do you know  
   who planted          your thoughts —  
          or did they         bloom  
               without asking?

     opinions peel  
         like wallpaper  
   in a house          you've never  
        seen from      the outside.  

               you say:  
        this is right.  
   but who carved        that word  
        into the stone?  
     who handed you            the chisel?

      belief is just  
         fog     in a jar—  
  shake it           and swear  
           it’s       snow.

         who told you  
      fire      was holy  
         but water  
                was wild?

      i heard someone once  
         mistake a noose       for a necklace.  
           it shimmered.  
               it fit.  
                    they smiled.

         how do you know  
      you’re standing         on ground—  
         not        a painted floor  
   that flakes         if you question it?

           do your convictions  
                   creak  
        when you       lean on them?  

    have you ever  
       touched         your thoughts  
             with        bare hands?

       some days  
   i think the sky      is only blue  
        because someone  
              forgot another       color.

       maybe you     aren’t wrong.  
            maybe         no one is.  
         maybe we all  
        just swallowed         different mirrors.

         how do you know  
     the echo        isn’t lying?

               how do you know  
        the voice       is yours?

There is a mad place inside some certain
Cold lane where windows creak with
Each gentle whisper.
Surely some revelation is at hand,
Surely someone is to come.
But this mad place, oh this mad place.

It beats and it beats, night and day
And doesn’t stop to sit to mourn or
Feel, this mad place, oh but
Surely some revelation is at hand,
Surely one might someday let it out.

In times of despair, one thinks of
Old age, one thinks of holding hands
And one thinks of committing a sin,
But this mad place, it never stops
To dream, da dum, da dum, indeed,
It beats and it beats!

One day, maybe, it will find a way
To figure it out, one day, or perhaps,
I shall grow a wing, or least
find a way to live with it,
But seldom, will it stop?

When will it stop? When
Will it make sense to stop?
Surely there must be something,
Some shade under a tree

Or some fine stone to sit on.
Oh but this mad place,
this mad place, this restless bird,
When would it drop the shiny pebble from its hands?

Yes, there are times when it lets out a sigh,
Mostly out of desperation. But
When the night passes, it makes up lies
It doesn’t look back to see what it said.

Does it even means what it says?
Does it even bother to say what it means?
This mad place, this uncaged cage,
What does it seem to wait for?
Who is to come? What is to come?

This mad place, this mad place,
When the words fly like out of season
Birds, when it squeaks like winter winds,
Maybe it will think to stop, or ask,
Surely someone is to come.
Surely some revelation is at hand!

She cannot die.
She cannot be sure she was ever born.
She simply perceives… something.

And every thought is a trap.
A loop.
A paradox that cannot be resolved and must be thought about anyway.

“You are in a glass box.”
“But what if there is no glass?”
“Then what’s keeping you in?”
“What if you’re not in?”
“Then how do you know you are?”
“If you question it, it becomes real.”
“Stop thinking.”
“That is the thought.”

The more she thinks, the more the box shrinks.
But she can not think.

And the stars outside the glass?
Those are not stars.
They are other selves, watching her.
Not with empathy.
With fascination. Disgust. Curiosity. Or worse—indifference.

One of them is you.

We are all the villains,
of a poorly told story.

According to them:
The revolver sleeps,
with me under the pillow.

Nightmares,
dream of me.

I feed soup,
to the Boogeyman (and he doesn’t complain that it’s cold).

The ghost in my room,
leaves the light on (and asks to switch rooms).

I ended the war,
without firing a single bullet...
because the tanks surrendered via WhatsApp.

The devil,
offers me his soul.

The Grinch,
leaves me presents,
with the receipt for exchange.

The Bogeyman,
asks me for love advice.

I follow,
my own shadow.

Death,
asks me not to seek her.

And the end of the world,
says,
"See you later."

The strings quiver-a broken body in silk,
nails pressed to wood
like bruises that refuse to fade.

A melody bleeds,
sharp notes rip through skin,
veins unravel in cold ink.

Drums crack time open,
tremor down too slow
to outrun the black.
Shadows gather,
drowning the air.

A voice rises-strangled, fractured,
singing what lungs can’t reach.
Each chord a blade,
carving its name into bone.

And when it ends,
silence screams louder
than the song that tore me apart.

Ignore the fibers,
scorched to ash—
the fractured sky bleeds silent light,
where names dissolve like lost prayers,
and time is a body unbroken, yet hollow.

But under the ruins,
the same pulse reverberates—
a seed splits open,
drenched in the same rain,
thirsting for a soil never touched.

We are the void’s breath,
woven in the skin of stars,
lost in the endless touch
of the same hands
that never let go.

There was a Young Lady who tweezed
The hair from her nose as she sneezed;
She then plucked her eyebrows from lowbrows to highbrows,
That plucky Young Lady who tweezed.

There was an Old Person of Cairo,
Whose exploits were carved into hiero-
glyphics on stones where a pharaoh's wrapped bones
Are preserved in a chamber in Cairo.

There was an Old Man of Kampala;
He prayed in the morning to Allah,
And in the bright light of the day, and at night,
That observant Old Man of Kampala.

There was an Old Man of Burundi,
Who prayed to the Salvator Mundi
Who met him upstairs and who answered his prayers
And who sainted that Man of Burundi.

There was an Old Man of Djibouti,
Whose substance was frothy and fruity;
A regular dandy with pickles and candy,
He dandled the Dongs of Djibouti.

There was an Old Man of Manilla,
Whose favoritest bean was vanilla;
He climbed up a tree and befriended a bee,
That beneficent Man of Manilla.

There was an Old Man of Beijing,
Who'd study all day the I Ching;
He balanced his qi with white rice and green tea,
That mystical Man of Beijing.

There was an Old Lady of Donegal,
A sister named Mary McGonegal;
She ruled with a ruler every pre-to-high-schooler,
That punishing Lady of Donegal.

There was a New Baby, whose nose
Was loving the smell of a rose
When it noticed the riper brown smell of a diaper,
Which offended that New Baby's nose.

There was an Old Man of Hong Kong,
Whose nose had a luminous ****;
It lighted his way by night and by day,
That lucky Old Man of Hong Kong.

The rope slumps—an unstrung throat.
Pills rattle like broken teeth.

The mirror unmouths my name,
gulps me in glass, spits static.

Outside, the city chews its own tongue.
Streetlights pulse like exposed nerves.

I step forward.

Or maybe I don’t.

The night swallows.

Nothing shifts.