pronouncing beauty, eloquism i've dealt with,
a lit-up candle resembling a snowflake
in the middle of weary summer—
hearth, solitude, and soulmates

have particular habits,
like one i seldom right now:
never get my hair blow-dried
after having cut them down,
knowing i wouldn't go to those lengths again,
or see the styled version—
that's as real as your plains.

wouldn't be there the next day, would they,
when i wake up, a messy bedhead,
stars on my skin, nightmares stained in purpose—
guesses on that somewhere along the ride,
i accepted the chaotic messy half curls
and half waves of my dusted heathery heathens.

learn my language if you must:
private with a public intensity,
burning in paradoxes and flameproof identities.

there's multiple facets of how you live—
decisions, situations, ironies, as you will,
weaponize descent, set trademarked positions.

loathsome evil little creatures,
annoying in proof,
existing by mere chance—
i despise them all through.
but oh, do they deserve love?
perhaps, maybe they do—
from those who speak their words
and listen to them swoon.

deities settled atop the mountain of lies,
dancing in between the lines.
truth is a factor—
those eyes, they lie:
iridescent, accompanied with desires,
breathing vacuum, eating dust,
speaking their shares even as they shy.

spider webs curling upon oneself,
eight-legged creatures grinning at the fresh catch.
fakers faked their own fake selves,
hid secrets of the sacred mess in their chests.

i live for i.
give up, for you shall—
i've some offers to make.
but before, offering some tea—

oh, on the side,
would you like some scones dipped in earth, perhaps?

we come from the stars
that's what we were all taught
we're made of the same atoms

and what if i give color to these words?

we're not only former stars
we are also the sea, the paper ship, and the boat
we're following all the patterns
in the kaleidoscope of the world

but what if in us, as humans,
the content remains
and what changes is only the form

i am not afraid of dying
because when i die, i will finally come home

They said the stars were born of dust,
That life awoke by chance- not trust.
No hand to shape, no grand design,
Just atoms spinning, cold and blind.

They taught us all to chase the light,
To crown the mind, dethrone the night.
But stripped of soul, what did we find?
A clever beast. An empty mind.

No voice from heaven. No sacred law.
No seeing eye. No heart in awe.
Just bones that break. Just blood that dries.
And meaning lost beneath the skies.

Yet in the silence, something stays-
A whisper through our shadowed days:
"He sees you still, though no eye sees.
What you sow now returns to thee."

It is the line before the crime,
The pause, the weight, the edge of time-
The thought that sears, the fear, the flame:
There is a Judge- you’ll speak your name.

But cast that voice in silence out,
Replace it with the hunger’s shout,
And man will turn with sharpened claw,
To write his will as nature’s law.

He'll build machines, then break the sky,
And never once ask, "Tell me why?"
He'll sit on thrones of steel and fire,
With hollow heart and cold desire.

So science grows, but wisdom fades.
The lights shine bright, yet cast long shades.
And in their glare, we lose the thread-
Forget the living. Mourn the dead.

Let science serve, but not command.
Let knowledge walk, not seize the land.
For when the soul is left behind,
The mind becomes a cage, not mind.

So whisper still, O voice divine-
Be now our brake, our sacred line.
Not all is dust, not all in vain.
The truth remains: we rise again.

Contemporary madness -
Craving more - with no subtraction
    "In game?" - involve
    Participation - of the thought  
    Most mimic those who disconnected
    Most play as virgins - unaware
    Not daring to examine bearings
        Of social roles and biological demandings
        Of what is "Me" - not a direction - *****
        It teaches taking human role
        Humane is engineers laughter
        "It's sickening to see you choose an owe
        When you repeat same neural patterns"
        You peak plateau - a weary and indifferent
            Flaw - begs you to quit the brawl
            Unless you choose as part of the absurd
            A conscious action of self-talk
            With none of "I" from egoistic brothel
                At last to see the stupid joke
                With it they made a 'wear'
                Augustly awful is its fate
                So desperate to be the wearer

Have you ever wondered?
Have you ever become?
Who is a villain?

Sit down.
Look at the skies.
Look at the people.
What good is there?

Nothing but vanity.
I have lived, and I have died.
I hated, and I was hated.
For that I am.
I am what I became.

Good?
Nothing but lies.
No good exists in this world.
Only hate, love, betrayal
And worst of all: regret.
Nothing but misery.
Nothing but loss and sadness.

If you ask
Yes, I once embraced goodness.
But when I woke up
And let it go
They scorned me.
They hated me.
Why?
In their eyes, I was different.
I was a villain.
I did not bother.
I am that I am.

I once asked myself:
Is there really a god?
If there is one
Why, when I prayed,
When I begged
Did He not hear me?
Why did He not save me?

And yet...
Nothing.
The king laughs at the fool,
And here I am
Praying to nothing.
To a silence dressed as a god.

There is no god.
If there is
He watches you suffer.
He watches joy blemish.
Why worship a god who enjoys pain?
That is your god, not mine.
I will not bow to a devil.
My head is my dignity.

Curse me all you want.
Hate me for all I care
Let the world deny me.
Let god disown me.
Only one thing has stayed with me
My shadow.
A reflection.
My true self.
The darkness.
And through him
I am known.

Let me tell you a story:
A man who wanted everything,
But was given nothing.
And still he smiled.

Only he knew
What was killing him inside.
He smiled because no one else knew.
No one could comfort him.

The world didn’t appreciate him.
It pushed him to the edge.
The struggle wasn’t enough.
He tried to show he was happy.

People mistreated him,
Bullied him,
Poured salt into his wounds.
No one thought anymore.
No one ever asked:
What is it like to be the other guy?

He accepted it all.
He bathed in insults like a child in the rain.
But this world wasn't made for him.
If only he hadn't been born.
He kept going.
Yearning for love.
Praying for peace.
Dreaming of happiness.

But it was all a dream
Too good to be true.

If what the people wanted was change,
Then change they would get.
But to his surprise
They feared him.
The world finally noticed him.

Their scorn wavered.
They followed.
He led.
He was on top.
And they called him a villain.

They said, “You’ve changed.”
But it was the world that changed him.

Who is a villain?
I tried to be good.
But you made it vanity.
Now I behave like you
And you call me the monster?

I let it all slide.
But you made me this.
You created this.

Let me tell you something:
People love watching a hero fall.
They don’t hate you
They hate your truth.

Nobody noticed me until I changed.
Until I removed my mask.
The greatest enemy of a man
Is himself.

People don’t love you.
They want from you.
Become weak.
Rely on them
Watch them vanish.

Gone like air.

When you’re weak,
They reveal their true selves.
In your final hour
They forget you.
Just like they forgot me.

I have lived.
I have died.
And I have transformed.

All that remains
Is a broken heart.

If only a hero knew
What I’ve been through...
These people aren’t worth saving.
They were never meant for salvation.

Don’t speak like them.
To them you’re a freak.
It’s all a lost cause.
Vanity.
Vanity whispers...
And yet, you still die for them.

You’re not their hero.
You’re their entertainment.
They’ll strip your worth
Then toss you aside.

Mockery becomes their joy.
Hatred becomes their anthem.

The more I tried,
The more I cracked.
My self shattered
Reforged into something new.

A villain is not born.
They are made.

It’s not that I’m bad
It’s that people refuse to see
Who they truly are.

I didn’t want this.
I didn’t choose this.
But what choice did I have?

My greatest wish
Is for you to know.
To know what I’ve endured.
To cry.
To mourn what I became.

You left your savior in the flames.
And turned your back.

Maybe this is how God felt
Creating a world
That mocked Him.

He tried to call them home
But they were too far gone.
Maybe He was a good God,
After all.

Hero
When I’m gone,
Sing my deeds in song.

Let them decide
Hate me...
Or praise me.

If they sing of me
I’ll be at peace beyond the stars.
I shall sing in heaven.

But ask yourself
What have you done?
What have you made me do?

I’m not at fault.
You’re not either.
This is life.
And life
Is the greatest trial of all.

Hero
Design my coffin with beauty and emeralds.
For I shall depart on a journey.
Maybe you were meant for this world.

I shall fly to my God’s embrace.
But before I go
Let me look at the stars.
The starry night I’ve always admired.
The moon’s soft beam
It calms me.
It always does.

You’ve been my joy.
The beauty of your creation
I adored.
And I envied.

It is time.

I can finally leave
Without regret.
Maybe I wasn’t bad after all.
Maybe I was just...
Lost.

Hero,
Shall we meet again?
Maybe then, I will truly see you.

When the time comes...
Till we meet again.

Static hums in the pillow
then the groan of seams,
a wet thread snapping between ribs.
The wound’s slow syllable.

Sheets stiffen into shrouds,
crackling down the spine.
My pulse taps Morse:
"Which death wears its twin’s name?"

First the architect. Then the nail.
Gravity dissolves at the wrist.
The chandelier suspends its fall,
reassembling—each prism
a sob swallowed by its own light.

The banished return, trailing
burnt hair and tarnished silver.
The dead rise in their finest suits,
only to melt into origami.

Curator of almosts:
the kiss that drowned at the door,
the apology lodged in my windpipe.
Even remorse unwinds here,
plucking its feathers one by one.

Dawn presses its thumb
against the window.
I let it rot.

The truest country?
This room where the wallpaper
peels into a mouth of no one.

Sleep is not escape
just the needle’s eye
where memory pulls its thread.

Dare me to wake.
The night bends, but never breathes.

You are not a product,
nor is your work.
If you are to be consumed,
let it be by your own hunger
to be who you are.

The soul’s inaction
is the price we pay
for failing to nourish
our own blooming —
even beneath sunlight,
seeds remain,
never a garden.