Women can be men
Men can be women
People can be people
We didn’t write the feeling...

Stars can be supernovas
Meaning can be mending
And paintings can bend
And walls can return...

And shapes of architecture become earth

Lovers can be lovers
Leavers can believe us
Lights, camera, action, order, disorder
Dysphoria, euphoria
Academia, abracadabra
The moon, ***, sun and laughter

Instantaneousness

Osmosis

Fear, friction, distance, pure bliss
Bubble toting aqua world
Top this...

Freedom, collaboration
Emancipation, cognification
Celebration...

Millenniums of us saving, changing...
What we actually are eventually...

One surging sway of soul-light soldered angels
Growing out of a morphing abyss ocean

Wake up to a black screen...
A smooth spectrum of feeling.
An idea of life.
In dream dungeon decay...
Wake up again...
Sun. Sense. Obsession.
Blue sky beige.
Dreaded robot rule over your ruin.
Wake up again, let that black screen be there, separate and taken into your being, stronger.
The make up of your real monster, moving.
Gained.

Everyone always says that time heals wounds, but are wound ever really healed if they healed why do I still see the scars, why do I still feel the pain time does not heal wound it only buries it, but it will be dug up again.

i possess misfortune.

in many ways.

it feels like
all that occurs
is my fault,
the unfortunate events
of forgetting,
falling,
foolishness,
anger,
anxiety,
apprehension,
p­eople leaving,
people crying,
people dying --
is all my misfortune.

my fault.

in many ways.

my voice is so different
in hungarian —
not just in sound,
but in the way i write.

my native tongue
carries a heavy,
almost ceremonial weight:
dense metaphors,
long clauses,
layered imagery —
a gothic building
full of raw emotions
underneath.

in english, i’m leaner,
sharper;
i cut quicker
to the emotional base,
breaking lines
where the breath catches,
leaving more air
around the portrait.

my first voice,
the one i was born into,
is deeper,
lived-through,
as if my heart has found
a thousand ways
to walk the earth
and carry its sound.

maybe because my core
has always been the same,
holding onto stories observed;
only the tongue
has changed.

In silence, I carried a sin
passed down to me—
a curse unbroken,
paid for in full
just to be loved
by someone
who never truly belonged to anyone.

It’s eating me alive,
like a parasite
draining the last light from my bones.
It clings,
slowly killing me
for a mistake
I never made.

I feel like a lost lamb,
wandering the abyss,
blindfolded
by the sharp remorse
that was never mine to carry.

For a moment,
I exist in a world
that never noticed I was here—
like a forget-me-not,
wilted by the road,
meant to symbolize
a love that died
before it was remembered.

And all this guilt...
the pain...
the suffering...

I shall bear it—
until it carves blood from my soul,
and follows me
into the grave’s dark cradle.

I say, Ashe,
I mean, what else to say
As they **** my brothers and sisters
Feeling like my days are numbered
Just another young Black man
Knowing that things can go left
Easier than they are right
I read and watch
Tragedies, hardship, and inequalities that never seem to change
So, I flip the page and turn the channel
Sadly!
As I unwilling become desensitized
After every shot,
Every choke, every hit, every knock
Hoping that they won’t steal my grandson like they stole Emmett
****
So, I close my eyes in defeat
Trying not to picture the demise of the Black body
Dreaming that change will be swiftly

As I see this police brutality, it has become a reality
As many people are getting hit with these bullets of casualties
And the reality of this reality
And these bullets of casualties
Are
That it's really sad to me
To be
Push to the left
Of this pain of death
Like Trayvon Martin
As I saw a Black boy
With happiness and joy
As he went to the store
Not to get stereotyped
As dangerous and poor
And to be treated like a bore
An animal of sorts
And to be made into a deadly corpus
His body
That lay in the morgue
And his parents
That cried O'Lord
And their tears
That's filled with the death of their son
And the injustice of justice that goes undone
These tears
They weigh a ton
Like the bullet of a gun
That killed Trayvon Martin and Mike Brown
But the ones that shoot these guns
Are never convicted
But they’re the ones who get assisted and enlisted
And the Black boy—
He's the one who gets unlisted and convicted
When he's convicted
He's thrown and twisted
Into just another statistic
So, as I pray
Hoping this police brutality
Will goes away
One Day
As shells of the bullets
Hits me where I lay