For me,
Writing is like praying
in the middle of a tragedy.
When the world has cracked upon.
When something breaks
that words can't fix,
but must weave them together.

Tragedy doesn't ask for beauty,
Only truth.
Even if that truth is trembling,
Fragmented,
Barely breathing
on the page.

The blank document becomes a place
where I can speak
to something
or someone
without needing a reply,
Without having to explain myself,
Without apologizing
for the mess of it all.

Some people write to move on.
I write to stay,
to sit behind these ruins
and whisper:
"I saw this,
It mattered.
It hurts like hell."
And in those moments
writing about lost love
or people who are gone
but never truly absent
something shifts.

I find GOD there,
or maybe GOD finds me
in the wreckage.
Not in thunder,
not in easy answers,
but in that quiet breath
between one word and next
In the space where honesty lives.

You stand where the night devours itself,
drowned in the sickly glow of dying stars.
The air does not move it waits,
as if it fears your departure more than I.

Take my hand, if hands still matter,
if the flesh is not yet weary of grasping.
Beyond the horizon, the void hums,
a song without memory, without end.

Would you stay, if the sky collapsed?
If the gods turned their backs, indifferent?
I would cast my name into the fire,
let time devour me, if only to remain.

So let the dark stretch infinite and cruel,
I will walk where shadows have no shape.
And if you call, I will follow
not as a man, but as a whisper in the abyss

I  sold my freedom to poetry
and never looked back.
let ink carve oaths,
oaths of lament, agony, affliction.

Every  relationship a writing prompt,
each goodbye an unfinished draft.
half-written verses crimsoned the margins,
monsters growling between the lines.

I revive old wounds for epiphany,
reshape anguish until it rhymes.
Every trauma, a metaphor
a sonnet dressed in ruin,
a haiku carved from ache.

And when the page is filled,
when the ink dries,
who remains—me, or the dead poet??

I wasn't  born a poet, the poet in me was born after you arrived.

If a poet fills his wounds with poetry, will his body become a masterpiece?

In the cascade of light, she flows like a stream,
While I, with an old thirst, in her beauty gleam.
I've quenched my longing, with a gaze so deep,
Capturing her essence, in my heart, I keep.
With every passing moment, l linger in her sight,
Banishing thoughts of others, swiftly, out of sight.
For in her radiance, I find my endless quest,
To dwell in her presence, is where I find my rest.