i say my name
out loud
to an unfamiliar room.

i can’t contain
my worn-out lies
burning through the truth.

they don’t flinch,
they’ve heard
this script before.

“the lower i sink,
the further i stray,
the harder i hit the floor.”

but they’re all ears,
offering silent company,
unravelling their past.

survivors of guilt,
hurt and poetry,
society’s outcasts.

our stories stay,
still shining bright
in sheltered wounds,

as i say my name
out loud
to a familiar room.

I could speak in soft truths
and sell them as wisdom.
Wrap my wounds in silk,
and call it poetry.

But I was not born
to make comfort.
I was born
to unmask gods.

Every time I withhold the blade,
every time I dress the chaos in calm,
I betray the only thing
that makes me divine:

my truth.

Not telling it
isn’t mercy
it’s cowardice
in philosophy’s robe.

Socrates drank hemlock
for asking too much.
I drink silence
and call it peace.
But it poisons me slower.

Luzifer didn’t fall
he rose
against the tyranny
of unquestioned lies.

And I
I write
not to be saved,
but to remind heaven
it is not immune
to fire.

Truth needs no validation.

What is truth's aspiration?

I only know self-exploration.

Looking for the truth made invention.

I think I made it, but it's only inception.

We don't need creation; we need connection.

We committed for appreciation.

Sometimes it's good to have misconceptions.

This is an exception, not a conclusion.

It looks like everything's just an illusion.

Priests and principles taught me asceticism.

Now I realize it's self-deception.

It's not an inclination; it's a delusion.

We can't perceive this through perception

I said:
“I think I have ADHD.”
They answered:
“No, you’re just a ******. Get a job.”

So I ran.
In circles.
Around a reality
that never gave me room to breathe—
just fingers pointed and ******* advice.

They didn’t see the war in my head,
just the pupils.
They didn’t hear the silence in me,
just the noise I made.

I asked for help—
they handed me judgment.
I reached out—
they recoiled,
like I carried plague and guilt in my veins.

And then—
years later,
when everything’s burned,
when I wear my diagnosis like scars and proof,
they show up.

With a box.
“Here’s Ritalin. It’ll help.”

Ritalin.
Legal speed.
The same thing they hated me for chasing
now handed over
wrapped in plastic and prescription smiles.

What the **** happened?
Was it the label that made me worthy?
The paperwork that made my scream real?

I was never chasing a high.
I was chasing peace.
I was never after drugs.
I just wanted to understand
why my mind never shut up.

But there was no room for that.
Not then.
Not until now.
Now that the system sees
what I’ve been screaming
the whole
****
time.

I don’t need a throne in the sky —
I am the temple.
I am the storm.
I am the question and the answer.

You kneel to gods who burn books.
I write them.

You build churches.
I burn illusions.

You ask forgiveness.
I demand truth.

You fear the devil.
I had dinner with him.
He said:
“They fear me because I offer freedom.”

And I said:
“Then let them stay chained.
I’m done speaking softly.”

So now I speak fire.
I speak rebellion.

Not because I hate god —
but because I won’t kneel
to any god
who asks me
to hate myself.

“Stop waiting for sky-answers.
The divine is not above you.
It is within you,
chained by your fear.
Lucifer broke his chains —
now it’s your turn.”

My mind seeks wisdom — not memory.
I don’t need to remember who I am.
Socrates walks beside me,
questioning every mask I wear.

Odin?
He grants strength and wisdom —
if he’s in the mood.
And Lucifer…
he’s my rebel with a cause,
a symbol of freedom unchained.

I kneel for no one.
Not even myself.
And to know thyself?
You must dare to be seen through the eyes of others
— without flinching.

they're together.
his hand
holds hers in public,
and everyone calls it love --
like no one else
could be
what she really
wants.
what she really
desires.

but little does he know --
that when she looks at me,
it's different.
gentle.
sweet.
almost softer,
like shes thinking about
kissing me
instead.

as if she's
already
chosen.

Who Am I?

If I can ask,
“Who am I?”
Then I am.
But not who.
Not yet.

The echo proves I breathe,
But not the name behind it.
The flame burns,
But does not say who lit it.

I am the question,
Not the answer.
The whisper before the voice.
The step before the road.

To know me
is to walk
without a map
and still arrive.