#philosophicalwriting
A kiss in the dark; no theology could train the lips
to speak the full scope of love — what faith teaches,
touch unlearns. For a man in the weeds — _tangled_,
unseen — is still something that grows, stretching
toward light he may never reach. Still beauty never
promised to be impressive.
Ready to fall; not for love, but from the weight
of being myself —this awkward custody of flesh
and thought. It's truly a case argued by the mind,
and tried by the heart.
Walls of a lung breathing in and out, taking in their
words, their dreams, their worth — as if loving meant
learning to breathe through someone else’s lungs.
But we may never know how far a love may go;
it’s always a shot in the dark — blind in faith, eyes
closed in trust, when lips meet and silence speaks for us.
Only after they part does the night exhale the truth:
was it worth the shot — or just the echo of our wanting?
Oct 22, 2025
Oct 22, 2025 at 2:40 PM UTC
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."
Mar 20, 2025
Mar 20, 2025 at 2:04 PM UTC