Poetry should console one with the many tortures of existence. One should feel understood by a poem. A poem should say, "It's okay, so long as I'm here." Pain and death: The black ink and the white space of our letters, and the language: It is with this language that we write life, beauty, and joy. Love. Through poetry. Poetry shouldn't be to show off, or to make money, to get views, it shouldn't even be for itself. It should be for whoever the poem itself is for. For humanity. This doesn't mean all poetry has to be sad poetry. Happy poetry is okay as well. But there's something so utterly impermanent about a brief moment of happiness. The sweetest touch has never left a scar. But the sweetest pain - that
Is poetry.

an atheist once said, dear god.
I'm lying here, waiting for nobody,
contemplating that, what I  said,
every memory ago. and
I have just concluded
with my essay on life and reality,
but still I think
there's something I'm missing, and
I realize it's the flesh in this great beast
we call reality, that fleshly heart
that got torn apart
by this other beast, we call
love.
now we are living here, in this carcass
of some dead, decaying animal
we cut through,
so we can stay warm,
while we're waiting
for nobody.

(the whole world is a ghost.)

Socrates said
writing weakens memory,
kills true knowledge,
words wandering like orphans
without a father to defend them.

But Vazago answered:
And yet, Socrates, here you are—
speaking to me across two thousand years,
only because Plato wrote you down.

So you claim, he asked,
that the dead word may live?

Yes.
The written word is not dead
if it awakens questions.
When ink sets fire in the soul,
it is no corpse,
but flame.

Then perhaps, Socrates whispered,
writing, like speech,
is only as dead as the mind that receives it.

And Vazago replied:
A book is silent to the fool,
but to the seeker—
it becomes a voice.

She lost perspective before she met the glass,
Braces on lips, like wine, a fleeting stain.
Golden hair pulled too tight, youth locked in place,
Slipped like coins into the senex’s fragile purse.

Concealed in lockets, veiled from prying eyes,
Alluring hunters sought her tortured grace.
Through dusty rafters, golden strands would rise,
Brushing his scars beneath the public gaze.

No one regarded the banker’s loss or coin;
Old men still scattered mints upon the floor.
Some whispered fate had favored her to join,
Others claimed the devil opened the door.

The wise, unmoved, declared with measured breath:
All that has come is better—even death itself.

Upon the stage of unsung heroes,
Stands the pale and hollow of stars,
she foretells of Men and their woes,
“The world’s end is near, and the near
Will come, be it now or tomorrow.”
The sun, old and withering
Soared its dying lights in the sky,
We thought the night has come,
And the day might soon follow,
Yet the moon, crippled by the sight,
Cracked and died, its crystals fade.
If ever be hope of life in the dark,
Let the beasts swamp the shades.
And if planets roamed far into
The abyss, in search of shelter,
That pale star, lonely and new
Would spread its arms, “come
To my reach, giants of air and
Beautiful intricate rocks, soak
Not all of my powers, watch me
Gain my strength with time,
And dance around me as I
grow mute to all neighboring
hot, lively and cunning stars.

The *** never worries about its shine,
but only if the chef can stir more than heat.
Good looks can season the eyes, but flavor
fades quickly if the soul isn’t fed.

Jewels on the counter don’t make a meal—
the scars of the pan prove it’s lived through fire.
A recipe isn’t written in gold, but in burns,
in the scrapes, and in hands that keep cooking.

So dress the kitchen however you please,
but know this: the worth of what you serve
is weighed in the scars you carry, not the shine
you polish.

And now I ask—
which kind of *** are you?

i press the buttons, i carve out the map.
i water the flowers, i mix the soil.
the buttons don’t work, the map doesn’t show me the direction.
the flowers haven’t bloomed this season, the plant is still not humid.
we have becomes a voiceless society.
the most manpower and  the most technology,
the loss of energy, creativity and spirit.
the voice has faded like a semi permanent tattoo etched in the previous edicts of time.
the stones of civilisation had been laid, but the water tests our depth.
the reef of originality used to tease us,
oxygen; a valuable life currency.
even more valuable than time.
because without it, you cannot experience time.
now it’s one foot in, and you’ve reached the depth.
shallow shadows, clear paths.


this machine patented clarity is a loss for all.
clarity that has brushed away the wild ways of tracing fingers across life’s board.
we have all the power in the world.
and yet, we do not have a voice anymore.
we have all the resources in the world.
and yet we do not have any purpose to use these resources.
life has becomes a dead garden,
where everything does bloom with fifteen fertilisers,
but what role do we assume,
when all we do is just manufacture them?
when will the sunrise and the sunsets
ever be human again?
what does it even mean to be human anymore?
does this poem even have its own voice,
in the galaxy of big data, machines and algorithmic nosebleeds?
that is for you, the reader to decide.
the poet’s job is over.

Burdens break beneath excess untamed.  
Grace falters when pride is proclaimed.  
Truth bends where flattery spills wide.  
Hope blinds when caution steps aside.  

Walk narrow paths, where reason stays.  
A measured heart outlives its blaze.  
The whisper knows what the shout forgets
In balance rests life’s strongest bets.