It's the rip, the blackened maw, the claw that tears, the **** that spits.
Knees, shredded— crawling through filth, scraping against the stars, that grin, that lie, that barbed glint.
Skulls crack, thrones melt, heaven vomits ash, saints bleed rust.
Slogging through sludge— sin stitched to skin, to bone, to the grin.
Mortals crawl, tongues dry, licking lies, ******* venom, choking on the ash of their own breath.
Chains? Swallowed, each link, a sear, a burn, a scar, a choke.
It's the howl, jaw snapped, embered to bone, a name carved in the rot, in the ruin, in the blood.
Redemption? A sick joke, a priest’s last spit, dread, laughter, truth, bile.
Splintered, shrieks, teeth ground, shards in the throat, prayers, vapor, venom, a last hiss, ash in the wind.
Truth is nothing but a empty void, A painting made of blood and tar, It’s a scream into the abyss,
daring you to look at the rot and ruin without flinching,
It's more like a punch than a whisper.

Splinters of a Vow
Jagged oaths,
Splintered on your tongue,
You gorged my marrow,
Left bones to bleach.
Scattered, raven picked flesh
We spun melodies,
Feral, unbound,
Chords of gods,
Now ash in my throat.“Forever,” you hissed,
A serpent’s hymn,
But your loyalty
A blade,
Rusted,
Still sharp,
Slid between my ribs.
Took my fire,
My shifted pulse,
Drank deep all you could,
Then spat me dry.
No remorse, not second thought
Your shadow fled,
Not from me from your own guilt
A shadow that follows you still
A coward’s gait,
All the wills that turned into won't
Then cants
When storms gnashed teeth.
This is you broken legacy
Our music,
Once a fevered dream,
Still it burns but never ours
Now a dirge,
Screams in cracked mirrors.
Looking back I see
Your name, broken
Restless
Unfortunately
Unforgettable
While it remains
Unforgivable
A shard,
A curse,
A bitter gall I choke,
Until that day comes
Wear bitterness
Sorrow
Bear

The Stain Within does often weep,
It festers where no light can creep,
A pulse of red, a wound too deep,
It often crawls, while wounds they seep,
The mind, a cage, replays the act
The scream, the snap, the world intact.
No grave can hold the truth’s decay,
It claws, it whispers, night and day.
The mirror shows a stranger’s grin,
The blood’s not hers—it lives within.
Each step, a thread, unravels sane,
The self dissolves in scarlet stain.
No absolution, only dread
The murdered live; the killer’s dead.

We live on stolen soil
****-stained by pride,
blood-branded by flags,
and haunted by the ghosts of truth we buried beneath capitalism.

No one owns this land
but we all die trying to claim it.
White blames Black.
Black blames White.
Distraction, deflection,
while the real ******* villains
sign contracts with the Devil
in corner offices with panoramic views
of the cities they’re starving.

They hide
in plain ******* sight
drinking $900 whiskey,
while your grandma chooses
between heat and insulin.

The system is not broken
it’s built this way.
Crime? That’s survival in a jungle
where the lions drive Range Rovers
and the hyenas run for Parliament.

Education?
They teach us how to kneel.
Skills?
Only if they serve the machine.
Energy?
Sold to foreign devils
while we eat cold soup in the dark.
Infrastructure?
Rotting bridges like our hope
hollow, rusted, sagging
under the weight of hypocrisy.

Unemployment?
That’s a feature, not a flaw.
Keep them hungry,
keep them angry,
but never too united.

And politicians?
******* pigs in silk suits.
They don’t serve us
we serve them.
They gorge on lies,
******* out policies
that choke the poor
while their children fly first class to Swiss schools.

They smile on screens,
preach peace and progress,
but behind closed doors
they're circle-jerking over oil rights
and who's getting the next cut
of your grandmother’s pension.

You want change?
Then stop tweeting.
Burn something.
Make fear your language,
like they taught you.
Not because violence is noble
but because nothing else works.

Once, tyrants feared truth.
Now, they own it.
Twist it.
Broadcast it.
And call it "news."
ah that's Fake News - ******* idiot
They made lies the air we breathe,
so now we choke on fiction
and call it freedom.

They convinced us
we’re enemies
color-coded,
class-divided,
tribalized,
distracted.

Mean­while,
the world burns
and the arsonists auction off the ashes.

This isn’t society.
This is a farm.
We are cattle.
Fattened on fear,
milked for labor,
then slaughtered for profit.
Our children inherit nothing
but debt, war, trauma,
and a planet rigged to implode.

And still we smile.
Still we say “please.”
Still we wave the flag
while standing in line for our own ******* execution.

We tell each other "Love wins."
We post peace signs.
Meanwhile,
a man somewhere is choking his wife
because the rent’s late
and the rage has nowhere else to go.

We say "sorry"
like it scrubs away the scars.
But sorry doesn't fix broken teeth.
Or burned cities.
Or empty stomachs.
Or shattered dreams.

You want revolution?
Then stop hoping.
Start haunting.
Make the halls of power tremble
with your footsteps.
Make corruption scream
before it dies.

Because this isn’t about politics.
This is about survival.
This is about soul.
About taking back
what we were never even allowed to imagine.

Imagine a world
where a liar in a suit gets dragged
instead of promoted.
Bang!
Where corruption ends with consequence.
Bang!
Where justice isn’t a concept
it’s a ******* blade,
Bang!
Who's next in line !
Deceive this country
Deceive these people
Bang!
Who is next in line !
No time for incompetent, liars and thieves ! Because we have something for those politics
Bang!
Who is next in line !

No more praying.
No more petitions.
No more playing nice with demons
who smile better than saints.

This is our fire.
This is our scream.
We built this hell
and now,
we burn it the **** down,
We only get one life
Why shouldnt it be our best life !

The Iceberg Gospel
unexpressed
not lost
just festering
like maggots in a velvet drawer
polite rot,
ugly’s rehearsal in a satin mask
they called it “coping”
I called it
an audition for the collapse

truth sits in the dark with its mouth sewn shut
but the fingers twitch,
the breath stammers,
and the skin tells stories
that lips choke back
secrets drip through pores
no mortal stays clean

freedom?
you mean
the prison where I build my own walls
and call them boundaries
where I sign my name in blood
on every oath I never meant to keep
you want my freedom?
take my guilt, too
it comes in chains
with a mirror

I dreamed of drowning in my own skull
the waves were laughter
"Royal Road," they whispered
but the map was in hieroglyphics
and the key was shame
no torch,
just instincts gnawing
through ego's leash

love
the elegant executioner
comes dressed in silk
with a knife shaped like
a promise

the iceberg mind
a cathedral with only one open pew
and six sunk in shadow
we float
but not really

you want peace?
talk to the soft voice
the whisperer
the intellect that scratches the chalkboard of your spine
until you finally
turn around
and say:
“Yes, that was me.”

struggle?
it kissed me with cracked lips
and called it salvation
now I look back
and see
a cathedral of scars
lit by the ghost of becoming

and still,
I bleed
from every buried word
I dared not speak.

The sky bruises at the edges
violet veins bursting through the silence
like old wounds speaking.
Not blood, but memory
spilled across the firmament.

Distance is a color,
you just never noticed.
It hums in plum shadows on her cheek,
in amethyst regrets curled in the corners of old letters,
in the sigh of a cigarette smoke ghosting
toward someone who isn't there.

Color makes the world turn
not gravity, not time,
but the way rust stains a prayer on an iron gate,
how saffron screams from a monk’s robe
while the lavender dusk swallows the sun whole
without apology.

But black
black is something else.
It doesn’t turn.
It doesn’t beg.
It absorbs.

It’s the silence
between stars.
The unspoken between lovers.
The last thing your father’s eyes held
before he sank.

And violet
that hesitant echo of black
is distance turning its head away
just before the goodbye.

I loved you when I shouldn't have.
Didn’t plan to—never intended—
you were good enough
for those
blunt-edged
Tuesdays and
broken-glass Thursdays
you know,
those days you said
“Can you come over?”
and I
stupidly
always said
“Sure.”
(What’s my name?)
Not yours.
Never yours.

I didn’t want to fall,
but I did.
Even while we were
tangled in
half-closed lies and
barely buried truths.
It’s funny
how we ache for the poison
that already lives in our veins.
How I saw
from the start
we were chemicals
unstable,
volatile,
clinging to a rusted shelf
waiting to break.

I was strong.
You were sinking.
You dragged me down
while I taught you to rise.
I showed you
how to see.
But it was never
my job
to make you
a ******* lighthouse.

And that
that was where
I ******* lost it.

I should’ve stuck to the plan:
2 hours of escape,
3 hours of noise,
no more.
Tuesdays.
Thursdays.
Send you home
to your shadow world.
But no.
I carried you
into music,
into meaning,
into books that bled your name
on every page.
You said forever.
I said
nothing is.

And still
you walked.
You left.
But not a ******* day goes by
where my name
doesn’t haunt
your spine
like a ghost.

We were more
than you’ll ever know.
More than I’ll ever find again.
But I’ve made
friends
with silence.
I’ve married the ache,
swallowed the ending,
stitched it
into the back of my ribs.

You say you left
to find yourself.
*******.
You found yourself
in my hands.
And you wanted
to show the ones who broke you
how tall you stood.
But you forgot
who taught you to walk.

The cost
was everything.
And you?
You walk easy
because you were handed it all.
Took it.
Wore it.
Forgot it.

I wasn’t perfect
but with me,
you were real.
You were raw.
And now?
You hide.
You live a ******* lie,
afraid of being touched
by anything true again.
Because you know who you are.
You tasted truth.
And now you rot
in its shadow.

Do the crows in your skull
peck memories into migraines?
Do you flinch
at the echo of “us”?
I don’t mind.

I walk.
Alone.
With that little fluffy gift.
Not crying.
Not reaching.
Not breaking.
Not needing.
If I had one more day
fine.
If I had a hundred years
fine.
Because none of them
include
you.

You,
who swallowed me
from the inside.

Tree on the Hill
It doesn’t grow
it remembers upward,
each branch a green-tinged scream
curved into the ache of sun.

Leaves don’t fall
they betray,
drifting like forgotten tongues
gold-lipped,
summer-sick,
too heavy to lie still.

The bark
creased like an elder’s laughter
etched in dirtscript,
smells of storms caught mid-prayer
and mosses that whisper
to no one in particular.

Its roots?
They grip the hill
like a jealous god,
fingers buried in the soil’s old heartbreak,
sipping secrets from beneath the grassline.

And the wind
it doesn’t pass.
It negotiates.
Swirls between the limbs like lost voices
asking the tree if it's still waiting,
still listening,
still pretending to be alive.

Sparkless grit
presses under frostbit knuckles
not fire,
just the idea of heat
with its eyes shut.

I rest in the draftwork
of holding patterns,
where clocks twitch
but never commit.

Once
weather scored graffiti
down my backframe,
like a vandal too polite
to leave a name.
Now breath limps
blurred,
rattling through cracked syllables
that don’t know what they’re naming.

Tannin hums behind the teeth,
coiled like a riddle
no tongue can unwrap.

Velvet cords grip the throat
not tightly,
just enough
to remind me
I'm still leased
to something unseen.

The wind tastes like rusted lemon
split skin,
unbitten seconds,
ticking in citrus static.

I’m a jar
glaze peeled,
rim chipped,
still ringing
from hands that shaped and fled.

Then comes not-morning
just the choreographed blur
of cloth and chrome,
rituals that shine
but don’t touch.

Time turns its crank.
I nod.
I click.
I vanish for the hours.

And the dark?
It unbuttons itself
with fluent decay.
It wades in,
speaks in steam,
and folds me into its absence
not to ****,
but to remember me
the way embers remember
what they could have burned.

I wait
for endlessness,
or whatever arrives
five seconds too late

Somedays I rise like a monk,
barefoot, benign
& still get gutpunched by a cold kettle,
no sugar,
no spoons,
no ******* coffee
just the bitter truth of unplanned idiocy.

That’s the prelude.

Then comes the uninvited opera
the ogre in a hatchback
slithering through lanes he didn’t earn,
gargling ego, honking for clearance
like his tardiness
was my crucifix to bear.

The shop-witch counts coins
copper by copper,
dragging eternity across the till
while I rot behind her,
watching her smirk at the math
like she's curing cancer.

I light a smoke
wind turns assassin.
My sandwich?
Now a Sahara-dusted tragedy.
A mouthful of grit.
Sky ****** spite.
I take a drag—wet ash,
storm on my lips.

There’s always
something.

A misfired message
“you up?”
No, ****, I’m spiraling.
A call about their cat's vomiting,
as if I’m the feline whisperer.
And why is it
that the needy
find me when I need
no one?

Some ***** unclips their door
into my car,
nods like they did me a favour
like my paintwork
was begging for a scratch.
No apology. Just audacity.

And then
relationships, appointments,
all these temporal collisions
some can’t ******,
some can’t stop.
It’s always
either waiting,
or sprinting to keep up
while someone else
finishes without you,
wipes off their guilt
& says,
“ready to go again?”

Somedays…
it’s more days than not.

The inconsiderate breed like roaches
everywhere,
invisible
until they nibble at the nerves.
Each one
a subtle saboteur of serenity
a Harry,
a Sally,
a gnat in the gut of grace.

And I
I dream of vaporizing silence,
a death-ray of solitude
or **** it,
just vanishing,
****,
if that’s what it takes
to bypass this
imposed ritual of irritation.

I pray:
“Lord, get me through this day.”
But perhaps
I should say:
“Lord, muzzle the world.
And let me sip
my ******* coffee
in peace.”

Somedays,
I just want calm.
But somedays…
are all days
in drag.

The river
— still —
not dead,
just holding its breath like it’s been doing for centuries,
like me,
warm-skinned, waiting,
a vein of old gods slicing the belly of the land.

Light drips
thick, slow
like honey from a wound,
slick across willow bones,
and dusk swallows it
without a sound.

Crickets scratch
violins made of rust and dirt,
screaming lullabies for the lost.
Each note
a tooth pulled from the silence,
buried beneath the reeds.

Maple leaves
curl like fists,
anger in amber,
whispers of fire choking the wind—
they’ve seen too many falls,
too many barefoot ghosts
asking the trees for answers they never give.

Bridges bend
like old men
too tired to hold stories anymore—
but they do.
They do.
Their backs cracked with the weight of kisses,
of “forever”s spit through clenched teeth,
wood soaked in the sweat of holding on.

Sun bleeds out
slow
gold leaking into black,
into arms that forgot how to hold anything but
absence.

And the river just keeps
keeps.
Keeps.

Still.
Silent.
A throat never cut
but always open.
Waiting for the moon
to swallow it whole
and call it peace.

The moon
pale, round, soft buttered crust,
spills gold over apple-skin grass,
whole and warm the hush of dusk.

Night birds drift,
weightless ink,
brushing the sky with feathered sighs,
folding themselves into silhouette dreams.

Olive fields hum,
rustling evening’s breath,
leaves whispering secrets to the wind,
soft earth cradling the roots of time.

Ladders lean
old embrace,
tracing the spine of the sturdy trunk,
where children once climbed,
their laughter spun into bark—
a lullaby left behind.

Noon melts,
slow honey,
sinking sweetly in waiting arms,

while the moon watches,
                quiet, whole,
                        a silver lantern hung in sleep’s embrace.

How often do you look inside,
and find the parts you try to hide?
The dreams you lost, the fear you keep,
the thoughts that stir when you're half-asleep?

How often do you walk away,
from chances you meant to take that day?
Do you watch the world go passing by,
and feel too small to even try?

How often do you fall, then crawl,
wishing you could stand up tall?
But something holds you in the dirt
a voice that whispers, “you’ll get hurt.”

How often do you speak your mind,
and leave the careful words behind?
Or search for truth in what you feel,
even if it cuts, even if it's real?

How often do you cry alone,
in quiet rooms that feel like stone?
And still, somehow, you wipe your eyes
and face the day before sunrise.

How often do you trust what's new,
the road ahead with no clear view?
Or sit and stare at empty air,
at things you wish were really there?

How often do you try to see
the parts of you you hide so deep?
To open up, to take the chance
on love, on hope, on sweet romance?

How often do you ride the wave,
let go, be bold, be less afraid?
Or do you laugh, or break the rules,
play your part and bend the tools?

But through the dark and through the light,
through every wrong, through every right
when all is lost or all is won,
when storms are gone and skies are sun

Just be yourself—no need to prove,
no need to run, no need to move.
You’re enough in every place
in every fall, in every grace.

Let people be.
Let them breathe,
let them live free
whether they are he, she, or joyfully three.

Who cares what they look like,
where they come from,
or how they speak?
They are people.
They rise, they fall,
they laugh, they seek.

They deserve to walk their own way,
to love, to cry,
to dance in the sun or weep in the rain,
without shame
and without a chain.

So what if they don’t fit the shape
your mind molds as “normal”?
That’s your cage.
This is their stage.

No need to love as they do
just let them be true.
Let them shine in their own sky,
wear their names with pride,
even if their pronouns
don’t match the tide.

They bleed red,
they dream in color.
They’ve felt grief,
they’ve cherished another.
So why should their joy
be cause for alarm?
Why does their truth
feel like harm?

Each life is one
let it count,
without need for approval
or fearful doubt.

It’s okay if someone born a he
feels within a radiant she.
It’s okay to find love
wherever love chooses to be.
It’s okay to be soft,
to be bold,
to be different,
to break the mold.

There is no need for convention,
no rule to conform
let them be fire,
let them be form.

Happiness harms no one.
Difference is not a crime.
So why does it bother so many
when others simply wish to shine?

All lives matter.
This earth belongs to all.
Every voice, every shade,
every rise, every fall.

Don’t let hate
sit in your heart.
Don’t let judgment
tear others apart.

Love.
Love wide.
Love those who stand
on the other side.

Help each other.
Lift each other.
We are all brothers, sisters,
fathers, mothers
children of this spinning place.
And if one truly looks face to face,
they’ll find kindness
where they once saw fear.

There are greater battles
than long hair or buzzed styles,
than lovers who smile
in ways that don’t match your files.

Accept what is different.
See the beauty in change.
It takes every kind
to turn the world’s range.

Let people be.
They don’t need permission to exist.
They deserve to be seen,
respected,
and missed.

Sunday—just another day,
Prayer—just another way.
Silence—just another reply,
Thinking—just another reason why.

Still, we keep doing
still, we keep asking
as if "another"
might finally mean something.

Life is a ******* canvas,
a mess you don’t know you’ve stepped into,
until your foot’s stained
a smear of doubt,
blood from the gods you thought you knew,
the first breath
a slap,
a jagged line that cuts into the gut of you.
****, it hurts,
but you keep painting
‘cause the world ain’t built without your hands in the ****.

It’s paint on your face,
the drip of your own blood
mixed with rage,
‘cause what’s life if not a battle between what you want to touch and what’s been forced into you?
You’re born with a brush in your palm,
but the strokes are jagged,
sharp edges,
a million questions you don’t have answers for.
You want to fix it
but the canvas bleeds through your fingers,
so you just keep ******* going.

Each line is war,
each color is death,
each mistake is your soul
ripping open like a wound.
Nothing is clean here,
not the art, not the mind,
not the **** heart beating like a beast in your chest.
You hit the page with fury,
twisting the paint till it burns,
till it scars.

You step back,
but only to get a clearer picture of the wreck you’ve made.
Life, like a painting,
is the blood of your struggle,
the grit of the grind,
the brutality of change.
Can’t fix it,
can’t make it perfect
It is what it is
but ****, you can make it yours.
You can make it raw,
tear it apart with your bare hands,
and watch it bleed into something real.
‘Cause at the end, it ain’t about the clean edges,
it’s about the chaos
the mark of the beast you leave on it,
the rage and hunger that refuses to die.

And when it’s done
you’ll see it.
All of it.
Every jagged, broken line,
every scar on the page,
and you’ll know,
the mess was never the mistake.
It was always the point,
to paint...

I hope you’re awake.
The world is breaking.
We don’t want comfort
we want peace.

They say you made us.
Then why does hunger
wear your name?
Why do your children
sleep in the cold?

We ask for quiet.
You answer with silence.
We sing to the sky,
but no echo returns.

Did you craft this grief?
The pain we hold?
Or did we give you shape
to carry the blame?

We argue, we fight,
we fall for belief
but no hand lifts us
when we fall.

Your name lives in laws,
in fire,
in war.
If you wrote the book,
why let it burn?

No crown.
No wings.
No final word.
Just hearts breaking
in the dark.

Still, the bombs fall.
The children weep.
The oceans rise.
And hope thins.

Are you still watching,
or did you turn away
before the smoke rose?

I used to pray.
Now I reflect.
If you are real,
then why the silence?

PS:
We need a miracle.

How dare you
click in the dark
with soft, uncalloused fingers
scraping what you didn’t bleed for,
scratching through ash
for sparks you didn’t birth.

I see you.
Vulture-eyed, dead-hearted,
sifting through soul for a dopamine hit.
You didn’t live it.
You didn’t scream it into a pillow at 3 a.m.
You didn’t shake with the ink.

You didn’t die for it.
I did.

But still
you rip out ribs of rhythm,
plagiarize pulse,
regurgitate ghosts
with your baby-AI mimicry,
your Frankensteined stanzas
stitched from the flesh of my grief,
I noticed,
I see you.

Little girl,
child of the click-and-paste spell,
you wear stolen metaphors
like cheap perfume
loud, tacky, choking,
wondering how it must be to feel?

I see the sudden genius
that bloomed from nowhere.
A drought of silence—then flood.
Words once dry
now drip with my salt, my blood, my pain
and you dare to name it yours?

I know my structure.
I fathered that form.
I spit syllables like bones,
stacked them in temples of torment,
broke English to make it feel,
broke myself to make it real,
and you think I don't know?

And now?
You **** the marrow of my music,
flesh-ripper,
content-corpse-dancer,
vampire with no hunger but vanity.
You steal scars and call it style,
Not all vampires **** blood.

Wonder, as you do
Muse won’t visit you.
She’s not fooled by filters
or your cosplay of pain.
She knows the difference
between trauma
and trend.

I see the telltales,
Regurgitated vocabulary,
gpt traced structure.
the sudden depth in shallow ponds,
the cracked mask of borrowed fire.
Your voice stinks of syntax theft.
I smell my soul on your verses,
One look I and I knew immediately.

You can’t fake origin.
You cant fake originality.
You can’t counterfeit truth.
And when you post your pretty poem,
know this:
You’re wearing my bones.
And they don’t fit.

I made this style.
I made this monster.
And it does not love its thief.

So burn in the echo.
You earned that silence.
You earned that shame.
May it echo louder
than any stolen applause
you’ll ever gain,
for every like you get,
know it's not yours.

I don’t cry anymore
the salt ran dry.
I don’t look up
the sky stopped looking back.
I don’t believe
in believing.

Where are you now,
God of broken pages?
That book
full of thunder,
full of fire,
full of once.

Where are the miracles
when we need them
more than ever?
Silence
—louder than prayer.

You’ve
forsaken me
in my heart,
forsaken me
in my mind,
forsaken me
in my...

Why?

I stopped it
right there
in my mind
between one tear
and the next blink.
The world cracked still.
Like God forgot the script.
Like clocks
finally choked on their lies.

And I walked
barefoot,
through the frozen ache of light
curling like fog around a laugh
you almost had.

I tasted
the rain before it hit the ground,
let it linger on my tongue
like the names I never said.
Kissed the steam
off your coffee cup
and whispered secrets
to the dust motes in your room
they listened better than people ever did,
I held your smell in my nose,
drowning in each scent.

A hummingbird mid-flap,
stuck between flight and forever
I kissed it too.
Soft as ambition
dying in a cold city.

I held a flower
for a thousand years.
It never withered.
My hand did.

I found love
locked in the way your lip curled
right before goodbye.
I held that moment
until my own heart cracked
like glass under memory.

You think stopping time heals?
No.
It just slows the pain
to a crawl
so you can savor it.

I walked through lovers
like churches.
Empty.
Sacred.
Haunted by prayers
no one answers anymore.
I touched your cheek,
and you didn’t flinch.
First time.
Last time.
Every time.

I bent over my younger self
still full of fire and delusion.
Didn’t wake him.
Didn’t warn him.
He needed the fall.
We always need the fall.

If I lived forever,
I’d write poems on comet tails
and stitch stars
into the silence.
But I’d still miss you.
Every hour.
Of every never-ending day.

Time isn’t the enemy
it’s the proof
we ever mattered.

But still
in that breathless hush
where nothing moved
I kissed the sky,
held the world in my palm,
and told it:

“Stay here.
Don’t move.
Just let me feel
everything
before it’s gone.”
in the moment
forever.

The sky still tastes of iron,
wet breath of old storms swallowing the hills,
where I once ran without shoes,
spitting laughter into the wind
a feral thing, a child-king,
ruling over stick-sword battles and mud-caked thrones.

Now the air is thinner,
clouds scatter like ghosts too tired to haunt,
and my hands—old gnarled roots
grasp at echoes,
at the soft whisper of a name
I have long forgotten but never lost,
can you hear my whisper.

She was there once
braiding summer into my hair,
fingers like sparrow wings,
light, delicate, fleeting.
Her voice, a river bending
through the cracked earth ridge of my ribs,
shaping me, eroding me,
leaving only the hollow hum of her song.

Dreams came then,
painted on the walls of my skull,
wild beasts of hope,
ran freely,
howling beneath a sky where every star was a promise.
I swore I'd never leave,
never turn to dust,
never let time claw its name into my bones.

But here I am,
watching the sky bleed out another evening,
knowing that clouds
no matter how heavy with memory
will always disappear.

Hunger of the Hollow
Who whispers first
the earth or the bone?
Who sings the loudest
the living or the rot?

The Girl Who Would Not Stay
She walks on petals made of glass,
soft steps splitting the veins of the earth.
The sky drinks her shadow,
swallows her shape,
forgets her name.

She was never meant to hold weight.
Not here. Not anywhere.

The river curls, wet-lipped and laughing,
coiling around her ankles, pulling her in
“Come, child of the hush.
Come where the wind forgets to breathe.”

She touches the water.
It opens a mouth of teeth.

The Flowers Never Woke
A valley sighs, heavy with waiting,
roots threading through ribs of the long-left-behind.
The lilies shudder in their sleep.
The roses are hungry.
The flowers wilt.

She kneels, touches the soil,
but it does not reach back.

“What if I leave and nothing misses me?”
she asks the air, but the air is busy.
It does not answer,
neither does the sun
neither do the stars.

The clouds above burn
folds itself into fists,
wrings light into rain,
spills over in fits of golden hunger.

“Fall with me,”
it says, curling against the weight of its own skin.
“Fall and know what it means to be held.”
"Fall and know what is life's embrace"

She stretches a hand.
But she does not trust softness.
Not when it bends so easily to breaking.

The Worm they watch all above,
Beneath her feet, the earth shudders
a ripple of something restless, something waiting,
something that has never needed a name,
the unknown calls.

A worm, white as unstruck lightning,
unfolds from the dirt,
a thread in the loom of the forgotten.

“Do you know what it means to return?”
it asks, voice thick with the weight of all things buried.
“Do you know what it means to stay?”
"Do you know what it means to leave?"
In all things bright as day.

She does not answer.
She does not know.

She runs.
Because that is what the empty ones do.
Afraid of the unforseen.
Afraid of the known .

Through the hush of the valley,
through the hunger of flowers,
through the breathless cloud,
through the waiting worm,
until the gate—yawning, waiting, endless
takes her inside.

And she sees
bodies, folded and pressed like unfinished prayers,
hands reaching for something long since gone,
eyes black with the ink of every unspoken question,
each answer no told.

She sees herself.
Hollow-ribbed. Hunger-limbed.
A thing with no weight.
A name no one remembers.
Forgotten.

And the silence speaks:

“Why do you fear what you already are?”

She turns.
She runs.
She flees

but the gate does not let her go.
And the garden does not let her wake.

Once again the light of night stares deeply,
Moon’s got me, fingers in my skull,
cracking, peeling, tearing at thoughts
let me be,
I never gave permission for
laughing, smirking
like it owns the night,
like it owns the pain that won’t let me go.

Time folds itself like crumbling paper,
rips apart, mends itself wrong
Minute by minute,
one AM, two, three, four, six,
numbers, fragments, slipping through fingers,
nothing makes sense but the heaviness.
One more hour, one more moment,
and I’m still awake,
count sheep, count dogs, count cats
Nothing!

Sleep? A liar,
a trick of the light,
a hallway that leads nowhere,
a door that doesn’t open
I chase it,
fall into it,
but I wake,
each time
repeating
staring at the ceiling,
listening to the wall breathe,
mind racing away from me,
why won't you let me be.

If I could
I would tear the moon from the sky,
break his light,
fold him into something small,
a paper boat,
something that could sail off,
something I can crush.
But no,
I watch
smug, distant,
untouchable,
repeated,
the moon, laughing.

And me?
I’m a shadow of a shadow,
too awake to sleep,
too tired to be.
The body is a thought,
the thought is a whisper
where am I,
what is this,
where did the night go?

I watch myself,
waiting,
waiting,
waiting
until I collapse or fade,
until the universe sighs,
until time stops pretending,
until sleep gives in
or I let go.

Yeah, yeah, last round, last sin, last down.
Pour me a drink, let the games begin, big grin no frown,
let's get down.

I like my girls like I like my life,
Wild as hell with a touch of strife.
Down under, right *****, word to the wise,
I lick ‘em up slick, watch the fire in their eyes,
Pick up lines? Nah, just pick up legs,
They here for a night, they ain’t here to beg.

Stick up—this ain't no robbery, slobbery.
Hands up high while lips stick and gobble me,
Wobble please, yeah, tease me slow,
Spice in the breeze, on her knees, let’s go.
Veronica, Sandy, don’t matter the name,
Long as she game, we play the same,
Slam me down like a poetry battle,
**** right, revision, slam night position,
No intermission, just pure ambition,
Next day still wet and wishing.
Ain’t no rules, just break that bed,in her head.

Laugh at the law, let ‘em count the dead,
Yeah, yeah, I live life free,
Ain’t no government controlling me, eyes see. ******* to the piggies as they go wee wee .

Smoke up, sip slow, world stay burning, let's go,
They preach control, but I ain’t concerned with
No king, no leash, no ******* master,
Just me, my sins, and a heart that beats faster. Disaster

So let’s toast to the ones who never bowed,
To the freaks, the rebels, the lost and found,
Ain’t no chains that can hold us down, souls that wanna get down,
Blood in my champagne, let’s burn this town to the ground.

Anyone interested in writing a 4th or 5th for my track BLOOD IN MY CHAMPAGNE?

https://youtu.be/8PpuK0AtMkQ?

Needs to fit over that beat and follow the theme, you will get a honorable mention and a credit on the track

Here are the lyrics so far

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5020992/blood-in-the-champagne/

https://youtu.be/8PpuK0AtMkQ

Yeah, step back, Nah, step forward, chin up, take that. I ain't here for the handshake chat, I'm here for the matchstick scratch, The backstreet rats, The black-tar facts that they never dispatch.

Yeah, watch me carve my name in the side of a church, Spitting like a gutter when the heavens all burst, Lip-split venom, ink-stained denim, Mad dog grin with a backstreet emblem.

All of these ******* flash their teeth, Talk like kings, but their crowns ain't cheap, All that silk just hides the rot in em Gold-plated teeth where the worms still feast.

Yeah, yeah, I hear the chat, Big-boy flex but your spine stay cracked, Money so long but your soul stay trapped, Penthouse view but your heart’s pitch-black.

Gimme that pen, let me spit pure venom, Words hit sharp like a switchblade lesson, I ain't in the mood for a soft-boy session, I talk like war and I walk like a weapon.

Yeah, life gave pain, so I sip champagne Till my teeth turn black and my fists feel sane, Gutter-born son with a Godless name, Danced on the edge and I ain't feel shame.

Yeah, I see them all lurking, Fangs in the flesh of the broke and the burdened, Talk about power like they earned it,
What a joke, But they just stole from the kids and the nurses, got fresh rhymes and title verses.

Yeah you know, I been low, I been drunk on the floor of a high-rise window, I been lost in a room full of eyes like gun barrels, Hand on the bottle like it's holding my halo, no pray no, lets let go.

But I ain't done yet, I ain't laid flat, I ain't cashed out, I ain't played that, I ain't one for the quiet or tame acts, I spit like a riot in a tin-can train track wreck,what more could you expect.

Yeah, let the world burn, Let the sky split, Let the flames turn every glass house sick, Let the wolves come, I don't fear their tricks, I'm the one that taught them how to lick their lips.

So pour me a glass, Pour me a casket, Pour me the ashes of every fake *******, Every backstabber, every fraud with a mask, I'll sip that slow, let the poison last.

Yeah, yeah, step back, Nah, step forward, chin up, take that. I ain't here for the handshake chat, I'm here for the matchstick scratch, The backstreet rats, The black-tar facts that they never dispatch, what can I say I still got blood in my champagne and a grinny tic tac.

BLOOD IN THE CHAMPAGNE (second part )

Yeah, I hear that, I smell the smoke,
Ain't no peace when the leash still chokes, bars like a white horned goat,
They print their lies, they sell their quotes,
But I read between every crack in the roads.

Yeah, you sip that venom, I sip mine neat, let's go
Lies on the lips but they kiss my feet,
They built their walls, they stack their fleets,
But a real revolution don’t tweet tweet, it bleeds.

See, I was raised where the streetlights stutter,
Mouth full of dust, bare hands bleeding knuckles in the gutter,
Fed on the echoes of every lost brother, eyes of another crying mother,
Now I carve their names in the bones of the structure.

And they wanna talk power? Let’s talk theft,
Let’s talk hands in the pockets of the dying and the deaf,
Let’s talk leaders that drink till there’s nothing left,
Then lick the glass clean while they grin at our deaths.

Nah, I ain't got patience, I ain't got time,
I ain't got love for a snake in a tie,
I ain't got space in my chest for a lie,
So I stitch my heart shut and I sharpen my mind.

I been low, I been high,
I been down where the devils all barter their sight,
I been up where the saints got a price on their light,
Now I stand with my sins and I set ‘em alight.

So pour me a glass, pour me a promise,
Pour me the truth from the depths of the dishonest,
I sip that slow, yeah, let the world watch it,
Blood in my champagne, toast to the carnage.

BLOOD IN THE CHAMPAGNE (Final Verse)

Yeah, yeah, blood in my champagne, sippin’ on pain,
Cottonmouth fiends got their tongues in the drain,
Licking windows, eyes dead in the rain,
Moving stash just to live, what’s the price on a name? Yeah pain .

Fat rats act like cats, diggin’ in the yards for scratch,
Diggin’ up bones of the past while the people just sit in the dark,
Politicians think they kings but they dont all play their parts,
Got this city on lockdown, padlocked hearts now, while love fall they forgot now.

Don’t mess with me or you’ll see,
I don’t just spit venom, I’m pure anarchy,
No time for whispers, no time for silly malarkey,
Two shots—bang! And you buried in a field or down town parky.

Crosshair ****** in a tree? Nah that's not me.
Hidden in clear sight, I’m a shadow in the  dark night heat, I'm quick on my feet,
Kung fu warrior, I know how to fight,
Not like Sally, *****, I don’t bark—I straight up bite.

Yeah, when I was young, I would mutter,
Gutter-born kid, ate dry bread—no butter, no stutter just words in my head,
Now I sit back, watch the world burn slow,
What the **** can I say? I reap what I sow.

Getting laid every way in the middle of the day,
Stacking bricks, flipping keys, made a way,
While the weak still pray, hands out, empty plates,
While the sharks cut deals in the halls of the state.

Step back—politicians never learning, cold world turning
Wait ‘til this *******’ system start burning,
Don’t come running when your world stops turning,
Like a fake player, empty prayer or Missie in a turban

Yeah, yeah, I see them fiends still crawling, players be ballin
Teeth rot black, souls all fallen,
Selling their breath for a dime on the corner,
Chasing that high like a priest with an order.

What’s the struggle when you fight to survive?
Day to day, can you make it alive?
Blood in my champagne, death in my eyes,
If I see tomorrow, then I call it a prize.

Yeah, yeah, blood in my glass,
Pour out the truth, let it burn, let it last,
Let the world rot, let the sky split,
Let the wolves come—I ain’t scared of ****.