#rawtruth
I went to the window
for a last puff of fresh air,
expecting nothing
but the quiet of night.
And there he was—
a man bent over our garbage,
phone light trembling in his hand
as he searched for food
or something like it.
Thirty meters.
Nothing more.
Close enough to touch a memory
I thought I’d buried.
Below him,
a monster-truck show packing up,
bright metal and roaring engines
pretending the world is loud.
Above him,
the cats didn’t even look twice—
just kept digging,
as if men in the dark
belong there.
And me?
I stood in the window,
smoke in my lungs,
salt in my eyes,
thinking:
I was him.
Once.
Not that far ago.
And something in me
wanted to go down,
to say “come inside,”
to give him warmth,
food,
a moment of being seen.
But I couldn’t.
It would hurt him.
And it would hurt me.
In that life,
kindness feels like a spotlight
you can’t bear.
So I stayed where I was,
puffing into the cold air,
crying quietly for a stranger
and for the ghost of myself
standing beside him.
A man in the garbage.
A man in the window.
Only luck,
and a few brutal choices,
separating the two.
And tonight,
for a breath,
they recognized each other.
Dec 8, 2025
Dec 8, 2025 at 9:41 PM UTC
Life begins mid-scene,
no script in my hands,
just a trembling voice
and the weight of the spotlight.
I stumble through lines
I never agreed to speak,
yet each word lands
as if carved in stone.
How cruel, this urgency—
to shape myself in seconds,
to wear a costume of flesh
without knowing the story.
Still, the stage keeps turning,
stars lit above my head,
and the only truth I carry:
every flaw is part of the play.
Aug 19, 2025
Aug 19, 2025 at 3:05 PM UTC
Stand before your mirror.
Look yourself in the eye.
Don’t blink.
Don’t flinch.
Ask the question
you fear the most.
If you dare to listen,
truth won’t lie.
Jul 18, 2025
Jul 18, 2025 at 5:24 AM UTC
Two ties to a screeched past —still scratching
at the crust of blessings, just praying the miracle
comes wrapped like a lottery win. I've got creative
thoughts on command — I’m a poet in general,
drafted into survival, writing lines inside a starving
chocolate box, where sweet words can’t keep you fed.
They say they’ll pray for you, but it all feels like a
soft-spoken nothing; a sugar packet of sympathy that
dissolves too quick. Good intentions catch my eye
from time to time, but I’ve learned to watch the fine
print, because love these days comes with a return policy.
They spread your “daily bread” with butter, but the knife
I return is always too blunt, so when someone messages
out the blue and I ask, “_Okay, what is it you want?_”
Rung by rung, I hang here, along with the clothesline
of everyone’s ***** laundry ready inside; to air it out.
Willing to play into the villain — but never mind that
every villain was once just human, walking around
with personal vendettas to air out.
But I remember a child — nuzzled into sleep, dreaming
of the nozzle, not a pacifier… reliving wars they never
asked to see, in a world that’s grown cold enough to
make you breathe in snow and spit out fire, burning
down the globe just to feel some heat.
We own so little, yet feel owed so much.
We carry too much, but hold on to nothing.
All that we know… is that even our knowing
has become a debt we never asked for.
Jul 11, 2025
Jul 11, 2025 at 5:56 AM UTC
They test your patience.
They hold your memories.
They fuel your strength.
— Parents, siblings, and friends...
Unbearable. Unforgettable. Unstoppable.
Jun 10, 2025
Jun 10, 2025 at 11:10 AM UTC