You are the wind that circles me—unseen, yet deeply felt.
I marvel at your dance, like leaves caught in your rhythm.
You were the first ripple on my still waters—
a fleeting droplet that stirred my quiet sadness into something like joy.

You were the distant star I traced with wonder,
your brilliance making my gaze flinch,
yet I kept looking, drawn by a silent hope.

You are the lone pearl gleaming in an endless ocean—
the only one I ever wished to hold.
You are the forest where I long to rest,
your canopy my refuge.

The sunlight that filters through your branches—
those are the moments that touch me,
warm and golden, brief yet eternal.

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.