop
On a worn track We have become strangers
Even to myself Who every morning pretends To be the version the world wants

I want to scream until my lungs give out,
collapse on the floor,
tear off this paper-thin smile
and spit out the lie of “romanticizing life.”

“It’s just you and me again,” I mutter,
staring at the mirror, a blank, colorless canvas.
Eyes hollow, face streaked with tears and a half-formed grin.
F*ck, you’re unbearable. I want to punch you so bad.

If I stop, is it release or just cowardice?
The thought drifts away like smoke.
I drag myself upright,
patching the cracks with silence,
fastening the mask once more.

The mirror waits,
its hollow twin whispering,
“If not you, then who?”
breath heavy, fingers trembling on the doorknob.
Feeding myself lies before stepping out.
“It’ll get better…” I promise myself
like a broken prayer
time and time
and time
again.

A gaze from out the darkness,
a shadow person of the Imaginary:
This is here; this is now.

I don't like people, they scare me. . .
too much. They're shadow people
of the Imaginary, given freewill.

I could see the shadows by myself,
And they can't see me; but these people
Their eyes are imbued with scrutiny,

I know I can't see it, but I know it's there
By their seeing me. Are you blind?

And maybe the world doesn't care about me,
But this doesn't make me feel free.

It means the only one caring, is me.
And I'm the nothing at the heart of everything.

And if I'm the only one in the universe
Who does - that is a cosmic horror,

Because the universe is my cradle,
And I'm it.

how'd I end up at the edge
you said you'd never let me fall
then quickly changed your mind
you said you'd push me off

here's your ******* chance
why don't you go ahead
and do it?

these edges—
another flashback,
another ****-up,
a little messed up.
a bad person: me—
forcing my apologies,
a true comedian,
always performing.
but who's watching?

always peering over that edge
edges that wait
for you to push me off.
I don’t know if I’ve survived ****,
if edges still bleed
all over the side of my high-rise,
rising.

one step
off this edge
and you get your wish.

****

that’s like saying
sixty-degree water isn’t hot
just because it isn’t boiling,
and it isn’t cold either.

my body feels heavy
after
fifty-ton anchors
pulling my frozen limbs under.
and i don’t like the feeling.
and it’s so ******* cold
to breathe.

i had a thought today:
the world would go on
if i were gone.
no one would notice.
it was comforting—
no one would grieve.
no one.
but me.
it’s no fun, you know;
i would know.

nonsense,
breathed in too many chemicals,
droplets of poison,
in my mind.
people who know you
will be affected,
or at least, perhaps,
some of them,
whether you want to admit it or not.

well, i think
there’s a difference
between people knowing you
and loving you,
or perhaps knowing you
is a kind of love,
but it never is.

i thought
therapy could help me get over
my fear of death,
so I could—
well, you know...

death serves a sweet martini,
and I could use a drink,
’cause i can't see
past the past.

Oh, man,
it's
Happy Hour

I have returned all that I borrowed—
the dreams,the heat, the light.
I face a narrow,stark tomorrow,
and welcome the coming night.

I drew a line around my name,
a border with no gate.
Inside,the rules are not the same:
there is no love,no hate.

I wonder—
if you reached out your hand to me,
would it find anything?
Or pass through where I used to be,
a ghost on winter's wing?

a silent laugh—
an inside joke no one else can catch,
trying to take flight over the height of a dream.
but what is a dream if it only stings the eyes?
an eye sore, instead of wings to soar.

...I am a prisoner of flesh and skeleton,
fueled by passion, smuggling scars beneath
my skin; blood turned ammunition,
bones as empty shells clattering the floor.

...I am animal, and I am engine—
factory default, released into a world
obsessed with modifications.
we bolt wings like spoilers onto cars,
spoiled for choice, but never to lift—
only to weigh us down.
heavy disguises, dressed up as flight.

and still, we dream of air.
still, we hunger to rise.
such a cruel irony:
built for motion, yet forever
grounded.