There are rooms I do not enter, doors I welded shut with bone and sinew, memories pressed between the walls like dried insects, fragile, rotting, never quite dead.

The past does not sleep.

It moves beneath my skin, a rhythm of hands that never let go, voices that coil around my throat, laughter that sounds like breaking glass.

I walk through mirrors and find someone else staring back, eyes that don't belong to me, a mouth that speaks in riddles, a face I've tried to carve away.

But the past grows back like ivy, crawling, strangling, consuming.

There were nights that never ended, silent wars fought in locked rooms, secrets swallowed like shards of ice, cold, cutting, sinking deep.

I have learned to live as a whisper, to step lightly through the wreckage, to fold myself into the smallest spaces, as if disappearing could make me safe.

But echoes do not die. They linger, they gnaw, they fester. And in the quiet, when the world goes still, they find their way back home.

I have no name. No home. No past. Only the taste of vanished cities on my tongue, only the echo of voices that once knew me, now swallowed by time.

I walk like ruin, like something history has already buried. The wind does not carry me home. The earth does not know my weight. Even the stars "those cold, distant witnesses have turned their backs.

I have begged the night to remember me, whispered my name into the mouths of rivers, pressed my hands to the dirt like a prayer. But the world does not answer. The world does not care.

I am exile. I am absence. I am the silence after the storm, the footprints already fading, the shadow of a man no one waits for.

If I disappear tonight, let the wind scatter my bones like forgotten songs, let the rain wash my name into the sea, where even the lost become less than a memory, less than dust, less than a dream no one dared to keep.

I loved like an open wound left to rot,
bled myself empty,
but they drank and still called me nothing.
I reached out with trembling hands,
and they recoiled like I was filth.

I learned how to stay quiet,
how to shrink until I disappeared.
I watched them talk around me,
laugh past me,
exist as if I were never there.

I screamed into the hollow night,
my voice snapped in half,
but the world kept turning,
unbothered, untouched.

I tore myself open so they could see,
peeled my skin back,
let my ribs crack like dry branches.
They glanced inside,
saw the ruin,
and walked away.

I have become weightless,
a breath no one notices,
a ghost that never had a home.
A name that tastes like dust,
a memory no one ever made.

If I vanished tonight,
the world wouldn’t flinch.
The sky wouldn’t darken.
No hands would reach for me.
No eyes would search the empty streets.

And in the morning,
someone else would take my place.
And I would be nothing.
Nothing...

when my palm is on
the side of my face
and my fingers curl
at the back of my neck
I can't tell
which
feels which

I'm a rap addict,
I breathe beats,
I crave rhyme,
I like when the track,
Tastes like lemon lime,
How many kinds of music,
Keep making you come back?
Not enough,
Shout out to hip-hop,
Call out to rap.

Sometimes, I fear my depression will win
But then I pick up the pen
And all my problems disperse
I'm writing scriptures,
You'd think the lines
Were birthed in a church
But I'm cursed
I'm not sure if those words have worth
And that's a scary confession
But this isn't a verse
It's a frickin' therapy session
I'm finally learning my lesson
I'm finally calling for help
This is probably the most vulnerable
That I've ever felt.
Searching for a sign
We just play the cards that we're dealt
And yeah, I know that there are times
You wish you were someone else
But you see, inside my mind,
I think you're perfect as yourself
Enrichment of the soul
Is the highest form of wealth
So rest now, my love
All that stress is bad for your health

Your pretty pretty eyes,
Don’t look at me with them.
Your pretty pretty smile,
Goshhh stop it!!
The pretty pretty hair,
And the pretty pretty you,
But all I end up saying is oh cool.

I write (wrote) just for the thrill of it,
I write (wrote) because I liked it a little bit.

Verse was my drug of choice,
And ingesting rhyme is the reason for my raspy voice.

But I could stop whenever I wanted,
Now I won't stop because it pleases you.