#toxicity
Mama tells me,
to stay quiet, now.
Stop, and don't, she says.
Don't expose, the tangled roots,
of the family tree.
There's rot, in the wood,
and animal bones,
half-buried
amidst a shallow grave, of leaves.
Don't stir the weeds, and the roots,
with a sigh,
that is heavier,
than a heavy breath.
Don't speak, above a broken whisper.
Don't cry, into the gusting wind.
Don't tell, the snooty oaks
what the birds, in the eaves,
have already whistled, about.
And as I tear out the overgrowth,
in the flowerbeds, it hits me.
Dear Mama...
For as well, as you've loved me,
and as much as I do, admire you...
You taught me, to tend,
to thorny roses,
with bare,
and bleeding
hands.
You taught me to till, the soil,
in infertile grounds.
...You taught me not, to prune,
the volatile weeds,
That strangled, me...
so long,
as they stayed tall,
and pretty.
Mama, I am...
what have you seeded:
A poisonous little hellion...
a charming little hellebore:
that stays perky, and compliant
even while trampled,
and tread
...by careless shoes.
Apr 24
Apr 24, 2026 at 12:10 AM UTC
The rain only pours for a short while.
And so, the parched flower
enjoys its presence
to the utmost.
And in the tears of pollen,
a constant yearning
keeps her empty through the night.
By God’s will,
her roots are sufficiently filled—
the little smidgen needed to survive.
To live and breathe the liquid gold
becomes her purpose.
The evasive storm,
expected when she most blooms,
daren’t give poor marigold the time of day.
Left in the piercing sun, she is,
to dry and decay.
But, marigold is only one of many.
Her petals move seductively with the breeze,
Teasing, hoping to draw in the rain.
But his attention lies in the fields ahead,
her beauty matched
by roses and daffodils
Passion, and brightness.
Marigold is pretty,
but the others are heavenly.
She sees the rain’s favor,
His lust
Every
Single
Spring.
Though, even so,
she pursues his soft
pitter-patter
and nourishing touch,
wishing to—until the gracing wind
scatters her ashes across the sky.
Her toil, however, remains in vain,
for the rain can have no commitment.
No—she isn’t elegant enough.
And still, even if he truly desired
to remain and care
for such soft, drooping petals,
her deadly, putrid scent
and worn-out stem—
too long would he have lingered,
long enough for a flood
to engulf the land she called home.
His selfish ways would never let him see
how marigold’s fate
was sealed
the moment she became ensnared
in his intoxicating game
O brutal acid rain.
Mar 3
Mar 3, 2026 at 9:56 PM UTC
Don't let thirst drive you to insanity.
Don't let it drive you mad for water.
Not every cup is innocent or clear.
Be careful whose cup you drink from.
Feb 13
Feb 13, 2026 at 3:29 PM UTC
Wisps of midnarust curl callously around our throats,
And we refuse to sever its sanguine ropes;
Now we float!
I am the black ink tainting your fountain of dreams.
You are the white pigment painting over my spectrum of screams.
Drawn close, yet estranged,
We hide the hues of prismatic pain
In wavelengths of glimmering gray,
Like moonbows over amaryllic plains.
This sapphirine nightglow; weeping carmine as it flows;
We refused to let it cut through our half-light hopes;
Now we bloat!
Nov 30, 2025
Nov 30, 2025 at 2:53 AM UTC
Walking in the woods
I've been here for so long
I can't recognise the trees around me
I think I'm lost
Every bush looks the same
I cant tell if it's because of the dark
"Leave before it's too late"
The wind barks
I know i should be scared
But now I'm too deep in
The bitter growls of the tiger
Sweet songs of crickets
They warn me of the danger
But the forest knows me too well
I can't help getting lured in deeper
I keep walking further
Although now my feet hurt
The light of the stars leave my side
Those traitors!
I am now left all alone
But Oh! How can I complain
The forest keeps me sane
The grass on the cold floor
Prickles my bare feet
But the gorgeous woods apologise
Who cares about the pain!
As I walk, keep moving ahead
All the other sounds, the warnings fade
I feel a little sad, Do I wanna go back?
But just as I start questioning
The forest helps me
"It's alright, I can be all you need"
Look how it cares for me!
I was, maybe hesitant at first
But the woods gave me the warmest hug
The evil that wants to take me back
Must be searching for me
But as i hold hands with such a lovely forest
I know there's no way they'll ever find me
Nov 8, 2025
Nov 8, 2025 at 2:37 AM UTC
(A Psychological-Mystical Trilogy)
---
I. Echo Chamber of the Heart
You wanted a man unshaken—
but trembled when he spoke of pain.
You said, “Be open, honest, real,”
then flinched when storms had names.
You asked for depth, for empathy,
but only from the shore;
you loved the thought of drowning him—
then cursed him when he swore.
There’s a pattern carved in silence,
a therapy of blame:
you cut him just to see him bleed,
then called his wounds “the same.”
He hides beneath composure now,
learned quiet from your rage;
each word he speaks is filtered clean,
his truth locked in a cage.
And yet, in secret corners,
you envy what he hides—
the part of him still burning
that your cold could not disguise.
You test him with rejection,
to prove he’ll crawl back home;
then scorn the proof of loyalty
for weakness you’ve outgrown.
You say you want connection,
but crave control instead—
a mirror built from histories
you’ve never truly read.
And he, too, plays the prisoner,
addicted to the ache—
mistaking chains for tenderness,
and anger for awake.
So round and round the circle spins,
each heart rehearsing scars;
love reduced to feedback loops,
and truth to avatars.
No tyrant rules this madness,
no gender wears the crown—
just fear in mirrored faces,
refusing to come down.
---
II. Unbinding the Mirror
The silence came like winter light,
unsoftened, bare, and true—
the kind that burns through filters,
that asks, “What still is you?”
He found his voice beneath the ash,
not loud, but strangely clear;
it spoke of wanting wholeness,
not worship, nor of fear.
And she, too, felt the trembling—
a hollow where control once lay;
for love, when stripped of power,
had nothing left to say.
They faced each other naked then,
of roles, of games, of lore;
two fractured halves of empathy,
each aching to restore.
He said, “I was not made to win,
nor you, to kneel or reign.
We both were made to witness
the beauty inside pain.”
She said, “I learned to harden
because I feared the fall—
but the armor I was gifted
was a coffin, after all.”
They saw how both were taught to fight
by wounds that never healed,
how love was turned to battleground,
how truth was never real.
Forgiveness grew like moss does—
slow, soft, and out of sight,
turning ruins into shelter
and darkness into light.
And though they’ll stumble still sometimes,
and mirrors will remain,
the glass reflects less battle now,
and more of what’s humane.
No gender left superior,
no ego left to lead—
just two souls tending gardens
in the soil of their need.
The war dissolves in stillness.
The heart relearns its art:
not dominance nor victory—
but union through the heart.
---
III. The Reunion of the Halves
There came a dawn without a side—
no his, no hers, no name;
the sky itself exhaled relief,
as light and shadow came.
The sun no longer conquered night,
nor moon deceived the day;
they danced instead, in equal spin,
and time forgot decay.
Within each heart, the halves awoke,
long parted by the war:
the strength that moves, the grace that yields,
the seed and what it bore.
The masculine laid down his sword,
the feminine her throne;
for both had been but armor
for the fear of being known.
And all the gods that ruled before—
of rage, of pride, of blame—
grew quiet as the human soul
remembered whence it came.
The world, once carved by dominance,
now softened into trust;
the battlefields grew gardens,
the iron turned to dust.
The children born of this new peace
spoke not of “mine” or “yours,”
for love, when freed from hierarchy,
needs no hidden wars.
And those who still sought power’s edge
found mirrors at the gate—
their faces split in shadow-light,
their hunger met by fate.
For no one can ascend through hate,
nor heal through being right;
only through surrender’s truth
does blindness meet the sight.
The serpent and the dove entwined,
the mother kissed the flame;
the world exhaled in union’s breath—
and balance spoke its name.
---
Epilogue:
And so the tide began to turn—
not by conquest, nor decree,
but by hearts unlearning empire,
and remembering how to see.
Oct 31, 2025
Oct 31, 2025 at 12:32 AM UTC
you said
it would work out.
it didn’t.
i hate
that i knew
i’d be right.
Sep 20, 2025
Sep 20, 2025 at 6:16 PM UTC
you mock my pain,
cheering me on.
like —
for real.
i’m annoyed.
a bit hurt.
disappointed,
because my first attempt
didn’t work.
you tell me it’s okay —
when it’s not.
you say it’s an easy fix —
i know it is.
yet i sit in the grump,
because i wasted time,
energy,
looking forward to this.
if it’s a let-down,
you say, ten percent of it is.
i say, ninety —
so you argue,
i’m too pessimistic.
bite me.
Sep 20, 2025
Sep 20, 2025 at 6:14 PM UTC
Something that tastes too sweet stops feeling
like a treat. The tongue grows heavy, and the
stomach twists; as what once melted into joy now
rots at the edges — a nectar that poisons, a kindness
that clings too tight, a love that smothers until you
can’t breathe without choking on its syrup.
Sweetness in excess is a _quiet cruelty_.
it does not heal; it only hides the sickness
it’s already become. And maybe that’s the trick —
a treat that tricks the tongue, a sweetness so thick
it sticks like honey on the heart, leaving you
starving while pretending to be fed.
_Too much **** sugar and even
the heart gets cavities._
Aug 23, 2025
Aug 23, 2025 at 5:20 PM UTC
A raging bull
Red fiery eyes
Smoked out
Charging at me
It Went for my throat
Silencing my screams.
Punctured my skin
Blood shed, blood clot
Aug 1, 2025
Aug 1, 2025 at 8:34 PM UTC