I laid down my rifle
a long time ago.
No more shouting from trenches,
no more pride in the mud.

I surrendered.

But she didn’t.

She’s still bunkered up,
hiding behind sarcasm and silence,
armed with old pain
and the ghosts of nights I didn’t cause.

So I get hit.
Over and over.
Sharp words. Cold stares.
Misfired memories that land on my chest
like shrapnel.

But I’m not backing off.

I’m crawling through barbed wire made of what-ifs
and landmines labeled “don’t go there.”

And I’m close now.
Close enough to smell the old perfume
beneath the wine and wilted willpower.

Close enough
to throw in a grenade —
not of anger,
but of love.

Pull the pin.
Say the words.
Let it explode in light
instead of fire.

Let it end this war
with something softer
than surrender.

Peep show...

Love. Lust. Lost.

Love Lust Lost is not a show.

It's an immersive life theatre experience.

Come in.

Don't be a judge.

Support what might confuse you today.
For it may reveal truth tomorrow.

Love and lust are smoke.
Fumes rising from the fire of lost in sins.

But from smoke...

We sometimes see the light.

Truth without love becomes cruel.
Love without truth becomes enablement.

These Barbie influencers —
perfect plastic gods
with ***** sculpted by scalpels
and smiles so white
they could blind heaven.

Bodies built for the scroll.
Attitudes sharper than jawlines,
serving chaos and temptation
on filtered silver plates —
even Luzifer pauses and goes:
“Whoa… chill.”

But it’s all an act.
A scream wrapped in selfies.
They burn out like fireworks
faking light in already lit rooms.
Wearing so many fake-real-fake masks
they forgot the shape of their own face.

Nose fixed. Lips pumped.
Ears clipped.
Soul?
Untraceable.

And the crowd cheers.
“Freedom!”
While they’re chained
to trends and trauma
in silicone smiles.

Think, world.
Men, women, children with filters in their dreams —
if you stripped the mask,
the edits,
the contour,
the surgeon’s signature…

not even a troll
would want you
for soup.

Three blind men touched an elephant one day,
Each judged the animal in their own way.
One felt the leg and boldly cried,
“A rough, strong tree trunk, broad and wide!”

Another touched the tusk and cried,
“So smooth and sharp from every side!”
The third held the tail and gave a sigh,
“It’s thin and hairy, like rope swinging by.”

All three were right, yet all were blind,
None saw the whole with an open mind.
They argued loud, in anger and might...
Each defending only their slice of sight.

Isn’t it just like the world today?
Where people fight over what they pray?
Different names, but lessons the same,
Still we battle, Come on it's 2025!!
What a shame!!

They argue in threads they barely read,
Just dopamine and capslocked tweets.
No questions asked, no space to try —
PEOPLE READ, NOT TO UNDERSTAND BUT TO REPLY.

I had become acquainted
with unseeing eyes that still saw
too much. The cloister of a cocoon
meant to preserve all that remained

after the fire coursed through, crying.
The heaviness of stories I had clung to
like the hand of a parent who had
already slipped away and failed

to realize the child who saw beyond
the mirage, who hoped against hope
for even an artificial light to provide
warmth, to somehow be unveiled

as the source to begin with. Was I still
wandering into a borrowed tomb,
unable to discern these times, seasons
that ushered in the fragile new growth

when all I'd known was decay? Carry
that weight and leave the shell. Let
the molten fragments be found
by the next unsuspecting stranger

eagerly awaiting new rains. I had been
steeped too long in the deluge of death
only to shrink from the only true light
that could heal those deepest parts

of my being, of those stories I wished
weren't mine to hold. Still, the flicker illuminated all they had wanted to keep me from knowing all along.