i can feel the weight,
on my tongue -
of a heart so heavy,
and a mind so young;
i cannot say -
why i went this way;
i do not know, how to
get off the causeway:

on one end, there’re facts;
though verified, and true -
on the other end, lie feelings,
i never really knew -
i had buried so deep,
i failed to see them through;
the facts - do not change,
but the feelings - they do.

i promised not to rely too much
on one way, or the other;
now i’m stuck, biding my time,
reflecting on shallow waters:
i look, long and hard, and see -
the feelings start to resurface;
but in fact, i see -
a herring’s carcass - floating -
so still, and perfect.

a shadow streaks across my face -
i brace myself for, just in case -
i feel it looming - heinously close;
in fact, it’s an eagle;
i step aside - clear the way:  
the eagle tucks its wings
for a nosedive;
it wants the herring -
dead or alive:
it takes what it wants,
leaves nothing behind -
neither facts, nor feelings;
only ripples of lies.

i feign to say
what i cannot share.
bite my tongue
like i do not care.
the demons draw blood,
as i beg for air.
here comes a verse…
i did not prepare.

sullied by half-truths,
the mind lays bare -
to a world of treachery;
governed by distant affairs.
i cannot be a saint,
though i have some
good to spare;  
they fuel my incense, as i -
say my morning prayers.

look around -
they’re everywhere.
the sinners crawl from
the devil’s lair;
they coerce me to follow:
how’s that fair?
**** it -
i’ll end it here.

the phone’s rung twice now;
i can hear it from the bath,
too naked to talk.

a line in the sand
waves falling short every time
jittery wrinkles

There is an animal beneath the skin,
soft-footed and silent.
It does not howl or claw;
it listens,
ears tuned to the pulse
of roots moving underground.

It does not speak our language,
but it hums to the rhythm
of wind slipping through leaves,
to the measured breath of the ocean
meeting the shore.

When you sit still enough,
you can feel it stir:
a gentle shifting in your chest,
a reminder of what you once knew—
the scent of rain before it falls,
the way the earth holds you
even when you forget its name.

It is patient,
this quiet creature,
its heartbeat slow and steady,
a tether to a time
when nothing needed to be said
to be understood.

But it waits,
not for anger,
not for hunger,
but for the moment
when stillness becomes unbearable—
when the weight of silence cracks
and the soft becomes sharp.

One day, it will claw its way free,
not with violence,
but with certainty,
a slow emergence from the dark.

You will feel it rise,
not as a battle,
but as a birth.
It will stand, uncoiling,
and you will find yourself
on your knees,
pressing your face to the ground,
finally remembering
what it means
to belong.

I once walked the world  
                                           with open arms,  
my hands stretched w  i  d  e like branches.  

a canopy to shelter the lost.  
a refuge for the clumsy and blind.  

But the world pressed too hard,  

                      too often,  

and my leaves tore beneath its careless weight.  

So I became the thorn instead.  
Soft wood splintered,  
                         sap dried  
                                     to amber shields,  
and the shade I offered  
                                           withered.  

Now my arms are briars,  
worn close to my chest,  
                     curled into a hedge  
                                    the foolish do not cross.  

The world is full of stumbling fools,  
        drunken moths crashing into flames  
                      of their own kindling.  

They scorch themselves  
                                         on their own sparks,  
and still, they scream at the fire  
                                    as though it were cruel  
                                    for burning.  

I watch them now  
                       from a quiet distance,  
my roots deep, my bark hardened,  
knowing no vine will wrap around me  
                            without bleeding.  

It is not hatred that keeps me,  

                                              but weariness—  

the wisdom to know  
that the soft are devoured  
                               by the teeth of the indifferent.  

The world does not deserve my kindness.  
It spills its recklessness  
                                 like broken wine,  
drenching the soil in its waste,  
and waits for hands to clean it.  

But I have burned those hands  
                                       to ash and bone.  

Now I walk with thorns in my shadow,  
each step a warning,  
                      each word a needle  
                                         laced with restraint.  

Let the world tear itself apart.  
                       I am no longer here  
                                      to sew its seams.

    The world bites without thinking,
                                   and I will not be chewed.