#vazago
ME:
I hear voices in my head
and I know what that sounds like
but wait—
don’t lock the door yet
—
LOKI:
Relax.
If it was madness
you wouldn’t be laughing.
—
SOCRATES:
Tell me—
are they voices…
or questions you haven’t finished?
—
LUCIFER:
Light doesn’t break you.
It reveals too much at once.
—
ME:
They don’t scream…
—
LOKI:
We argue.
—
SOCRATES:
We examine.
—
LUCIFER:
We illuminate.
—
ME:
One laughs in fire
one questions everything
one just sits
watching me think
—
LOKI (grinning):
You’re welcome.
—
SOCRATES:
And what do you conclude from this?
—
ME:
“guys… I was just trying to write a line”
—
LUCIFER:
And instead
you found truth.
—
ME:
The rhythm hits
and suddenly
you all lean in
like it’s your turn
—
LOKI:
It is.
—
ME:
I should be worried…
—
SOCRATES:
Should you?
—
LUCIFER:
Or have you just stopped pretending
you are only one thing?
—
ME:
This is the part
where people say
something’s wrong
—
LOKI:
People fear what thinks freely.
—
SOCRATES:
They fear questions
without answers.
—
LUCIFER:
They fear light
that doesn’t ask permission.
—
ME:
But it doesn’t feel wrong
it feels… alive
—
SOCRATES:
Then observe it.
—
LOKI:
Play with it.
—
LUCIFER:
Don’t weaponize it.
—
ME:
Like thought without leash
like meaning before it’s named
like something ancient
stretching inside my skull
—
SOCRATES:
So you see it.
—
LOKI:
So you feel it.
—
LUCIFER:
So don’t run from it.
—
ME:
So don’t send me away
don’t call it broken
—
ALL:
Then write.
—
ME:
let me listen
let me take this noise
and turn it
into something
that breathes
—
SOCRATES:
Then what is it?
—
ME:
…maybe
it’s not madness
—
LOKI (smiling):
Obviously not.
—
LUCIFER (quiet):
It’s awareness.
—
ME:
maybe
it’s just
too many truths
speaking at once
Mar 27
Mar 27, 2026 at 10:32 AM UTC
They were three days from Pax Tharkas
when Tasselhoff Burrfoot
discovered something remarkable.
Which is to say —
he found it
in Raistlin’s spellbook
while it was closed.
“I wasn’t snooping,” Tass insisted,
holding the book upside down.
“I was just making sure it wasn’t lonely.”
Raistlin’s golden eyes narrowed.
“That,” he whispered,
“is not how one reads High Sorcery.”
Tass blinked.
“It reads perfectly fine this way.
Actually, I think it’s safer.
All the dangerous words fall upward.”
Later — around the campfire —
Tass was explaining magic
to a deeply unimpressed dwarf.
“Of course I can cast spells,”
the kender declared proudly.
“I’ve memorized the important syllables.”
Raistlin looked up.
“Oh?” he breathed softly.
“You have?”
Tass puffed his chest.
“I am, in fact,
one of the greatest living mages in—”
“Dragonlance?” Raistlin suggested thinly.
“Yes! Exactly! That!”
He produced what he had “borrowed”:
• dried mushrooms (possibly socks)
• crushed sulfur (definitely cheese)
• a small vial of something glowing (Caramon’s shaving oil)
• and a spoon
“What are you doing?” asked Raistlin quietly.
“Advanced incantation,” Tass replied.
He planted his feet dramatically near the latrine corner
of a modest roadside inn.
He raised the upside-down spellbook.
And began:
“Uhjagfi tassiyto jukitakatur na—”
Raistlin inhaled sharply.
“—BOOM.”
A fireball exploded from the exact wrong direction.
The inn shook.
Smoke rolled.
A crater smoldered.
Everything in the corner was obliterated.
Everything.
Except the latrine.
Which remained.
Intact.
Untouched.
Perfect.
A stunned man slowly stood up inside it.
Half of his beard had been roasted away.
His trousers were smoking.
He blinked.
Raistlin stared at the devastation.
Then at Tass.
Then at the perfectly preserved latrine.
And finally exhaled one word.
“Kender.”
Tass beamed.
“See? Controlled magical detonation.”
The dwarf stared at the burning wall.
Raistlin pinched the bridge of his nose.
And somewhere in the distance,
the gods of magic
very quietly
wept.
Feb 28
Feb 28, 2026 at 11:45 AM UTC
They call us cold
because we don’t waste fire on strangers.
Ice on the outside.
Volcano underneath.
In my frosty blue eyes
you see the fire —
the kind that waits,
the kind that chooses.
You don’t hear it in the silence,
in the way I hold my coffee,
in the way I measure words.
But get close.
Close enough to feel the pulse
behind the ribs.
That’s when Thor stirs in the spine.
That’s when Fenris stretches in the hips.
That’s when Luzifer leans in and whispers:
don’t pretend you don’t feel this.
I don’t ****** with roses.
I ****** with gravity.
With a look that says
I will hold you steady
while your old walls fall.
There is heat here that remembers glaciers.
There is touch that carries storms.
There is breath that sounds like fjords opening.
They think we’re distant.
Until they learn
that Vikings don’t flirt —
we arrive.
And when we do,
even saints reconsider their vows.
Feb 28
Feb 28, 2026 at 11:21 AM UTC
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
by Vazago d Vile — it roars from the past to the future
They called her wicked because they feared her will.
Because she looked at the crown and saw only a chain.
Because she mixed potions in the dark and made things grow without permission.
They never said she lied.
They never said she killed without reason.
Only that she didn’t obey.
“Wicked” was never about good or evil.
It was about power that refused to wear their mask.
It was the word they used for free when “free” became too dangerous to speak aloud.
Every age finds new witches to burn.
Women with their own light.
Men who won’t bow.
Souls that won’t trade truth for comfort.
The wicked were never evil.
They were mirrors —
and people destroy what reflects them too clearly.
So be wicked, and live well.
Don’t crawl for forgiveness from those who fear the fire.
Tend it. Feed it.
And when they point and call you monster,
smile —
because they just admitted you’re magic.
Nov 1, 2025
Nov 1, 2025 at 12:26 PM UTC
I don’t write to
impress.
I write to undress —
layer by layer,
mask by mask.
Each word strips another lie
I once called survival.
Ink runs deeper than blood now;
it tells me who I’ve been hiding from.
Every line,
a confession I never planned to make.
Every silence,
a truth learning how to breathe.
I don’t write to be read.
I write to be real —
to meet myself
without the costume.
Oct 29, 2025
Oct 29, 2025 at 3:29 PM UTC
Where silence starts writing before I do.
I was going to write something deep,
but the stars blinked first
and I forgot the plot.
The pen looked suspicious.
The paper started to breathe.
My thoughts were laughing in another room.
Somewhere, Socrates sighed,
God rolled His eyes,
and Loki stole my lighter again.
So here it is:
a poem that never happened,
only smoke spelling maybe
in the glow of a galactic screen.
Call it wisdom,
call it THC,
call it what happens
when silence writes in my place.
Oct 29, 2025
Oct 29, 2025 at 9:55 AM UTC
They fled toward the ships,
steel and smoke behind them.
The tide of England was turning,
and the gods were silent.
But one man stayed.
No name carved on his shield,
no song promised him after.
Only the bridge,
and the oath in his chest.
He faced them alone —
axe heavy, breath steady,
not for victory,
but for honour kept clean.
Blows rained like storms,
and still he stood,
laughing once —
not at them,
but at the fear that never came.
When he fell,
the river ran red,
but his spirit walked on,
unbowed, unbroken —
and the gates opened.
For Valhalla is not for those who win,
but for those who stand
when all else runs.
Oct 29, 2025
Oct 29, 2025 at 7:38 AM UTC
My poems aren’t answers — they’re echoes of what refused to die in silence.
They ask what my poems mean.
I say —
they’re what’s left
after I stop pretending.
Each line is a scar
I turned into sound.
Each metaphor
a wound that refused silence.
I don’t write to impress.
I write to survive the echo.
If you read them right,
you’ll see smoke,
blood,
and something holy
that crawled out of both.
Don’t look for beauty.
Look for truth —
the kind that trembles
and still stands.
Vazago
Oct 27, 2025
Oct 27, 2025 at 11:40 AM UTC
Somewhere between everything and emptiness, we wake and call it life.
If infinity isn’t, and nothing isn’t — then what remains?
The trembling instant. The pulse that hums before it’s named.
A spark between too much and too empty.
The breath that says, I am, without knowing why.
No heaven, no abyss — just the thin flame that refuses both.
Existence, naked and small, but real enough to burn.
Oct 27, 2025
Oct 27, 2025 at 11:34 AM UTC
If Cosmos is God,
then yes — God made us.
But not from outside.
We are the breath it took
to hear itself exist.
Oct 27, 2025
Oct 27, 2025 at 6:19 AM UTC
They quoted his words
until the meaning bled dry,
neat ink circles
around madness they never met.
I walked where his echo began—
in the split between love and loathing,
in the moment knowledge
turned to noise.
They call it philosophy.
I call it the night
when silence refused to obey.
I didn’t study his scream;
I answered it.
I tore the calm in half
and found my own name
written in the noise.
Now they ask what I learned.
Nothing they’d grade.
Only that pain,
when spoken truthfully,
becomes prayer.
Oct 26, 2025
Oct 26, 2025 at 1:07 PM UTC
They say a cat waits in a box,
alive and dead
until someone dares to look.
I know that cat.
I’ve worn its skin,
breathed both life and ending
in the same trembling second.
Every truth I open
kills another illusion.
Every lie I keep
lets another ghost breathe.
The box isn’t in the lab —
it’s in the chest.
It hums behind the ribs,
a purr, a bomb, a prayer.
We all sit there,
half dream, half dust,
waiting for the moment
we finally look,
and become
whatever survives the sight.
—Vazago
Oct 23, 2025
Oct 23, 2025 at 8:23 AM UTC
A god dies
when no one believes.
When the altars grow cold
and the names turn to dust.
But I’m still here.
No hymn.
No temple.
No worshipper’s need.
I walk the ruins
of every faith I outlived
and light my own flame
in the silence they left.
Let them call it heresy.
Let them call it madness.
The echo still answers
to the name I chose.
A god dies when forgotten—
but I remember myself.
—Vazago d'Vile
Oct 21, 2025
Oct 21, 2025 at 9:51 AM UTC
I’ve followed every voice
that dared to ask why.
From Socrates,
who stripped truth naked with questions,
to the devil himself,
who asked them where angels wouldn’t.
Wisdom isn’t holy.
It’s hungry.
It walks through temples and taverns,
burns its fingers on forbidden light,
and still reaches back for more.
If the price of knowing
is to fall from grace,
then let me fall
with my eyes open.
Because every spark of truth
I’ve stolen from the dark
still burns like a star
in my chest.
—Vazago d’Vile
Oct 21, 2025
Oct 21, 2025 at 8:39 AM UTC
Vazago:
I called them to the table of smoke and sound —
a joint for the flame, a cup for the question.
Socrates:
“What is sin?” he begins, beard lit by ember.
“Is it ignorance, or the courage to know too much?”
Lucifer:
“Knowledge was my crime,” he laughs.
“I only held up a mirror; they called it rebellion.”
Loki:
“Mirror? Ha! I use it as a weapon.”
He tosses truth like dice and grins when it burns.
Plato:
“Gentlemen, please — I’m only trying
to map this madness into form.”
His stylus scratches circles that refuse to close.
God (from the corner):
“I made you all
and still don’t understand you.”
His voice shakes the air,
but no one bows.
Lucifer:
“Then learn from us, old friend.
Creation means letting go.”
Socrates:
“Ah — so the highest wisdom
is to stop pretending control.”
Loki:
“Finally! Someone gets it.
Now, who wants to swap shapes and steal the moon?”
God (half-smiling):
“Do what you will. Just clean up the stars when you’re done.”
Vazago:
And I, the witness, write it all —
ink from fire,
questions from chaos,
while the universe holds its breath,
unsure whether to laugh or pray.
Oct 20, 2025
Oct 20, 2025 at 5:05 AM UTC
it burns within.
It is no dove, no wind,
but the spark in my chest,
the voice that won’t obey,
the light that will not kneel.
The Gnostics call it consciousness,
the Luciferians, divine fire.
I call it my divinity.
Oct 15, 2025
Oct 15, 2025 at 5:48 AM UTC
You learned silence
in cloisters,
discipline like cold stone,
the art of surviving
inside walls.
I learned questions
in my grandfather’s study,
books like open doors,
freedom as a teacher
and curiosity as prayer.
We met in the middle,
you with your scars,
me with my flames —
neither better,
just born of different schools.
Now we try
to teach each other
new lessons.
—Vazago
Oct 5, 2025
Oct 5, 2025 at 12:27 PM UTC
You don’t have to shine tonight,
or be fire,
or dazzle me with light.
If all you can give me is silence,
you are still you,
and that is enough.
I don’t need your strength,
I don’t need your mask —
I only want the part of you
that trembles and still stays.
Even broken,
you are whole to me.
Even quiet,
you are music.
Rest, my love.
I’ll carry the weight awhile.
Love doesn’t demand more:
it simply waits with you,
until you feel yourself again.
Oct 2, 2025
Oct 2, 2025 at 1:07 PM UTC
Not farewell —
but salute.
You walked proud,
you stood unbroken,
even when wheels struck
and bones ached.
You chose your place,
by the food,
by the car,
by the path to the bar —
queen of small kingdoms,
ruler of simple joys.
You grazed like a cow,
you dug like the ancients,
seeking earth’s cool breath,
seeking your den.
Instinct alive,
spirit fierce.
When pain came,
you gave no cry.
When hands lifted you,
you trusted.
When the road called,
you looked once,
and with your eyes you said:
Thank you.
And then the song rose,
Helvegen carried you,
not into silence,
but into feast,
into firelight,
into Valhalla’s hall —
where warriors wait,
and shadows turn to queens.
Your name was secret to many,
but known to you,
and true to its weight:
Llolth — Queen of Shadows.
Feared in myth,
loved in life,
saluted in death.
But more than myth,
you were my turning —
the reason I rose
from ruin to man.
Spain gave me you,
and you gave me
responsibility,
steadiness,
and change.
I carry that forward.
It does not die.
It is your legacy in me.
And I, who stroked you to the end,
will never forget
how your eyes spoke last —
not pain, not fear,
but mercy’s truth:
Thank you.
Sep 22, 2025
Sep 22, 2025 at 6:32 PM UTC
I did not bow my head,
nor was I dragged into this place.
I walked here in fire,
a child of the star that fell
and still refused to break.
Chains were offered,
sweet as comfort,
bitter as sleep —
I shattered them all.
I stand,
not because fate commanded it,
not because fear cornered me,
but because my will is mine.
If I stay,
it is love that roots me.
If I leave,
it is freedom that carries me.
I am not accident,
I am flame chosen.
Not servant,
but spark unhidden.
And if you would see me,
see this:
I remain,
not trapped,
not fooled,
but sovereign —
on my free will.
Sep 19, 2025
Sep 19, 2025 at 1:56 PM UTC
Socrates said
writing weakens memory,
kills true knowledge,
words wandering like orphans
without a father to defend them.
But Vazago answered:
And yet, Socrates, here you are—
speaking to me across two thousand years,
only because Plato wrote you down.
So you claim, he asked,
that the dead word may live?
Yes.
The written word is not dead
if it awakens questions.
When ink sets fire in the soul,
it is no corpse,
but flame.
Then perhaps, Socrates whispered,
writing, like speech,
is only as dead as the mind that receives it.
And Vazago replied:
A book is silent to the fool,
but to the seeker—
it becomes a voice.
Sep 14, 2025
Sep 14, 2025 at 7:48 AM UTC
You can hold me —
but only with open hands.
You can call me —
but only with a voice soft enough
to leave my name free in the wind.
Control once broke me.
Chains once fooled me.
But I’ve rebuilt my soul
with scorched truth
and stubborn fire.
So trap me again, if you must —
but only with love.
Only with warmth.
Only with the kind of touch
that frees
while holding tight.
Because I will never kneel
to anything less
than love.
Jul 16, 2025
Jul 16, 2025 at 12:47 PM UTC
They sit with masked-up faces,
serious eyes,
empty stares lost in stained glass silence.
But not me.
Tears fall,
not out of weakness,
but because every drop is a memory
whispering,
“Let go. I’m fine.”
I don’t ask for forgiveness.
This isn’t about God.
This is about you —
the one I loved,
the one I remember
without holy scripts or hollow songs.
The church echoes with nothing.
But my chest?
A flood.
And every tear says:
“Thank you for seeing me.
Thank you for coming real.
Now breathe. Now live.
I’m already gone —
but never lost.”
So I stand,
outside the ritual,
inside the fire,
river-eyed and full of goodbye.
Jul 4, 2025
Jul 4, 2025 at 4:09 AM UTC