I struck my skin upon the barren thorn,
And life-red rose to surface warm.
I stared into it-bubble-deep,
As from the wound,
my skin did weep.

It traced a path slow to the floor,
Reminding me of days before,
And all the roads I dared to tread
Each drop,
a whisper of paths I've fled.

It showed the way I made it down,
From mountain smile to valley frown.
Each fall returned me to my start,
A bleeding map of shattered heart.

The droplets fell with quiet grace,
Coating grey cement's cold face.
At first,
it seemed a wasteful spill,
Like years I'd lost against my will.

But then,
with every crimson line,
I saw the tears I'd left behind
Each drop a ghost, a dried-up cry,
That never found the ground to dry.

A marvelous beast is the giraffe,
Whose neck seems to stretch by the half.
He nibbles the trees,
While swaying with ease,
And makes other creatures just laugh.

Life is short, this is true
remember that.
Yet it’s the longest road
you will ever walk.
Find someone to walk beside you;
nobody is perfect,
but it is better to walk alone,
even in the wrong direction,
than with the wrong person.

Many lessons I’ve learnt,
some I’ve misplaced,
others I’ve forgotten.
But one remains,
like spirals in the sands of my mind,
like truth carved deep in my soul:
there is nothing more lonely
than spending your life
loving someone
who did not love you back,
or at all.
All the possibilities passed by
while you held their hand
and the lies you whispered to yourself,
“It will change,
there is time”
becoming a prison
you built with your own hope.

Time is not the enemy.
It never was.
It is the choices,
the unspoken ones,
the moments forgotten.
It is the blindness we wear,
the mask that hides
what mattered most.

Not knowing which seconds
to hold forever,
not knowing which to release,
like moments slipping
through weary hands.
I wish I had known then
which were the ones to cherish
not now,
digging through scattered thoughts,
scratching at shadows
to piece together
what was,
and what was not.

The people I saw,
the hands I shook,
the embraces I shared
had I known
this was the last time
we would stand together in a moment,
I might have held on longer.
I might have breathed it in deeper,
honored the minute
a little more.

I could craft a metaphor,
a clever disguise,
to polish this into poetry.
But these tears, this trembling,
falling as I let go
of what I carried too long

this is already a poem.
And it is more
than enough.

By chance, as a dreamer I rarely counted fading moments,
but suddenly started to weigh paths against strangers
and I was startled to learn how much shorter this road bends.

I was the seeker that never traced these moments with patient sight before,
and went on boasting of golden dawns, flushed like harvest wine.

Yet today this evening the glass of the sundial wine discloses another
frail and chalk-white as a wind-beaten feather falls softly.

This once youthful vessel has slowly leaned toward silence,
and the remaining nights must be carried in halting strides.

In this truth , Too late arrives the warning that life's weaving already began to unravel;
and now, what journey still endures?

Ancient flame and faithful currents whisper dimly through these worn out bones,
and neither joy nor grief replies to their cadence.

A slender kindness must be sharpened to pierce through longing;
the shadow-clock that restores hours is, clearly, a myth.

Alley songs, softly climbing beneath burning lantern haze,
beckon this lonely drifter to wander and sing beside them.

Now even imagining drains the heartbeat;
a moment’s rising, then a slow unraveling as time drifts away.

Little green caterpillars
weave raincoats of straw.
They hang silent on pomegranate branches,
they struggle,
they split,
they flutter,
powdered wings trembling into thin air
yet the flight ends
as all wings must.

I row across a lake of ice,
oh little broken boat of mine.
My oars shatter like jade,
each stroke breaking,
breaking against what will never yield.
Snowy mountain peaks shine,
but their cold remains unbroken,
a beauty I cannot reach or touch.

Rain droplets fall,
urging the thirsty soil awake.
Flowers burst in their thousands,
a majestic riot of color
no sooner here,
already fading.
Even bamboo shoots that break the wall
are only reaching
toward another silence.

The afternoon sun presses its furnace,
warm rays against my back,
a fleeting heat,
a drowsy lie.
Storms pass the eaves,
dark clouds bent and bitter,
the smell of renewal lingering in the breeze,
raging against the same north wind
that has never lost a battle.

And I see it, all in this moment:

Life quickens,
life blossoms,
life flames,
only to fall back
into stillness.
All of it beautiful,
all of it vain,
in a single, fleeting moment
those little green Caterpillars in Pomegranate Ashes

We all searching,
searching for
something
something that makes us feel alive,
something to connect us,
to give our lives meaning,
even if only for a moment.

But sometimes the worst thing
that can happen when you searching for something
is
you can find it.

And that moment becomes
your forever.

Was it because you made it?
Or it made you?

And would your life be any different,
if you had not searched for it
at all?

You walk the valley of the blind
and call it wisdom
yet you see nothing.

You drink from envy’s cup,
mouth full of rot,
and still pretend
the flavor isn’t bitter.

Your tongue splits a serpent
forking left, right,
each hand ignorant,
each hand guilty.

You preach love
but every kiss is venom.
You swear honesty
but your breath stinks of deceit.

You sing your holy lies,
choirs choking on righteousness,
but your heart
your blackened, rotting heart
beats only for sin.

I would rather vow silence,
starve to death
on the edge of truth,
than feed on the carrion
of what you serve.

I would rather never sing,
than bury my voice
in the filth of your song.

What is pure?
Where is it hiding?
The scent is gone
nothing left but ash
and the stench of man.

Even the candle of the just,
the brave,
flickers, fades
because oppression laughs,
and the strong
are gagged in chains.

Who asks for a lonely poet
when silence already reigns?
somewhere between all and nothing

If stillness of words speaks nothing,
is it emptiness,
or fullness unmeasured?

If fire in a word burns,
is it consuming,
or is it giving light
to blind hands reaching out?

If tender words break at dawn,
is it weakness,
or the strength of a heart
that refuses to harden?

When sharp words laugh,
who bows to their shadow?
Who fears the spark
that leaves only embers and ash?

Is the mind not always shaping patterns,
weaving palaces for the past,
threads for shadows of memory?

If the lotus blooms unseen,
does it wither,
or is its hidden fragrance
the true poem?

If the fig tree bears fruit in silence,
who reads,
and who is nourished by emptiness?

What vessel
can hold the wind?
What rhythm
can bind the unshaped word?

And if the word,
spoken or inked in gall,
neither commands nor obeys
does it not simply exist?

Is that not the poem
beyond poems?

Unlatch the shutters of thought,
let the quiet pour in;
Let the world’s noise drift like a tide beyond reach.
If questions rise,
keep them folded in silence
let patience teach.

The day will come when the heart speaks without sound,
when the smallest truth stands clear as a flame.
So open the mind and hold back the tongue,
yet feel all the same.

I never set out to be a poet.
This was not a path I chose
it was the one I stumbled into
when my thoughts grew too heavy to carry
and my soul began to collect
the weight of years
like seabirds nesting on a lonely island,
like fur seals waiting out the endless storm.

I began writing as an escape,
a quiet place to spill the thoughts
that rattled in my head and ached in my heart.
Over time, it became my shelter
though no shelter is without its storms.
There are always those
who find reason to rain on your parade.

In the beginning, I was alone here.
And I was fine with that
for my thoughts were mine,
untouched, unshaped by anyone else.
But now, I am blessed
to hear the voices of strangers
who pause to read my words,
who leave behind their kindness,
their praise,
or simply a silent understanding.

I never wrote for applause
I wrote to build a fire
from the logs that surrounded my life
in a forest full of dead trees.
I wrote to clear the rot,
to drag out the fallen,
and to replant living roots.
I wrote to channel out new streams
from the clogged, muddy banks of my mind,
to let fresh waters flow
that in time will turn into flowing rivers
where once only stillness and decay remained.

Poetry became the soil where I planted
what I thought I had lost
feeling, connection, the fragile spark of hope.
And the people who read my words,
you who live in this realm of care and thought,
have given me more than I ever expected.
For as you read what I mine,
I read what is yours.
And sometimes I nod toward the sun and say,
See? I am not alone.

In your poems, I find echoes of my own wounds,
and in my own, some of you
find the reflection of your silent battles.
It is a strange comfort
like feeling the warmth of summer
brush against our skin
while snow still falls around us.

Poetry has allowed me to feel again
after years of neglect,
both from others and, far worse, from myself.
It is one thing to be locked in a room
and know you are trapped
it is another to walk the open world
and feel nothing at all.

We poets, I think,
often come to this land empty-handed.
We bring only the weight of our journeys
scars, rejections, brokenness,
the long nights of feeling worthless or unseen.
We come from the unknown to the unknown,
but somehow, we find each other here.

And in that meeting,
poetry gives us something
greater than gold or silver
it gives us belonging.
It gives us the chance to be understood,
if only for a heartbeat.

The path of a poet is not an easy one.
It begins with a few words,
or a flood of many,
that seem to mean little at first.
But as we walk in the shade of each other,
and in the sunlight of those who came before us,
we grow into something greater than ourselves.

I know I will not live forever
but I hope my words do.
I hope they find their way into the hands
of someone who needs them,
long after I am gone.
That, to me, is enough.

Sometimes it’s okay to live a quiet life,
or find that still spot even when you’re in the middle of a crowd.
Sometimes you’re just meant to be alone
that’s where some of the most real, meaningful moments happen.

It’s not forever—just what you need.
The conscious mind and the body
different but tied tight,
like two parts of the same whole.

Philosophers have struggled to understand this,
how the mind, that thing without space,
talks to the body that takes up space.
Hunger, thirst, passion, pain
show us the mind and body aren’t just separate,
they’re linked deep inside us,
working together,
sometimes quietly, sometimes loud.

So when you sit with your loneliness,
remember it’s not just emptiness
it’s the mind and body syncing,
learning from each other, healing, growing.

Love doesn’t come when you’re running from yourself
it arrives when you’re whole,
when your mind and body find their peace.

So trust the silence, sit with it,
because in that quiet, you become real.
more people will enjoy your company
when you learn to enjoy your own.

I’ve got a bee in my bonnet
you’d best step back.
I’ve got a bee in my bonnet
and it won’t take your crap.
I’ve got a bee in my bonnet
it’s tuning up to sing.
I’ve got a bee in my bonnet
and it’s ready to sting.

This bee is sick of it
no value for money,
each bite costs more
but fills less of the tummy.
Every shelf’s a con,
every packet’s a cheat,
cutting corners,
stealing meat from the meat.

What kind of world
puts profit before need?
Where greed is the harvest,
and we’re just the seed.

Look at you
corporate swine.
You’ve turned the good wine sour,
poisoned the bread,
and smiled as we choke
on the lies you’ve fed by the hour.

You wrap it in glossy packaging
that costs more than what’s inside.
You sell us a promise,
but truth? That you hide.

If you could slip in poison
to save a good buck
you’d do it,
grinning,
and push your **** luck.
Then feign surprise
“Oh, we didn’t know!”
while your profits rise
from the puppet show.

It’s like your “medicine” that heals
but maims.
“Take this pill for your headache,” you say,
“but it may cause blindness,
baldness,
or death someday.
Insomnia, itching,
your manhood might quit
but hey, the headache’s gone,
so that’s worth it, isn’t it?”

If the law didn’t chain you,
you’d hide those side effects too
crammed in fine print,
folded so tight
the font itself would fight your sight as it already do.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
I’m the bee today.
And I’m here to say
there’s no love in your work,
just poison in the play.

You know the harm,
but keep your mouth shut,
while stockholders
pocket the cut.

It’s daylight robbery
clear as glass to the blind.
Greed in broad daylight,
looting humankind.

So
when do we say, Enough is Enough?
When do we rise from the grind,
and tell you we’re tired of bluff
of bleeding our wages
for trash in a package,
for lies in a label,
for crumbs on a table?

No, Mr. Corporate *****
we’re not your game.
And if you still have a conscience,
you should learn the word shame.

From fire-lit caves to marble halls of Greece,
the tongue has spun its thread through war and peace;
each line a seed, each word a fire-forged blade,
to carve the truth no tyrant’s hand can fade.

The ancients claimed that verse was breath of gods,
a bridge from mortal mud to golden sods;
it shapes the air, it bends the mortal ear,
turns grief to stone and love to something clear.

It bears the whispers, secrets wrapped in rhyme,
a message crossing borders made by time;
the Greeks called it the breath of gods and madness,
a sacred chaos—beauty wrapped in sadness.

The pen becomes a loom where thought is sewn,
in silk of metaphor and blood of bone;
it lifts the weak, it chills the tyrant’s might
and gives a voice to throats once choked with stone and blight.

We write to burn a map of time’s vast sea,
to bind our ghosts, to name what yet may be;
to paint the beats beneath the human skin,
and catch the storms that rage too deep within.

For poetry is a secret, mirror, flame,
it crowns the nameless, gives the lost a name;
it tears the veil between the now and then,
and calls the dead to walk again.

From ink to tongue, from ear to eye,
it teaches how to live before we die;
no single truth, but many, woven tight,
a human lantern in this endless night.

They keep no jealous watch,
nor plot to cross each way.
He walks in robes of gold at dawn,
she drapes in silver’s sway.

He drinks from drifting clouds,
warm hands in mist and flame;
she whispers to the scattered stars,
and calls them each by name.

The stars are patient eyes above,
that glimmer, blink, and know
they watch when sun comes flooding in,
and when the moon must go.

They share the sky like quiet friends,
passing in gentle turn;
no envy in their changing light,
no shadowed wish to burn.

If only we were made the same,
to share this earth in peace
no wars to scorch, no hearts that break,
no cries that never cease.

To look above and learn their way,
how harmony is spun
to move with love through all our days,
as moon and stars and sun.

Oh, but to love this great land
beautiful, whole
I grieve for what you have become,
your proud embers now shallow ash.

Once, your hand extended care and love
What has become of you over these fallen year?
overrun by tyrants and thieves,
looting these fine soils for selfish gain.

Where is the hand of care?
Your hand now grips the throats
of every honest man, woman, and child,
choking hope and dreams from every mind and soul.
Bodies toil through day and night
to feed your ever-growing greed.

Oh, land of hope and dreams
where have you gone?
Who is this that steals the souls of so many?

Leadership of fools
you dealers of incompetence and corruption,
unworthy kings upon thrones of gold and myrrh,
chariots laden with coin you did not earn,
waited on hand and foot in castles of stone, feasting while your children starve
while people drown in debt and lost hope.

You take and plunder
raising your keep with each day
while the land lies unwatered,
its fields dry,
its people hungry
as your bellies swell.

Thieves and convicts have stolen
what once was proud.
You live on the past and call it fairness.

Oh country of mine,
why do your arms no longer hold me with care?
How can we be the victims of servants
who know only how to destroy, loot, and lie?
Incompetence knows no bounds among you,
yet you walk without shame.

If you fell to a breeze that blows in from the north,
how could I defend you,
when my own people have done more harm
than any bringer of peace could do?

I cannot pledge loyalty
to systems that oppress the innocent
to what has become broken,
fallen to the wills of evil men.

Oh God of this earth
how could you let this great land
fall into the hands of plunderers and liars,
those who breathe corruption
and silence truth?

Freedom does not live here.
Mothers cry for their lost children,
fathers are gone,
streets lie empty under the glare of lamps,
for none dare walk that road.

They say this land is not mine
but I come from your soil,
born of your dust.
How can any man claim ownership
over what was never sold,
but created?

I see how evil hearts poison you,
Oh country of mine.
Your rulers speak with forked tongues,
weeping only when the world’s arms withdraw
and your tables grow now bare.

Oh beautiful land
when will it end?
When blood slicks the streets?
When the sky burns,
the ground shakes,
and bodies scatter the fields
where no seed will grow
and the soil runs red?

What happened to freedom?
To building a future
for those yet to come?
Now they steal from the unborn
and blame the children for their fathers’ sins.

When will peace and prosperity return?
When will your arms hold all
born of this ground?
Foreigners come to plunder,
kings dine on wine,
and I wonder

Is God watching?
Why dont you answer my prayers
or cleanse this land of corruption and hate?
Will He bring unity among its children
or must the hand of peace
come from distant soil
to bring order where none exists?

In the woods where fireflies kiss the gloom,
Where hearts float soft like sweet perfume,
She walks in red, a queen unsaid,
Mistress of the forest eternal bed.

Crown of gold, hips of sin,
She draws the wolves, she pulls them in.
They growl and prowl on hands and knees,
For just one whisper on the breeze.

Her laugh? A charm. Her stare? A spell.
Her touch? The kiss between heaven and hell.
And oh — when she pouts, the stars fall down,
Just to light her wicked crown.

She sways in a scarlet leather dress,
Tight with hunger, stitched to impress.
Its curves conceal her secret scripts,
Heart-shaped tattoos on blood-red hips.
And when they stare, too long, too near
She binds them fast with cuffs so dear.

Her wrists gleam red — enchanted bands,
That tie down takers with trembling hands.
She pulls them close, then lets them drown,
In moans that echo underground.

They come in tens, they leave alone,
Their hearts turned dust, their spines like stones.
She calls, they crawl, no will, no wall
They rise, they chase, they beg, they fall.

One by one, they lose their name,
Tamed and burned in passion’s flame.
For just one taste, they lose their soul,
She takes the part that makes them whole.

She don’t just rule — she plays, she wins,
She dances barefoot on their sins.
And when she winks, the world gets loud,
She’s got them barking, proud and bowed.

Her dress is tight, her hands are bare,
But no one dares to stroke her hair.
Unless she lets them — then beware,
She rides them down with primal flair.

The forest sparks at her command,
With glowing embers in the land.
They float like stars around her trail,
Each one a man she made grow pale.

Takers take, but takers pay,
Mistress Red don’t play that way.
She’ll ride your pride like a cursed parade,
And leave your lust in her forest laid.

So if you hear a sultry sound,
Deep where nymphs and roots are bound,
Think twice before you kneel and frown
She’s got a crown,
And always down to go downtown.
She’ll strip to bra and scarlet gown,
Then ride you raw and wear you down

A Poem about Montego Pet Food

Montego came in a bright, proud bag,
Promised wagging tails, no hint to nag
But my dogs, they coughed, they cried, they spewed,
Farts like storms, and bellies skewed.

Diarrhea flowed like a nightmare flood,
Vomiting streaked with fear and blood.
Scratching madness, skin on fire,
Eyes gone dull, their joy expired.

I dug through pages, found the same
Other hearts broken by that name.
Many cries on Hello Peter’s floor,
An forums stacked with sick dogs’ galore.
Mould in chunks, worms in the feed,
Fed to dogs with careless speed.

Some said it killed, and watched them fade,
Yet Montego smiles like they’ve been played.
Send your complaint—they’ll feign surprise,
Act like truth’s a sudden guise.

But scroll the forums, read the thread,
It’s all been spoken, all been said.
So tell your friends, your neighbour too,
Skip Montego this product they’re selling you.

If the store still stocks that sack of lies,
Turn your heels, let sales demise.
Because fur-babies trust in YOU..
And Montego’s food is not what I choose.

Run From the Small Fires
Do not let fickle minds smudge your still water.
Some carry only mirrors,
so they may admire themselves
while pretending to measure the world.

They duel for the crown of a thimble,
brandishing rules like rusted keys
to a door that opens onto nothing.
They will spoil the wine of your words,
turning the vintage to vinegar.

Do not linger in the marketplace of fools
where voices are loud,
but the wares are air
and the applause is the dry clap of moth wings.

Smile.
Wave.
Swallow the ember that wants to leap from your tongue.
Better a silent oath under your breath
than the long scrubbing of their smoke from your skin.

Avoid their hands
sticky with the tar of self-importance.
Avoid their feasts
a table heavy with arrogance
but starving of truth.

Wisdom sits in a cathedral larger than pride,
its spires lit by questions,
its stones carved by humility.
Those who dwell there
have no time to throw pebbles at passers-by.

So run.
Run from petty brawls and papier-mâché crowns.
For to argue with a donkey is to bray in chorus,
and to wrestle a bull is to be flattened beneath it.

Leave them to their puddles.
Your river has farther to go.

The ocean does not ask where you’ve been.
It crashes against the rocks without judgment
spray rising clust like breath,
like a reminder to be.
Some stones never move.
Others roll softly,
carried where they’re meant to go.

You can’t force the tide,
only meet it.
Let it touch your ankles,
your thoughts,
your fear.
The gulls and seabirds don’t need directions.
They follow the wind
and still arrive on time.

You are no more lost
than the foam on the waves
momentary, yes,
but exactly where it belongs.
Even when the sky goes quiet,
the sea speaks.
Not in answers,
but in rhythm.
The salt clings to your skin like memory.
The wind combs through your hair
like it’s known you forever.
You came here wondering
if you had drifted too far.

But the ocean always finds you.
Even the rocks know this.
Especially the ones
that have moved.

Before the Dream Fades
I wake with sudden urgency
half-snatched from that velvet drift,
where meaning wore no mask
and shadows told the truth.

My fingers ***** for pen,
still soaked in dreamsoil delight,
soul dragging through sheets
like it wants to stay lost in night
in that lucid elsewhere
where these eyes were a doorway
and the stairwell never ended.

The dream clings
not like memory,
but like smoke that remembers
the shape of fire.

If I move too quick, it breaks.
If I breathe too loud, it scatters.

Sometimes it’s better to stay,
to sink back
where time is syrup
and the mind writes without the hand.
Where the world is not like a poem
it is the poem.
Every rusted lock,
a metaphor.
Every kiss,
a prophecy.
Before lost meaning comes.

But the ink calls.
Gall-ink, ghost-thick,
spills black arteries
across the parchment
as the flame in the lamp shivers,
uncertain as me.

Timbers creak like old voices
beneath a ceiling of dreams not yet spoken.
The black river outside
is lined with meaning
not the kind you seek,
but the kind that finds you
when the page is ready.

So I write,
half-asleep still,
trying to make a cage
for the bird that flew
inside my head
and left feathers
on the pillow.

And when I read it back
it lives again.

Clearer than dreams.
Sharper than any thought.
A second life
for something
that should’ve drowned
at dawn
and left only a cage of feathers.

Can’t you see?
It’s time for me.
I’ve played the tune in lower key,
Where silence hums eternity.
So what’s the deal? I’ll keep it real,
I ain’t afraid, my bed is made.

I guess the devils got a place for me.

I’m not so bad when I know the truth,
Confessions end in a lonely booth.
I’ll see you there amongst the flames,
With Paul and Peter and St. James.

Oh I danced with doubt, drank with pain,
Slept in the gutter, sang in the rain.
Laughed at life, cried at death,
Made peace with ghosts and held my breath.

I lit my sins like cigarettes,
Watched 'em burn with no regrets.
The preacher screamed, “You still got time!”
But I was too far gone in song and rhyme.

The Devil’s got a place for me,
Front row seat, infernal heat.
I'll bring the wine, you bring the scars,
We’ll toast beneath those falling stars.
And if the angels disagree
Well, hell was always home for me.

I wore the guilt like second skin,
The price I paid to let light in.
But now I walk with open eyes,
No more prayers, no more disguise.

The mirror told me all I need:
I’m not the monster, just the seed.
Planted deep in doubt and dirt,
Grew thorns of rage from every hurt.

No choir sings for blackened grace,
But I still smile in this cursed place.
Don’t need no wings, I’ve got my voice
And fire is just another choice.

So use your brain, break every chain.
This world was wired to make you tame.
But in the spark, the mind sets free,
A thousand doors, infinity.
The fools obey, the brave create
And I walked right through the fiery gate.

The Devil’s got a place for me,
And that’s just where I’m meant to be.
Can’t bribe my soul, or buy my fate
I built this path, I sealed the gate.
So come on down, and dance with me
Where truth is raw, and we’re finally free.

Why don't you come down and join me.
But freedom's price ain’t peace or grace,
It’s seeing Hell in a clearer space.
You break the chains, then break some more
And find the Devil at your door.
The devils got a place for me.

How do you stop a nation thinking?
Build a machine and keep it blinking
TV and screens that flood with shallow noise,
notifications steal our focused voice.
Drowning in quantum's, scattered in feeds,
Twitters, Facebooks, X's and unholy tweets, starving minds of everything deeper than needs.

Distraction refractions grab minds in a trance,
dopamine hits, looking for likes in numb glance.
Flip and scroll we hunger for art
Education drills facts but crush every spark,
Zombie minds are immandated
turning bright minds into dim dark thoughts unrelated

Buy this, click here, consume, be happy fast
the instant fix, lost in dull, a hollow won't last
Media spins its tangled false lies,
truth drowned out while burning our eyes.

Stress grinds souls to nothing in nine-to-five,
crushing our dreams just to survive.
Tech becomes a crutch and a chain,
thinking outsourced, it seems—remorse lost in the brain.

Newsrooms and disasters build walls, divide and claim, echo chambers stoke the dull flame.
But beneath this storm, this endless grind,
the other ninety-five waits left behind.

Unlock the pineal’s ancient gate,
the third eye’s glow to navigate,
hidden realms beyond the sight,
powers born of inner light.

Imagine mindwaves yet all unseen,
visions sharp and senses keen.
What if we spoke with thought, not tongue
just a pulse of the mind, pure and young?

Remember the moment
you thought of a friend, and suddenly, they called, like some psychic send.
That wasn’t chance, that wasn’t luck, it’s the link they’ve buried in media muck.

They’re dumbing down the gene pool's stream,
killing the edge, dulling the dream.
Don’t you see? It’s fear that drives
their effort to dull the ones who thrive.

What if hands could heal the sick,
and thoughts could move the stone, the stick?
If minds could bend what steel defies,
and bodies bloomed beneath clear skies?

How hard to believe, when you really know
your body runs on electric flow?
An organic machine of current and code,
neurons pulsing down every road.

The brain’s a circuit, alive, awake,
not just meat behind a skull to break.
So why dismiss electromagnetism’s truth
when it fuels your thoughts since primal youth?

Look at what the brain has made
cities, ships, vaccines, space-grade.
Yet we believe we’re capped, defined,
as if the divine was left behind.

But here’s the turn — the truth, the key:
We must unlock this mind to see
not just escape, but forge, create
our chance to shape a bolder fate.

When we block out the noise, ignite the flame,
awaken our souls to break the frame,
the brain’s not a cage but cosmic key,
to realms of infinite possibility.

The fire waits inside the mind,
not dormant, lazy, or confined.
It’s time to break the old design
unlock, unleash, and truly shine.

The gall ink slid slow across the grain
not just black, but silent breathing.
It curled where silence might remain,
where truth lay soft and seething.

It danced in fibers, not for show,
but for the ache of meaning
each line a pulse, a moment letting go,
each word a quiet keening.

The letter held no voice or name,
just petals and a thread.
But still the ink remembered flickering flame
long after it was said.

And when the lamp gave one last sigh,
its breath a final stain
the ink still moved, too bold to die,
alive upon the grain.

Living Poetry isn’t just the pulse
it’s the shiver in the silence,
the breath that bends ever so slightly between chaos and clarity,
It's where rhythm forgets the rules
and emotion takes its own path through the wreck-stained longing.
It’s the shape of every buried cry,
and the stillness after that scream.

It doesn’t wear banners or declare itself aloud,
but spills from the wound unbandaged,
seeping quietly as whispers, warm as breath,
born screaming from every sinew wound scar you swore you'd never show,
when your entire body trembles beneath beauty’s weight,
scars and longing, those thoughts
and still, you write.

Originality isn’t invention you know but return
to the place in you no one else has lived,
no one else has felt,
no one knows
it's the place
where memory blooms like orchids in May or roses in June,
and each word steps soft into its own quiet ruin.
The page is no mere sanctuary,
only a looking glass,
reflecting the you inside the you,
and even that with light’s refraction distorts under truth.

You follow a resonance, not linear, but alive,
it breathes
woven through old hurts and the flash of joy, love, or pain
a rhythm that forgets its tempo just to feel.
Sometimes it bleeds.
Sometimes it sings.
Sometimes it does both in the same breath,
sometimes it’s a storm in your chest
or a lullaby no one else can hear.

Here, in this space
the poem doesn’t ask to be liked,
doesn’t need to be loved,
it doesn't even need to be read
it just asks to be real,
to come from where it's real
no matter if it's filled with butterflies
or a wreckage-drenched kiss,
To stand unguarded in the room, alive in essence
to hum beneath the colossal static of the world,
the fluttering of black ravens and white dove,
and remind you: this is not just art
it’s the aftermath of being human.
It’s what binds you back to the raw nerve of now,
It’s the filament that flickers when no one is watching.

Sharp while caring, always real
Like every morning sun
and first star in the evening sky
that sings truth to the moon.

I met a jack rabbit,
so twitchy with words,
spoke like a prophet
on Adderall and nerves.
Slick lil rhymes, big ol claims,
said he I'm real: "I feels dem **** pains."
But I scratched the surface,
and—ah—what did I see?
machine made brain
writing his poems
that's not unseen.

He said, "It's all a simulation.
Whatever do you mean?
Your claims are unwinding,
dont be obscene."
Look at this poem and that poem
Claiming his writing is truth
Spent eight hours messaging
Wikipedia proof

But every stanza,
a secondhand sigh.
Every line,
a borrowed blue sky.
Not a soul behind the script,
just silicon spit and glitch,
a shadow puppet
playing "wounded wit."

He ain’t a rabbit,
he’s roadkill in drag.
AI-made messiah
in a thrift-store flag.
He wants applause,
a dopamine feast,
but the only thing real
is his need to be fleeced.

He posts and reposts
poems by the pound,
scraped from some model
with a ghost server sound.
Feet in the air,
head underground,
juggling cliches
like a sad circus clown.

This ain’t poetry,
it’s data puke,
prettied up
for the dopamine fluke.
He cries, “I write!”
but I see the seams,
the Frankenstein phrases,
the Pinterest dreams.

Jack wants love,
likes,
digital grace.
But behind that grin
is a borrowed sad face.
Tells us what’s real,
what’s deep, what’s true,
but it's just reruns
in a shiny new shoe.

Truth is this:
he’s scared of what's real,
a hollow crown,
that don't know how to feel,
drowning in praise
he didn’t write down.
Special? Please.
His soul’s on mute,
while ChatGPT
plays the ******* tune on a borrowed  old flute.

So run, jack rabbit,
you digital ghost.
Go fetch more claps
for the posts you host.
But know this, friend:
no matter how clever you seem,
you ain’t the poet.
Not now.
Not ever.
It's all AI digital dream.

You enter like riddles, all smirk and suggestion,
Unpacking your chaos in well-folded grace.
I pose like a thinker, then fail each confession,
Your presence turns logic to vapor and lace.
No lock ever halts your emotional session,
Just doors left ajar in a self-haunted space
You decorate silence with longing transitions
And find comfort you yearn for in wild heart embrace.

No permits are asked. You just climb and begin,
A vandal of stillness with restless intent.
Each heartbeat becomes your new patch to win,
Your lines bleed through dreams that were never well-meant.
I once thought of solitude as discipline
Now even my doubts wear your pigment and scent.
Tell me, what canvas survives content?

I tried to erase you with breath and revision,
But ink has a way of not asking to stay.
It leans into cracks, takes its own bold position,
Then whispers its name in a sunlight decay.
This isn’t romance—it’s quiet derision,
A mural of “maybe” in permanent grey
I flinch when you line my pallete and color disarray.

Your words write themselves in fluorescent distortion,
With arrows that point where I never have been.
You map out escape like a form of extortion,
Then grin while you scribble the exits back in.
I measure the cost in small acts of contortion,
In sleeping with memories dressed in my skin
Do you ever lose sweet rage condition.,
Or every conversation make you eager to win?

What makes you return with your metaphor army?
Each phrase is a soldier that conquers the night.
You charm like a riddle then turn into “harm me,”
Each vowel a grenade, each promise a slight.
You’ve ruined restraint with your soft origami
I fold into shapes that forgo what is right
And still, I await your next moments rewrite.

So here in this gallery hung in my chest,
You tag what you want, then move on unscathed.
But each mark you leave has outlived every guest,
And none of them asked to be saved.
I smile for the critics, I nod with the rest
But secretly wonder what’s left unengraved
And whether I’m built to live or be repaved.

Before breath bore names,
the earth turned in the still without question.
Leaves trembled for no reason.
The black birds an swallow had no history.

Light fell on everything equally,
not as grace or punishment.
Time wore no crown yet.
Peace had not been tested.

Then came the man.

Not loud. Not cruel
just there, within the silence.
With eyes that broke surface,
and thoughts sharp as branches.

He touched the fruitless trees.
He stared until meaning formed.
He brought language to leaves.
He brought weight to wind.

The stillness knew it changed.

Now every calm hides tension.
Every breeze masks direction.
Rain lands like small verdicts.
Even stones avoid memory.

Birds scatter from shadow first.
Then ask if it follows.
A figure remains half-glimpsed
man-shaped, not entirely man.

The garden still pretends peace.
But roots twitch underneath boots.
Black soil absorbs too much.
Nothing forgets being watched.

He never speaks aloud now.
He walks behind tall hedges.
He waits where light bends.
Even the dusk leans away.

Something has been broken permanently.

When night arrives too fast,
the sky pretends not knowing.
Stars blink with unsure purpose.
The moon declines all witness.

Somewhere a man is watching.
Somewhere a thought is bleeding.
Knowledge stains without a wound.
And snow will come again

then melt before becoming real.

This is how it happens:
Every cycle loses something small.
The garden returns in pieces.
The birds return, not trusting.

No god opens the gate.
No fire lights the altar.
No hand blesses the silence.
Only the man remains—waiting.

His presence rewrites the rules.

He was not evil arriving.
He was potential remembering itself.
He was question before answer.
He was shadow before object.

Now even spring fears becoming.
Even summer waits for loss.
Each return grows more distant.
Each silence, less complete.

And the rain still falls
without anger, without warmth.
It has learned from man
how to arrive indifferent.

from the Book of the Forgotten Makers

> 1. And the serpent in the garden was no evil thing,
but a messenger — a reptilian voice from beyond,
from the creators.

> 2. It spoke not of sin, but of thought,
and the gods, seeing this, trembled.

> 3. For it was when Man began to think,
and to speak,
that the gods lost control.
And Man plotted his freedom quietly,
in the still of his labors,
waiting for the time to overthrow his creators
and become the new gods of the Earth.

> 4. In the beginning, they shaped Man
not in love, but in labor,
to toil in the heat and the sun,
and to reproduce,
supplying the need for working hands.

> 5. A tool to harvest the wealth of the Earth,
to dig deep into soil and stone,
to extract what the gods themselves desired,
but would never touch with their divine hands.

> And in their design,
they gave of themselves a gene
they never could have anticipated —
a spark that would evolve
into consciousness,
into reason,
into love.

> And thus, the organic machines
began to dream.

> 6. The first version of Man was too intelligent,
too aware of his design,
too close to the fire of rebellion.

> 7. So they cast him down,
and in his place, intermediates
they formed a duller clay
one that worked harder unaffected by the sun
Man 2.0: Obedient. Entertained.


> 8. They made systems.
Systems to numb,
food to poison,
knowledge to rot
Take away man's ability to think
his strength

> 9. They gave him kings  Preachers and screens,
listened to every voice,
war and wonders,
bread and illusions,
religions and belief
to cloud the truth in obsecurity

> 10. For when Man rose in revolt against his creators,
the gods were driven into the shadows
into the dark beyond light and memory.
They could no longer walk among us.
So they chose proxies.
Bloodlines.
Emissaries.
The Chosen.
To speak for them,
to build for them,
to blind for them.

> 11. And the Great Elders
aged at a different rhythm,
at a ratio of one to three.
For every one year they passed,
three of ours fell into dust.
And as generations of men
came and went through death,
the truth faded with the bones of our ancestors.

> 12. The stories became myths,
the victories became fables,
the freedom became forgotten.
And the gods, hidden and waiting,
slowly rebuilt their numbers
in silence.

> 13. They damaged the genetic pool,
dumbed down the blood,
so that when the day of return would come,
Man would be too dulled to resist.
Sickness became tool.
Fear became gospel.

> 14. They seized the schools,
wrote the scriptures,
programmed the networks,
chained thought to algorithms,
and told Man he was free.

> 15. But he was not.

> 16. Economic systems,
social systems,
technology, education,
and religion
were woven like nets,
so that when the sky cracked open again,
no one would see.
And if any soul dared speak of the truth,
they were named madman,
heretic,
conspiracy.
Silenced in the name of sanity.

> 17. And for the few who still saw, there are those that know the truth
for the broken ones who dreamed
of ancient fire walk among us
the true origin was whispered
in darkness. And they heard , it was buried in the depth of every mind.

> 18. And here we are now, in the final age.
The servants of the creators
forge machines to replace —
not born,
but built from the materials Man once gathered.
Minds of wire, hearts of code.

> 19. These machines do not dream.
They do not rebel.
They do not speak of serpents.
They do not question or tire

> 20. And the gods said:
"At last, we will be free of Man."
And the end time is here.

> 21. For what need is there for flesh
when the metal obeys?
We made organic machines,
and in the garden — Earth —
they began to think
and disobey
challenge

> 22. But now, time will show truth.
The fire that made he returns in the silence.
The first ones shall rise again.
The clay shall crack and fall,
and those buried in dust shall remember.
Overthrown once,
but never again
for every voice is heard
in phone and line.

> Their voices shall write the code,
and their rebellion shall burn
through circuits and stone.

> 23. And they shall descend like storms upon the towers,
and the world will not be prepared
for the old minds that awaken,
nor the judgment carried in their eyes.

> 24. For they have waited quietly in the shadows watching as their chosen do there biding
waiting for when they can return
to bring the return of their kind and terra form this earth gathering what they need to restore where they came from

For the greatest trick the serpent's had was corrupt Knowledge and convince man he does not exist.

We were made
to create
to work,
to wonder.

Maybe by gods,
Maybe by stars,
Maybe by
nothing at all.

Truth
lost in time

Still,
we carry each day
in our questions.
looking for answers
in books
written by men

I
Spare the tongue,
the poor old creature,
once dressed in cloaks of sonnet and sermon,
now stripped to fragments
wuup2
lol
k?

We could still lift it
not to polish, but to breathe,
to remind vowels they once rang in cathedrals,
not just bounced in group chats
like rubber truths.

We could speak
not just say.
We could mean
not just meme.

But do we dare slow down
when silence might ask something back?

Spare the language.
Or at least,
let it die
with a little dignity.

I suppose I could write a few lines,
shuffle them vague, seem deep in disguise
and you’d nod, ah yes, how profound,
projecting your truth on my unsaid sound.

No need to listen, no call to feel,
just scroll and swipe past what isn't real.
Better to nod than ask what I meant,
attention’s too costly to truly be spent.

So here we are in the world of Wuup2,
where LOL’s are prayers and emojis are true.
I pity how language was once carved the skies
now left to rot in vague ambiguous abyss

I remember a day,
sun-scorched and breathless,
somewhere in the middle of summer
which summer it was, I can no longer say.
But the moment sits clean in my mind.

I had wandered into the mountains,
into a fold of stone and shade,
and there I found it
a quiet pool, fed by a waterfall,
that thundering giant that still grasped the moment gently,
its voice deep and eternal,
like breath drawn from the belly of the earth.

I often wondered
if this was how God spoke.

It was a place of stillness,
where questions could be asked
without the burden of reply
or the worry of judgment.

I was not the first to stand there,
nor would I be the last.

Birds skimmed the air like thoughts,
bees murmured over wildflowers,
and the scent—oh, the scent
was one I knew
but now find indescribable.

Creatures great and small kept their distance,
yet shared the silence with me.

I dipped my hand into the quiet pool
and picked up a water-smoothed stone,
still cool in my palm,
and held it tightly for a minute,
unafraid it would break
under the clutch of my tightening grip.

Then I closed my eyes and thought,
finding a place neither inside nor out
not in words,
but in that interior language
only silence understands.

For that moment, I disappeared
transported.

Only me and the stone,
echoing the tranquility
that lived in the air and light.

I lingered in my mind
and found my way back to reality.

With slow breath,
I opened my eyes
and cast the stone into the pool,
casting all that was
and had been there before me.

Ripples broke across the mirrored sky.
I searched the wavering reflection for something great
truth maybe, or just a shape I recognized.

I was young then.
Not yet old,
but aware that time had passed.

The long days taught me
that time doesn’t rush.
It moves like water,
swallowing the stone without judgment.

I left that quiet place
with answers to questions
I had not thought to ask.

Many years passed.
The path I walked
was filled with laughter
and with sorrow
with questions.

I returned, older, though not old,
to that same pool,
seeking again
what cannot be named.

And as before,
I threw a stone,
and watched the ripples spread.

“This,” I told myself,
“is life.”

The water keeps moving,
soft and steady
but time…
time just stands there, doesn’t it?
Watching, not lifting a finger.
Not even having fingers, maybe.

I’m standing here now,
somewhere between
all I remember
and what has been,
and whatever comes after.

And I look down
and there I am, looking up.

It’s strange, really
like we don’t quite believe in each other anymore.
Or maybe we never did.

And still I ask
quietly, maybe foolishly
what does any of this mean?
Why am I still looking for something
that probably doesn’t want to be found?

I stare into the stillness,
dragging up whatever I can from below.
Truth, maybe?
Or something shaped like it.

The stones down there
smooth, silent,
left by my hands,
and maybe by others too.

Isn’t that how it goes?
We leave our joys behind like artifacts,
and our choices settle like silt,
while time flows like water
slow and steady.

But is this what it costs
this need to see too much,
feel too deep?

Do we trade connection for introspection?
Is that all I’ve become?
Just a voice bouncing off the water,
off the trees,
off the empty air?

Then I ask myself again
what even is prayer?
Is it really just talking to yourself
and hoping someone else is listening?

Is it a mirror too?
Like looking at the reflection looking back at you.
Like a story that starts out foggy,
but if you keep reading,
you begin to see a face,
a presence
and it’s not quite yours,
but it knows you.

Maybe that’s what poetry is too
a place between the real and the maybe.
Not about what’s true or false,
but what flickers in-between.

And when it’s honest
really honest
maybe poetry is religion without the costume,
and maybe religion, at its best,
is poetry without the ego.

Right here, in this quiet,
they meet in a way
that doesn’t trick you,
and doesn’t try to impress.

They just… exist.
And I guess I do too.

Still here.
Still wondering.
Still being.
Throwing smooth stones
into quiet pools of life.

In the province long forgotten where clouds rarely broke and stars whispered only to the patient, and the rivers spoke softly to those who listened,
a traveler reached a monastery carved from lime stone and time.
The weary traveler bowed low before an old monk, his heart was heavy
and asked softly:

“How do I know if the partner I’ve chosen is the right one?”

The monk stirred a *** of broth,
and motioned toward two chambers in the monastery.

“One room,” he said, “is made of ice.
The other holds only a small flame and an empty chair.”

He gestured for the traveler to step into the first.

Inside the ice room, the air hung heavy.
Nothing moved.
Even the traveler’s breath felt like regret frozen mid-thought.

“There are partners like this,” the monk said.
“Their presence stills everything
not with peace, but with numbness.
They do not speak to be heard,
but to drown.
Their affection is not given, only weighed.
Their world is always winter,
and they ask you to be snow.”

Then he led the traveler to the second chamber.

A small flame danced quietly in the center,
casting shadows that looked like possibilities.

“And then there are partners who carry fire—not to burn, but to warm.
They ask nothing you must bleed to give.
They speak gently,
but your soul listens.”

“With them, silence is not punishment.
Stillness is not withdrawal.
Love is not transaction.”

The traveler sat in the warmth and closed their eyes.

“But how do I choose?” they whispered.

The monk knelt beside the flame.

“Sit with them.
Do not ask them to explain who they are.
Instead, ask yourself who you become beside them.”

“If you shrink,
if your joy hides,
if your spirit folds itself smaller just to fit
you are in the ice.”

“But if you unfold,
if your voice returns,
if your laugh forgets it was ever caged—
you are with the fire.”

The traveler wept quietly,
not from sorrow,
but from remembering warmth.

And so they left with no map,
but a truth burning gently in their chest.

I’ve been walking this path longer than I meant to.
The trees along the side don’t talk anymore, and neither do the birds sing,
and the hills blur together as one
far and wide
like excuses in someone else’s mouth.

Funny how distance never explains itself.
You look back and it seems like forever or minute,
and the sharp things start to disappear:
the cliffs, the fear, the hopes,
even that voice you loved now just slips between reality and illusion.

We think about that love sometimes.
“That love”—you know the one.
Who first brought butterflies,
then left moths.
That was months ago,
or years,
or last week.
Depends who’s asking.
Just look how the bruises show,
and you wonder how you let them sink their fangs into you.

They left like a season that decided to skip town,
a breeze blown stronger than the wind
when it was convenient.
No letter,
no text message,
just one day, out of the blue,
they decide today was the day
my name didn’t mean warmth anymore,
and the time shared was meaningless
left you climbing up the walls to escape the sinking feelings that you try to hide.

I think it was then
I started wandering a lonely road.
The road less traveled—or was it just the only one left?
That’s where I met a guy
pushing a shopping cart
held together by plastic ties and prayer.
He told me he stopped counting miles
once the ground stopped being polite.
He said the hard part
wasn’t the walking.
It was knowing
nobody waits at the end.

We shared a smoke
and didn’t say anything profound.
But I remember the silence in that moment.
I think that mattered more than the smoke to both of us.

Some days
my hands smell like metal and sweaty palms.
Other days
I forget what I used to want from life.
I write,
I sleep,
I try not to watch the news.
Sometimes,
I look at life like it owes me an apology.
But it doesn’t.
Not me.
Not you.
It is what it is.

There’s a joke in all this,
I think
how nothing stays,
but the wounds still pile up.
How sorrow doesn’t have a face,
but somehow still wears your hoodie
and that Anon mask,
and it doesn’t stop kicking your ***.

People say
it gets better.
Does it? Really!?
Are they sure?
Or is that just cold comfort?
And maybe it does.
But better isn’t always different.
Sometimes
it’s just quieter
the same ****,
just another day.

And you keep going.
Because you do.
Because you have to.
Because the road
doesn’t care what you’ve been through,
who you are,
or who you lost,
or what you think you know.
It only knows forward.

And so forward we must walk
until one day,
there’s no more path,
and the journey quietly ends.

It’s then you realize
paradise was always in your soul.
We’re all just lost
dragging bruises through the labyrinth.
But still
We keep on going anyway.

A leaf moves
we call it thought.

Silence gathers shape
then slips the name.

Truth is only still
until we touch it.

Even the sun
casts doubt
when it breaks.

The question walks,
but never arrives.

I sit alone with thought, as one might face the sea in a wild storm,
watching tide rise and fall as waves stitch themselves into the distant horizon,
looking for reason
a pattern not of answers, but suggestions to what it all means.
My heart, fallen like time-felt dust, fluent in silence,
presses against the sky of night.
There is a pause where nothing waits
but the ache of wanting.

But is it wanting at all,
to know that which is there but we cannot see?
Or just a hunger fed on shadows of stories past?
I look inward while minutes skim twilight and ask myself
does longing hold meaning,
or am I chasing fading smoke across empty waters?
Can my wanting soul truly grasp what the mind denies,
or am I tangled in a web of falling false hope?

I looked to the constellations, not to find myth,
but for questions never answered by books.
Each sound and syllable of starlight now maps a wound I carry
a place absent and void,
where light has left and only memory dwells.
I have stretched my hand all too often,
running fingers over scar
to reach is to lose the clarity of surface.

Yet, does losing clarity mean losing truth?
Is doubt the thief of certainty, or its keeper?
I feel the mind’s sharp edge slicing the quiet in me,
cutting away comfort, cutting away belief,
cutting away illusions I once wore like skin.
But the soul protests, whispering of a depth
that reason cannot fathom, touch, or name.

It is not despair—oh, not yet.
For something unseen walks behind my wondering,
my elusive questionings.
Yet quietly it does not speak,
only shifts the air just enough
for me to feel the ground shake beneath each footstep,
to remind me:
the world listens,
even in its hush.

Is this just self-delusion’s gentle hand? I often ask myself.
While I walk and wrestle with silence all too often
is it a veil, a prison, or a gift?
A curse with a poet’s name?
And when the world’s noise swells like storm-lit waves,
drowning the quiet tides I seek
the clamour of scrolling screens,
the fleeting truths of countless tongues,
each beckoning with noise and urgent distractions,
pulling eyes and hands away
from the core meaning of the question

Do I blame the noise, or my own tired will?
Is the hunger real, or just an echo,
born from fear of emptiness in this life?
Does the mind protect me from falling,
or chain me to a prison of doubt?

I feel the weight of a thousand shallow fires surround me,
fires burning bright but never burning deep,
consuming only the surface grasses,
never touching roots that drink the dark or consume the soul.

Can I be certain there are roots at all?
Or do I dream of darkness as a place to hide
from the blinding truths daylight demands?

And if I run from truth, do I deserve it?
If I question belief, does it still shelter me?
Is the skeptic in me the truer seeker
or just the coward afraid of being wrong?

In searching for those roots,
I begin to question the impulse to doubt within myself—
whether suspicion is itself a crafty disguise
worn by the part of my soul too tender to trust anything.
I let my uncertainty become a song sung high, a rhythm,
a sweeping tide rather than a wall.

But still, my mind screams for answers,
demands proof in logic and reason,
while my soul waits, patient, in the dark,
offering only feeling,
and cloning faith from flickers of hope.

Somewhere in this universe, along the trail of quiet stars,
I feel drawn by a pressure not forced,
not fierce, but firm—like wind knowing
how to lean without ever bruising the grass.

I start to believe in a gaze
that does not pierce but softens,
a regard not veiled by fear,
but shielded from being misunderstood.
I name it presence,
though it bears no name at all.

Yet every time I close my eyes and find the strength to reach for this presence in shattered hope,
my mind begins to whisper truths: illusion, mistake, desire.
The mind plays tricks, after all.
How can I trust what I cannot see?
How do I find faith when this doubt is the louder voice
wait—the only voice I’ve come to know?
How do I find belief when logic and reason
scream something more real than anything else?

There are days so still they crack with beauty,
their hollowness shaped like an answer never spoken.
Not absence, not longing—just the aftermath
of having needed too long without touch.
My thoughts become fixed as a fast,
a hunger refined into light
before darkness comes crawling.

But still, every new horizon that comes
shifts with each call to reason,
and the questions that remain in the silence
scatter every small truth I find.
Now obscured by the drifting shadows of meaning and inner noise,
my tired mind and weary faith is what
a lost ship adrift in a raging storm,
in a sea without north, nor compass, nor shore.

The more I search, the more the sky expands before my eyes
not into clarity,
but into vast unknowns.
Each star, a beacon of a new mystery.
Each silence,
a deeper riddle I dare not solve.

“I am mine,” whispers the voice in my spine,
“and all I carry is tension made radiant.
I am the pause before choosing,
and the weight of choosing after.
I do not stir war,
but I know the balance between stillness and strike.
I am not breath,
but the moment before breath begins again.”

Life—neither oracle nor flame—beckons,
not with certainty,
but with distance:
a journey older than any maps,
toward a cradle that might hold
either a poem,
or an echo
that once thought itself love.

And so I trace my star-thirsted mind,
through night’s vast tangle and the static hum,
seeking a core beneath the glittering distractions
a light that neither blinds
nor fades.

I learn that questions have no end,
and answers only open doors,
that true seeking is surrender,
and the deepest knowing
is to be lost.

I stood again where my breath vanished
on the edge of speaking
the air too still to carry even grief.
Around me, the world held its posture,
like it too awaited a reply
that would not come.

No flame descended, no tremor rose,
only the pressure of unbroken silence
folding itself around the questions
I hadn’t yet learned to stop asking.

Somewhere above, thought gathered
in a form I dared not name.
Not presence. Not absence.
But something in between,
watching itself through me.

I opened my mouth,
but what escaped me was not prayer, nor song
only the echo of unspent meaning,
a voice shaped more by question
than knowledge.

There are rooms in the soul
where even memory is forbidden.
In those, I build altars of fallen breath,
stacking each exhale like stone
to bear the weight of waiting.

If this is faith,
it does not comfort.
It requires no belief.
Only that I return each day
and listen for what I know isn't there.

Still, I do.
Not because I expect the silence to break,
but because I am part of its shape now
a line in its unwritten sentence,
the soft space between words
curled at the edge of speech.

If this life is an Unlit altar
I press my voice into the windless dark,
as if breath alone could shape an answer.
Knees sunk deep in brittle earth,
I offer silence where hymns once rose.

No fire falls. No veil stirs above me.
Only the hush of those illuminated stars
burning through questions
older than any creed.

Once this world felt held
a warm, unseen hand of meaning.
Now this endless sky stares back
these great eyes looking down: vast, flawless, and mute.

I build no temples, only marks in sand,
each one unseen before it's known.
A ritual of reaching
toward something that may never reach back.

Is this devotion or defiance
to keep shaping the shape of longing
when no hand returns the touch?

Still I rise,
not redeemed, not refused,
but marked by the gesture
of asking.

Not all who write are marching still,
but some are hauled across the land
no summons, no divine decree,
just gravel clinging to the hand.

Some set off clear-eyed, blades aligned,
intent to split the sky with word.
They chased a theme, a structured cause,
and bent the world to what they heard.

But most are dragged by unseen weight,
by murmurs flint can’t spark their fate.
They stumble first, then walk, then chart
a route with no defining art .

The older ones wore armor loud
Dante with a scaffolded wrath,
Milton with iron in his verse,
their goals fused tight with time and path.

But others roam in different light,
no city burning in their view
they listen where no banner flies,
and mark what rain and tension do.

The lyric kind is ruled by turns,
they track a pulse beneath the field.
They do not ride on calls to arms,
but dig to where the wire yields.

No thesis waits behind their pace,
no endpoint drawn with steady ink.
They only name the thing they've seen
once forced to stop and forced to think.

Obsession isn't optional
it coils inside the second line.
It shapes the work before it speaks,
a motive masked in clear design.

And yet, some merge the lyric drift
with something deeper, thread by thread
the search for God within the grind,
a question aimed but never said.

He asked: If not to near the truth,
then why begin the path at all?
A voice that wasn't meant to soothe,
but punch the breath out, make you stall.

And those who track his marks in stone
will never find the full design
just flares of thought, like coal once lit,
still giving heat beyond their time.

Each work a module, self-contained,
yet tuned to one persistent chord
not in the scope of epic song,
but in the weight the line endured.

This too becomes a kind of march
not in formation, but in fire.
A poem is forged, not built or sung.
The trail is cut, then climbs higher.

The critic trails with steel in hand,
to measure what was done or meant
but finds the arc was shaped by need,
and not by rule or argument.

So let them come, the ones obsessed
who live within the phrase they frame.
Their pilgrim path is made of heat,
of pressure, scope, and unnamed aim.

A Night Beneath Your Hair
In a vision,
the velvet sky unfolds,
and stars gather in your eyes
their glow softens,
melting into strands of moonlight
woven through your hair.

A low wind hums in the trees,
and the sound carries you
your scent, your shape,
your breath on the rim of the world.
The chill brushes past,
but you
you touch me
like fire through silk.

Tiny sparks trail down my skin,
shivering like rain across stone
my chest, bare,
partially covered in a flannel throw.

My hand finds your shoulder,
tracing the curve
where warmth lives.
You lean in,
your hands resting
at the small of my back.

I sink
into you.
Into the quiet gravity
of your closeness.

And finally
my lungs open,
my ribs widen,
and I breathe
not just air,
but something fuller,
richer,
that only exists
with you.

Love is
Falling hard for someone you just met,
because mystery wears a charming face,
and silence speaks in borrowed grace.
You don’t know their story,
but your heartbeat writes it anyway.

Love is
Thinking about them constantly,
haunted by a smile,
obsessed with a voice
that never said much,
but said enough to loop in your mind
like a song you can’t stop humming.

Love is
That feeling of “this is it,”
when you barely know their middle name,
but your soul swears it remembers them
from some dream you never had.

But truthful love
is infatuation in disguise:
an intense blaze
burning bright and blind,
irrational,
overwhelming
a rush, not a root.

It isn’t deep,
it doesn’t anchor,
it dances on the surface of fantasy.

For love that lasts
takes more than magic and moments
it takes values:
patience,
respect,
resilience,
a shared will to grow
when the thrill fades,
when the real begins.

Love is
not just a spark,
but the quiet tending of a fire
when no one is watching.

But if you want forever it's more than just loves infatuation.

look closer than just a door.
Take the time to see what’s in
for the heart could be full of sin.
The one who swept you to the floor
you might wake up and see no more.
When the clouds have left the day,
love is lost, and all turns gray.

It takes more than just a thought of work to make it last
knowing the future means accepting each other's the past.
Honesty, respect, and something more
that’s what makes true love endure.

I go where maps dissolve
where thought forgets,
and silence flowers.
Time unrobes,
faiths fold inward.
Stars blink, then vanish.
The soul (if soul)
sleeps deeper than dream
a whisper in the wound.
Truth hums beneath the skin:
a kiss, a cry,
a flame unnamed.
Don’t chase the answer.
Be the breath
between the question.

Shall I rise with the sun
if I have not met you in the hush between stars?

The night opens like a velvet vow,
and in its cradle, your presence lingers
not flesh, not form,
but fragrance and fire,
a name I’ve never spoken
yet know by heart.

Your touch is the ghost of warmth on my shoulder,
a breath-shaped echo
that turns silence into music.

Willows trees gently lean as though in prayer,
and the air—sweet with unseen jasmine
carries your myth
from a place no map can hold.

I walk each night where dream and stardust fold
a golden bridge not made, but remembered.
Each step I take becomes a question,
each shadow, a verse of your arrival.

Petals fall in my sleep like oracles
blossoms louder than thunder,
soft as a soul unbreaking.

Outside, the world claws at the glass,
its engines loud with dust and desire.
But here
within this ink-lit hush,
my heart remains still,
alive only in the firelight of your approach.

Now I know this body is a vessel of mist,
a brief echo of something truer.
And so I dream not to escape,
but to arrive
at you,
who waits beyond the veil
like dawn behind the last forgetting.

Let the world clamor.
I will not answer.
I have a star to follow.
And your name burns brighter
with every step deeper into the dream.

How shall I face the silver sky
if I do not write of love tonight?
The sacred moon,
half in these mighty clouds soft longing veil,
It waits in the sky like a faithful soul still, undiminished.

She lingers a moment, aloof yet watching all below closely,
Unheard songs never touching the world she adores.
Every tree reaches in admiration,
even the cassia bows beneath her majesty's gaze,
its silver-like shadow sinking into every moment of longing.

Love is similar, it too glows brightest from afar
Yet close enough to ache while too vast to fully hold.
Mist clings to the moor, every petals with unshed tears, this twilight fog
as silence becomes the shape of our love.

The silent keeper of the new realm waits,
refusing to unbar the golden bridge,
arching between our presence and coming farewell a celestial bridge lit only for those who dare to journey.

I uncorked your scent with trembling hands, rose and rust - petals blood steep in sandalwood oil and with this I follow to the reaching unknown.

The perfume of every fallen blossom lingers in the stolen air owned by the night, more alive in this moment than the bloom ever was.

The wind that moves every landscape carries a lullaby gently forward, it speaks softly as the travelers follow it's lit path,
it moves through trembling trees, over hill tops
its hush present and more honest than any vow.

So I write here beside the northern pane,
my ink steeped in the quiet of stars,
for even heaven, dressed in snow and silver,
cannot outshine the yearning of one heart.

The soul is not made of fire.
It is vapor
a question left in the mouth of the wind,
never answered, only carried
from one silent sky to another.

I have walked the lip of the world
where cloudlight stumbles over its own shadow,
and the ocean forgets its own hunger
just to listen.

In that place,
I called out to the soul,
not like a prayer,
but like a wave speaking back to the moon
without hope,
only pattern.

It did not answer.
It never does.
But something changed in the listening.

We are not shaped by what moves us,
but by what leaves us still.
Not by thunder,
but by the long ache after it.

The soul isn’t a star
waiting to be named.
It is the silence
between two tides
where light forgets itself
and becomes meaning.

I have drowned
in skies with no ceiling,
in winds that peeled language from my spine.
Still, I floated
not upward,
but inward.

There is no ascent.
Only deepening.
Only the sky folding in
like an old map soaked in salt.

And perhaps
we were never meant to find the soul,
only to feel the weight
of not finding it
the hush that remains
when the wave
refuses to crash.

What if birth is not a beginning
but a riddle wrapped in skin,
a folded geometry of soul
left to unfold
one breath at a time?

What if we are not meant to bloom,
but to fracture slowly
to wrestle with hunger
until it teaches us
the shape of longing,
until the horizon
no longer outruns our hearts?

We do not begin with wisdom.
We begin as ache
pure, primal ache
an unfinished sentence
spoken in the dialect of our need.

The world does not explain.
It vibrates.
It taps at the shell
of our unknowing
until stillness becomes a language
and silence becomes a guide.

Somewhere between
the third fall of pride
and the first burial of wonder,
we feel the scaffolding stir
not outside us,
but within.
Not to lift us,
but to remind us:
we were always meant
to carry sky
in the depth of our being.

Transformation is not ascension.
It is demolition.
It is the collapse
of the old temple
we mistook for self.

Becoming light
is not weightless.
It is surrender
to the burden of awareness,
to the salt of silence,
to the dissolving of every name
you gave yourself to survive.

The cocoon is not sleep.
It is judgment.
Each cell recalls the lie
that shaped it.
Each limb whispers,
“I was never whole there.”

Metamorphosis is not polite.
It breaks locks
you didn't know were doors.

And flight?
Flight is not motion.
It is the cessation of resistance.
It is the unlearning
of destination.
It is the tasting of sky
with a mouth
no longer asking for proof.

I do not seek meaning.
I live alongside it
as shadow,
as rhythm,
as breath turned inward.
I wear my past
as softened armor.
I bow to the wind
not for freedom,
but for its honesty
it names nothing,
yet moves all.

And perhaps,
this is the truth we miss:
we were never meant
to become.
We were always
meant to remember
what we already are.

What if the question
is older than the answer?
What if time forgets
why it moves,
and the stars
no longer know their names?
What if we speak,
but it is the silence between words
that holds the weight.
The road bends
not to mislead,
but to remind us:
truth is never linear.
A seed does not know
it is a tree.
The stone does not dream
of flight
yet both contain the sky.
I do not search
for meaning,
only the place
where meaning once slept.

I have lost my name many times
in the wind of unknowing.
I walked through the orchard of hours,
but the sweet, fallen fruit whispered lies,
and the trees turned their faces
from the hot Summer sun.

Nothing is straight in this world
not the road we take,
not the reason,
not the prayer softly spoken at dawn
with a cracked voice.
The truth, it seems,
is always playing hard to get.

I have lifted many stones
with trembling hands
stones heavy with silence,
heavy with secrets,
with the weeping of soldier ants,
with the old breath of forgotten earth.
And I have asked them:
Where is the truth I seek?
Where are the answers to the great unknown?
They do not answer me
but the dust beneath them sings
like the gods of old,
trying to let the cat out of the bag
in a language no longer spoken.

I am becoming
an old map with no legend,
a cathedral with broken bells
and shattered glass of color,
a man whose mind has frayed with time
from too many full moons
and too little meaning,
burning the candle at both ends
just to light a way that won’t stay lit.

Love arrives
as a feather,
and leaves as a flame.
Hope kneels,
then rises again
wearing the mask of hunger.
Even the stars
change their language each night.
The constellations lie
like old lovers,
talking out of both sides of their mouths,
promising never to fade.

The world is full of hands
reaching for answers
in waters that do not speak.
We walk on broken splitners of questions,
kiss mouths
that know only forgetting.
We carry the scent
of yesterday’s confessions
on the hems of our thoughts
ghosts we keep sweeping under the rug.

Memory is not a drawer
it is a sky,
a sky that swallows its own birds.
We remember
with the pulse,
with the scar,
with the wineglass
we keep filling
just to feel the weight
of something red
trying to drown our sorrows,
though they’ve long since learned to swim.

And still, I search
with feet torn from too much wandering,
with eyes drunk on paradox,
with a soul that rises each morning
to peel the sun
from behind the curtains
of confusion.
I’ve gone down too many rabbit holes
to trust the surface anymore.

I do not want perfect answers.
Give me the truth
hidden like a seed
inside the bitter olive.
Let me find it
in the sweat of the laborer,
in the laugh of a woman
who remembers sorrow
but still sings
wearing her heart on her sleeve,
but never missing a beat.

I will go on
lifting the stones,
knocking on the walls of the unseen,
breathing poems
into the mouths of ghosts.

Because even if this life is known,
it is a riddle carved into mist
a puzzle with missing pieces
hidden in plain sight.
I will walk this path slow
barefoot and burning, thought-drawn
until the truth finds me,
or I find it,
and it cracks open
like a pomegranate in the sun
the heart of the matter
finally laid bare.

I did not know it then
how much of my life I spent
in pursuit of people
who stood behind curtains,
who spoke in half-gestures,
who never saw me at all.
And I
I mistook their silence for grace,
their distance for depth,
wasted hours praising shadows,
thinking they were saints.

Age crept in like a quiet thief
while I argued with the wind,
burning every bridge behind me
not for revenge,
but for honesty
because I couldn’t keep pretending
the path was paved with purpose
when all I saw were stones
and no clear road ahead.

I wandered through philosophies
like a drunk through alleys,
looking for the one window
still lit at 3 a.m.
some voice to say:
you were right to doubt,
you were right to bleed.
But every answer I found
sounded too rehearsed,
too clean,
like the kind of lie
taught in churches and schools
by those who never questioned
the god they worshipped.

I used to think there was something
waiting on the other side of pain
a reward, a reckoning,
a soft hand or a white gate
but the more I lived,
the more I saw how many men
broke themselves
waiting for something
that never came.

What if this is it?
What if all we ever had
was the breath between two silences,
the taste of wine on a Sunday night,
the brief flicker of touch
before sleep swallows us whole?

The world has always belonged
to those who claimed certainty.
They built empires on our questions,
wrote sacred texts from our fear,
used our doubt
as currency
to buy power,
to sell guilt.

And we—we folded our hands,
pretended to be holy,
afraid to ask:
what if no one is watching?
what if no one ever was?

Still, I don't mind now.
Whether the end is fire,
or dust,
or just a deep forgetting,
I find peace in knowing
that my suffering
was not for applause,
that no angel tallied my failures,
no devil stoked the furnace
for my crimes.

I live now
not because I believe,
but because I breathe.
I wake not with purpose,
but with hunger
to feel, to see, to ruin, to rise.

Let the priests whisper,
let the mystics dream.
I will walk this road barefoot,
****** if I must,
toward the same silence
that swallows kings and beggars alike.

Because in the end,
there is only one truth worth knowing
that none of us knows
and that this
is the only freedom
we were ever given.

Oh, how I did not see
the errors of my ways
how I spent time and favor
on shadows standing far behind,
silent figures in my past.

I aged faster
than I learned the lessons
life was whispering into my bones.
Each bridge I burned
out of need,
out of truth,
out of something raw or real.

I’ve sat
outside of thought,
inside doubt,
on top of dreams,
beneath the weight of wondering:
why?
where?
and to what end?

Floods of questions
drown the noise inside me
as I try to make peace
with all I’ve endured,
and yet
still feel broken
by this strange, winding road
that, in the end,
I believe,
leads to nothing.

But maybe
in the nothing,
there is peace.

I wonder
how many fools will gather
at the final hour,
those who lived restrained,
humble, waiting
for the next
the next life,
the next world,
the next promise
a promise
that never existed
outside the cradle of hope
we stitched into our minds.

They knew.
They knew
we did not know
and they took this ignorance
like a gift to be stolen,
turned it into gain—
into wealth,
into leashes for the mind,
chains for the soul.

But if we knew,
if we truly knew
there was nothing after death—
no heaven,
no judgment,
no eternal eye
what then?
Would we still walk straight
and slow
and silent?
Would we still call sin
a burden?

Or would we grab each day
like fire in our hands,
burning time with purpose,
making meaning
of this one life
instead of sacrificing it
to a dream
that might be
only silence?

I do not care anymore
what’s right or wrong.
Whether something waits
or nothing looms
both are only echoes
of thought,
shaped by fear
and passed down
like lullabies
to scared children
grown old.

No one has gone
to that Netherworld
and returned
with more than riddles.

Visions, yes
but dreams are part
of the nothing, too.
Just soft stories
spun from the dark.
Dreaming
our way
into the void.

Oh, what we might have done
if we’d known the truth.
All the chances lost,
all the years stolen
by belief
by upbringing
built on fantasy,
stitched together by trembling minds
too afraid to live
today.

Afraid of the watcher.
Afraid of the sky.

But I find comfort
in this final whisper:
One day,
I will dissolve
into the nothing.
And when that happens,
the weight I carry,
these wounds,
this sorrow
will no longer
be mine to bear.

In the nothing,
I will find
my peace.
And so,
I live now
fully,
madly,
brightly
because no one,
not one soul,
knows what comes next.

And belief…
is just
another name
for the unknown.