When the moon spills silver into the bruised sky,
I spill into you—mind, body, soul—
a surrender without hesitation.
I navigate your body like sacred scripture,
every curve a verse I’ve recited in whispers,
every sigh an answer I crave to relearn.

You are my favorite subject—
not meant to be mastered,
only studied with trembling devotion,
worshipped in the quiet hunger between breaths.

Emotion bleeds its ink, scoring jagged veins on thought’s frail parchment.
My thoughts—quiet blasts in the stillness of a shattered chamber.
Dread drifts like algae through unmoving air,
As spiders weave ghost-webs from the silk strands of unraveling memory.
Turbulence scripts the scene—Act VII: a ballet of fury, danced in tears.

I drank the lullabies of serpents,
Each note laced in honeyed deceit.
They slithered through the cracks of need,
Whispering warmth with daggered teeth.

I bowed to beasts with broken tongues,
Their barks were sermons in the dark.
I lit my soul to guide their way—
They left me stranded, cold and marked.

Beneath a quilt of dying wool,
I watched the hearth devour its kin.
The logs wept smoke and split in grief,
Still burning, just to warm my skin.

Each morning, lips to bitter brew,
Each night, a toast to battles lost.
The bruised crescents beneath my eyes
Are trophies crowned by what they cost.

“Was it worth it?”—a prayerless cry
To gods who watched and never came.
The mirror grins, a beast reborn,
Whispers, “Now, we play the game.”

I peeled away the past they burned,
Revealed a skin they’ll never know.
No longer just my suffering—
I am the storm their seeds will sow.

He built the walls.
He locked the doors.
He feared the death
That walks outdoors.

He feared the streets,
The plague, the knife—
Not the glass chandelier
That took his life.

The brightest light,
The grandest art—
The most beautiful thing
Broke his heart.


---

I don’t write poems—
I bleed in metaphors,
Breathe in verses,
And let ink sleep on my pages.

Whisper its name,
And it wakes in shadows,
Speaking the silence I once loved—
A silence I taught to speak in poetry.

They call it poetry,
But I call it fire—
The fire that keeps me alive.

Poetry is the soul’s oldest language,
And mine has never stopped speaking.

When my lips fall silent,
My heart spills in stanzas.
When my voice trembles,
My pen takes flight.

Some feelings are too heavy for words—
So I let them fall as verses.

Poetry is the oldest art of truth,
Woven into every soul,
Revealing not just what we feel,
But who we truly are.

Within each verse lies a heart unveiled,
Where passion and truth
Entwine eternal.

Shadows dissolve where silence takes hold—
So do people,
tamed by the dark,
ghosts draped in marigold.

Chains of humility, lacquered and new,
Disguised as virtue,
cling like dew—
shimmering, choking,
beautifully untrue.

Beware the gold-plated gospel they preach:
Their words are mirrors,
sharp at the breach.
They buff your shackles 'til they gleam—
And call it freedom,
call it dream.

Are these the mourners with practiced sighs,
Wringing grief from unopened eyes?
They spray on sorrow like perfume mist,
Never flinching
when your shadows kissed.

And you—yes, you—celestial flare,
A signature soul,
singular, rare.
Who are they to judge your flame,
Then vanish,
maskless,
without name?

This life is no script, no dainty refrain—
It’s cliff-edge breath,
storm-fed pain.
Let them twist and trace your form,
But know:
your chaos is your norm.

So rise—not gentle,
not as planned.
Unwrite the laws they understand.
You are the wild the world can’t mold—
A truth too loud,
a myth retold.