A story book their ingenious invention,  
written with dishonest intention,  
Penned by scribes with trembling quills,  
To carve out myths and codify wills,  
A patchwork text of borrowed, made up lore,  
Bound to man an enthrall, to preach, implore.  
  
Not a single voice divine, nor a holy pen,  
But the schemes of greed, ******* by power-hungry men.  
Written by the minority they cleverly invent,  
for the majority their ambitious intent,  
Chosen by those who claim divine favor,  
A gift to the few, the masses enslaver.  
  
A God who needs commandments penned?  
A deity whose truths must transcend?  
To laws of war, to their tribal gain,  
A heavenly writ with mortal stain.  
  
Two animals, or was it fourteen?  
Forty days, or was it fifteen?  
Contradictions ripple, yet they declare,  
"The word of God!"—their iron lair,  
For it's their word and their holy plea,  
but a claim of man their divine decree.  
  
Centuries passed; the scrolls were stitched,  
By priests and kings, their ambitions enriched.  
To conquer lands, minds, to quell dissent,  
On faith's frail wings, empires were bent.  
  
The Gospels, ghostwritten
then passed through hands,  
Not disciples' truth, but shifting sands.  
700 years later...
Paul's letters forged to fit the mold,  
A tale retold, for power sold.  
  
Oh, sacred book, still the world’s best-seller,  
A golden cage for man, a truth-jailer.  
A labyrinth of fear, of sin, of shame,  
Man’s grand invention in God's name.  
  
So hail the Bible, a text of man,  
A masterstroke, a cunning plan.  
Not divine, but deeply flawed  
A monument to man ambitions,  
not God.

The sun stood still,
and Earth began to move
not in sky,
but in mind.

A lens,
tilted toward the heavens,
revealed that silence
was not stillness.

A knife cut through belief
not to wound,
but to ask,
again and again.

An apple fell,
and with it,
the veil between the stars
and the street.

We are all brothers and sisters through time,
no matter the generation before or yet to come,
we share the same thoughts and feelings.

Just as you feel when you look out into the oceans and watch the waves,
this was how I felt.
Just as you experience frustration in the tangle of everyday life,
I too lived in days filled with frustration.
Just as you are one of many in a crowd,
I too was a face among the countless.

Just as you are refreshed by the river’s gentle flow,
I too was cleansed and renewed.
Just as you seek relief on a hot day beneath a tall tree’s shade,
I also drew comfort from nature’s quiet arms.
Just as you take air into your lungs,
drawing its essence deep within,
I too breathed the same breath of life.

Just as you stand in lines, waiting for your turn,
so have I queued in endless waits.
Just as you feel joy bloom in the laughter of a child,
so too did I find my heart lightened by the same sound.
Just as you lie awake at night, searching the stars for answers, questioning the moon,
so have I ask the starless sky for wisdom, sought life's meaning,
in the vastness
above.

Just as you tremble at the thought of loss,
I too have stood there at the edge as well,
feeling time slip slowly through my hands,
like sand.
Just as you now reach for comforting hands of another in love or life's despair,
I too have reached out,
yearning to be held,
to be seen,
to be understood.

Just as you find relief and strength when the storm has passed,
so have I risen,
shaped by the trials that sought to break me.
Just as you marvel at the sun’s rise,
its warmth touching your skin,
I too was humbled by its light,
knowing it shone on all who lived before me
and all who will come after.

Life flows for us all just as it always has,
and just as you are a part of its great river,
so too was I
carried forward,
never alone,
always connected,
In wonder,
Lost in question,
We are,
One.

Quick thoughts crack your calm
should I call someone for you?
Wambulance inbound..

Solitary spark,
Threaded through fate’s silent loom,
Veiled in silver dusk.

Held in fleeting dream,
Breath and hunger gild its chains,
Flesh, a borrowed home.

Gossamer unwinds,
Light unlaces night’s embrace,
Echoes drift like mist.

Nothing fades, but folds,
Rivers cradle their own gaze,
Waves return to sea.

Form, a fleeting name,
Time’s light touch reshapes and molds,
Yet I still remain.

This is how it is and how it has always been - Always ...

Belief, the spark that starts our chase,
Truth, the light we seek to trace.
Justification, the proof we claim,
Together they build knowledge’s flame.

Belief in what we think we know,
Truth must follow, or it won’t grow.
Justification always leads the way,
Or else our truth begins to sway.

Belief, though firm, it can lead astray,
Truth must be present, come what may.
Justification, always clear and bright,
Brings our darkness into light.

But luck, like shadows, bends the line,
Truth may falter, knowledge decline.
For Gettier’s problems show our plight,
Where belief seems true, but lacks the right.

Belief in a watch, broken yet right,
Truth in the moment, not in the sight.
Justification, though clear in view,
Is tainted by luck, and proves untrue.

Belief can lead, but where’s the cause?
Truth without foundation can give us pause.
Justification may stand tall,
But luck can make it stumble and fall.

In knowledge’s quest, we still remain,
Seeking what we can’t quite explain.
Belief, truth, and justification are tied,
But luck’s hidden hand makes us collide.

You whisper like it’s truth–
My body isn’t beautiful.
And then I want the rivers to rise,
want the trees to lean in,
want the stars to unpin themselves
and spell your shape across the dark.
Let the sky spill its archive of light,
let it fall open and weep
the exact shape of your name.

I want my hands to become mirrors,
quiet pools catching your laughter,
so you can see what I see–
how your skin bends light
like a secret the world wasn’t ready for.

And still, you say I look at you
like someone who’s come to take–
but I was only holding still
because your nearness
made the world hold its breath.
Your lashes moved
like small wild things
learning not to flinch.

Your body breathes softly
like a small bird, sparrow caught between sky and storm,
your chest rising beneath my palms–
every sensation felt with a finger tip
not a signal for danger,
but a song in the making.
And every time you shift,
I hear the hush
of wings folding,
not in fear–
but in arrival.

I.
your gaze slithers through the twisted veins of dead poets,
a thief in blackened lace, tearing the soft fabric of breath
that once fluttered with the sacred pulse of truth—
now hollowed, mimicking, shapeshifting
through stolen syllables,
godless echoes turning raw passion into nothing
but an empty mouthful of lies.
you feast on them,
no debt paid, no soul bled dry.
just shadows,
cut from the same thread as a thousand hollow promises.

II.
these poetic vampires,
charlatans in the midnight glow,
they hang in the dust of forgotten words,
cloaked in borrowed fire,
spinning webs of mimicry,
pieces of something they’ll never grasp
but only burn their hands trying to touch.
no vision, no spark—
only hollow ruins of what was once real,
a labyrinth of crumbling phrases
that mean nothing when not your own.

III.
do you hear it?
the softest whisper beneath your skin—
the screech of every stolen thought,
every idea wrung dry by the leeching lips
of the mindless vulture?
these vamps don’t bleed for their art,
they carve it from the veins of others,
siphoning life from the fragile pulse
of a poet’s heart.
they turn creation to imitation,
craft to crime.
they wear it like a crown,
yet stumble on the ruins they refuse to acknowledge,
mimics of the gods,
drunk on borrowed blood,
cursed by the very lack they breed in their veins.

IV.
you think we don’t see you?
slipping through cracks in the world,
hunting for the spark you’ll never own—
we see you,
lurking with eyes full of false praise
and hearts too dead to ignite
the words you’ve stolen
from the graveyards of true creators.
see how you wear their masks draped on blank face,
but cannot touch their fire or grasp the flame ,
for the Muse does not visit those
who steal her name, or claim something that is not.

V.
your words are as hollow as your soul—
nothing more than phantom limbs,
reaching for what was never yours,
casting shadows on the bones of the real.
you try to reassemble fractured dreams,
but all you touch becomes dust
and even the dust burns.

VI.
and so,
like vampires, you wander,
slipping into others' poems like thieves,
feeding on the blood of words
you never had the grace to earn.
you are parasites,
cloaked in false inspiration,
******* the marrow from the bones of the truly dedicated
and you don’t even know how deep you’ve gone.

Do you hear it?
the hollow sound of your empty voice,
repeating what others bled for
but never felt?

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.

The poet grips his pen,
its weight a tether to something unseen,
something clawing inside him.
He wants to write of love,
of soft births and the tender glow of dawn.
He wants to summon angels,
their wings brushing away the silence.

But his hand silently rebels.
It moves, driven by the pull of his heart,
that traitorous vessel,
and spills ink like fallen blood
dark, thick, unrelenting.
It writes not of hope,
but of shadows that stretch and swallow, consume
of demons that smirk in the margins,
of decay creeping through unseen cracks.

And he pauses, breath tight in his chest.
Why, he wonders,
did God give us eyes for beauty,
to witness the trembling grace of a leaf,
the soft curve of a smile
yet hands that betray,
that carve darkness from the light?

Why did He split the mind and the heart,
one knowing the good,
the other bound to its darker pulse?
We want the best, the poet thinks,
yet we falter, unseen.
We preach kindness,
yet our shadows curl with unspoken cruelties.
We crave forgiveness,
but hold grudges like treasured stones.

Must the sky break open?
Must angels plummet and demons rise
before we stop?
Before we change?

Or will it take the King Himself,
stepping into the chaos,
for us to bow,
to surrender this endless war
between what we see,
what we know,
and what we do?

The poet sits,
pen still trembling.
He does not write the answer,
because he does not know it.
But his heart beats on,
and the ink continues to flow.

I count my days
like petals torn from flowers,
soft and dying,
as cold rain
gathers in the gutters of forgotten hours.

I count them
those numbered breaths,
those sunsets swallowed whole,
mornings folded into mist,
every soft cloud
passing like a whispered ghost.

I count my days
as they slip beyond my grasp,
fading,
like echoes down a hall
where no one waits to listen.

Each moment seen,
each life I might’ve lived
gone.
Words I never spoke
lie heavy in the throat of silence.

I count the days
that passed me by while I slept,
as the world spun on
without me.
I count the days
since I lost my soul,
my reason,
since I gave away who I was
to please those
who never truly saw me.

Time moves forward,
a cruel illusion,
a godless god
a mental construct
more real than the dreams
I once held
like fragile glass.

Oh, the dreams I had...
like smoke now,
vanished,
off and gone
without ceremony.

They say:
“It’s never too late to begin again.”
But oh, if only that were true.

Time does not care.
It wounds, it walks on.

And here I lie
broken, sore,
facing the loss
of what I once held
and now have no more.

If I had known
what life truly was,
before it broke me,
I would have clung tighter
to each second.
Every moment gone
is a grave in the garden.

Every day
is one step closer
to what?
To less.
To silence.
To death.

I feel it in my marrow.
One day, I’ll vanish too.
And who will mourn?

I’ve walked alone
all my life,
an outsider
here,
but never truly part.

Love came,
and love went.
Loss slipped
through my fingertips
again
and again
and again.

My eyes have seen
the strangest things,
but never saw
that it would end like this
at the edge of myself.

The truth is:
you only have yourself.
Even love fades.
Even the closest
will drift,
or die,
and you
you will remain,
or be the one
to leave.

Alone.
Alone.
Yes
this has always
been my road.

Looking in
from the outside,
a silent witness
to a world
I was never truly
a part of.

They say a painting hangs in silence,
but listen closer.
There’s breath in the pigment,
ache in the line.
Each stroke: a fingertip pressed to time
a plea,
a promise,
a person,
or a price.

Da Vinci’s Mona wasn’t for you.
Klimt’s lovers weren’t thinking of your ache.
Picasso broke forms, not hearts,
and yet we all see ourselves in his fractures.
Van Gogh painted stars
not to claim the sky,
but to survive it.

Caravaggio lit his sinners with holy fire,
while Vermeer captured silence
as if it were a form of prayer.
Frida poured pain like molasses onto linen.
Turner wept storms into colour.
O'Keeffe painted the body
without apology.
Chagall made lovers float
because gravity was too dull for love.

What madness, then,
to say a moment
is yours
because the pose feels familiar?
Because you too saw two figures beneath a tree?
As if love and death
are trademarks,
as if a cherub in the clouds
belongs to one man’s hand.

No two said, “you stole my sun,”
though they all painted it.
No master shouted theft
when another touched sorrow
with the same red.

The artist owns not the subject,
but the sweat.
The trembling hand.
The night stared down with doubt.
The day it was finally finished.
And more sacred still
every moment
they toiled,
half-blind with longing,
to make something
that might be
beautiful.

And here’s the irony:
today’s loudest mouths
the self-appointed guards of “originality”
pen their spare lines with surgical caution,
write in whispers
to avoid the radar of truth.
Minimal not by craft,
but by fear
fear of artificial detection,
the same that bleeds through
minimal lines.

Yet the quiet hypocrisy shows
in the empty space between their words,
the absence of soul where colour should be.
For the difference is this:

One form dares the test.
The other
hides from it,
until they meet.

...
Sometimes I contemplate the thoughts I shouldn’t, whispers from a dark corner of my psyche, curled in the spaces where sense disintegrates, fractured musings that neither lead nor liberate.

Sometimes I succumb to the urges I cannot name, drawn by the siren of chaos and craving, a rebellion against the tethered self,
seeking silence in the transient, the absurd.

Sometimes I speak the truths that make you recoil, words too sharp, too naked in their honesty, they splinter the calm with their jagged clarity, and I wonder if silence it might be the better lie.

Sometimes I wander where my feet should not tread, to lands where thought decays into cold desire , where time stumbles over its own feet, and the air tastes of something lost, or never known.

Sometimes I sit, still, as the world dissolves around me, rooted to the earth in a stasis,  
I can neither escape nor explain, the unspoken yearning to move, yet remaining captive to the gravity of thoughts, the inertia of being.

And in the emptiness, I find a perverse kind of truth, a strange wisdom in the pauses,
in the dissonance between what’s desired and what’s done, as the self in this spiral,

I find no peace, only the inflictions and contradictions that gnaw at the edges of my soul, leaving me half-whole, always searching, always undone.

Lantern and Flame
From pulpits built on brittle lies,  
their words crumble like ash,  
filling the skies with emptiness.  
The sacred chains that once held the meek  
shatter beneath the roar of voices.  

A fire smolders in mortal hearts,  
its embers feeding where fear once ruled.  
No idols rise, no gods remain;  
the soul ascends,  
carving its truth from the void.  
Earth takes back its kin,  
unashamed of desire, unafraid of sin.  

A lantern sways in the darkness,  
its flame trembling,  
revealing what prophets hid.  
No pearled gates, no thrones of gold—  
only soil, fertile and raw,  
where truths root and grow.  
The descending lights from burning stars,  
cold and distant,  
Fall upon ambient shores.  
They seek no praise,  
bearing witness with silent indifference.  

They gaze upon the fallen earth with silent eyes, unshaken  
They offer no grace, no forgiveness, no judgement  
only a savage beauty,  
reflecting the shape of our hunger,  
Our deepest depth.  

The pulse of flesh,  
the spark of want,  
a hymn rising from deep within.  
Not from saints or stoics,  
but from open skies and burning hearts.  
Kindness blooms where roots entwine,  
while wrath devours deceit.  
Indulgence whispers its song;  
restraint bows its head.  
It seems every choice once condemned  
becomes a doorway through freedoms stairs,  
they walk softly, when each step offers, enlightenment, wisdom  
knowledge in its path,  
the road less taken.  

Through ancient soil,  
fires ash, our simple roots stretch deep entangled,  
entwining with the unseen.  
The winds of our time shift,  
stones turn while mountain lean toward us,  
as if drawn by a force  
older than time.  
A murmur stirs through veins of earth,  
a call rising from hills and plains.  
Desire sculpts the barren clay,  
and night lingers when summoned.  
No angel intervenes;  
only human hands  
shape the world.  

The sea without age glimmers, dark and endless,  
its waves carrying secrets.  
Leviathan stirs beneath the tides,  
its power silent,  
its wisdom primal.  
The salt burns against our tongues,  
its songs carve truth into flesh.  
The depths rise,  
freeing the soul,  
and the self emerges,  
unchained from the waves.  

A temple rises,  
built of wax and bone.  
Incense curls,  
veils unravel,  
shadows press closer.  
Each word sparks a fire;  
each chant shifts the stars.  
No guardian angel watches here;  
no light spills from heaven.  
Only mortal hands command the dark.  
Flames rise;  
the mortal speaks,  
and the heavens sigh.

When looking at each moment in life ,
I am thankful for every breath, every ache, every fall,
For hands that shake, for lips that bleed, for eyes that burn,
For voices screaming, whispers breaking, silence speaking loud,
For love that scars, for hate that fuels, for pain that shapes,
For nights alone, for days unknown, for fear’s embrace,
For light, for dark, for shadows waiting,
For rage, for peace,
For fire,
For life.

Life is
A storm,
A fleeting touch,
A whispered name,
A war of longing,
A wound that heals,
A hunger never truly filled,
A poem I’ll never write enough,
A song too short to hold the depth of loss,
A heart too fragile to bear the weight of joy.

It is fleeting,
sorrow lingers,
hands are reaching,
Fingers trembling,
Eyes are weeping,
Heart is breaking,
Blood is spilling,
Each day awaking,
Until none.

Love,
Hate,
Fear,
Hope,
Dreams.

I am thankful for every color, every shade, every scar, every touch,
For the weight of silence, the sting of words, the taste of grief, the scent of longing,
For the art I create in my brokenness, the songs I hum through my pain,
For the echoes of those I’ve lost, the ghosts that still whisper my name,
For the ones who stayed, the ones who left, the ones who return in dreams,
For the fire in my chest, the ice in my veins, the storm in my head,
For the love that consumes, the rage that ignites, the wounds that still burn,
For the fragile embrace of a moment too fleeting to hold forever,
For the knowledge that nothing lasts but everything matters,
For the simple fact that I am here.

Here,
Now,
Always,
In this moment.

I taste the air, feel the weight of hunger and fullness,
Hold the warmth of hands,
See the light shift,
Walk through pain,
Remember I Must,
Breathe.

I,
Live,
Love,
Hurt,
Heal.

I am thankful for every second, every wound, every gift, every loss, every love, every hate, every whisper, every scream, every sunrise, every night that doesn’t end,
For the aching in my bones, the rhythm in my chest, the melody that plays when I close my eyes,
For the ink that stains my fingers, the paint that colors my skin, the words that shape my soul,
For the ones who walk beside me, the ones who left footprints, the ones I’ve never met but still feel,
For the taste of rain, the scent of earth, the way shadows stretch and shrink,
For the silence before the storm, the calm after, the moment in between,
For the love I can’t explain, the hate I can’t erase, the fire I refuse to extinguish,
For the weight of knowing, the freedom of forgetting, the beauty of beginning again,
For the scars that remind me I survived,
For the truth that even pain is a gift,
Looks fade away,
For all.

The Gift,
The Burden,
A Blessing,
The Curse,
Our Fate,
To Choose,
Light,
Dark,
Everything,
Nothing.

Nothing is,
Everything
Everything is
Nothing
Dark is light
Light is
Dark
Choice is how we see things
Everything,
Fate the question,
Procrastination the Curse,
Each day the Blessing,
Memory the Burden,
Or
Gift,
That's for us to decide .

Time moves forward, memory lingers, love stays,
Pain whispers,
Dreams return,
I exist,
Always,
Even when I don't.

She entered
not walked
entered,
like dusk sipped through lace curtains,
like sandalwood smoke curling into cathedral rafters,
like bergamot on warm wrists,
like the last spoonful of honey
melting on a waiting tongue,
mine.

Cypress glaze glistened in her wake
bitter pine softened by wind-kissed skin.
She carried the scent of
crushed petals and promise,
of rain soaked through linen,
of memory you try not to name.
I watched her breathe
the rise and fall of something ancient,
something sacred,
something mine.

Her eyes closed
and the air thickened
with the perfume of surrender.
My breath slowed,
tasting of iron and figs,
salt from her lips still distant,
yet already staining my mouth.

The shadows bowed.
Yes, even they
those dark voyeurs
lowered their heads
to the holy hush of her presence.

She was the aftertaste of midnight wine,
the echo of silk sheets being pulled tight,
the hush in a chapel
just before vows.

Ocean sound
not waves,
but breath through parted lips,
warm and wet
like secrets exhaled between collarbones.
Her voice tasted like dark cherries and sin,
and my heart?
A cello string,
taut and trembling.

Unbound,
she peeled the weight from my chest
like fruit from rind.
Silken ground met our bodies
with a hush of crushed herbs—
lavender, thyme, rosehips—
the scent of unraveling.
Love wasn’t found.
It settled
like ash on sweat-damp skin.

She sighed
and it was warm butter and firelight,
the sound of a match catching.
Twilight cried in cinnamon tears.
A golden thread
frayed, glowing
spun around her finger
like a spell whispered in the dark.
I followed it,
hand-first,
then soul.

“Rest,” she breathed,
and it tasted like jasmine tea
steeped too long—
bitter, sweet,
inevitable.
But her voice stirred
embers behind my teeth.
She never meant for sleep.
She meant for ruin.

Air thickened
molasses and myrrh.
Her skin gave off warmth like bread
fresh from the oven
I could smell the hours in it.
Her hand
trembling constellation
slipped into mine.
Honeyed lips brushed against mine
tangy with wine,
spiced with need,
soft as a bite never taken.

Fingertips,
citrus-slick and stardust cold,
dragged rivers across my spine.
They sang.
They told me
who I had been before her.

Echo hush
not silence,
but the hum of blood in my ears
as she leaned closer.
Crimson blush bloomed
in places only she could see.
Sensual touch
velvet cut with silk’s bite
wrapped around my ribs
like a vow without words.

Candle breath danced
hot wax on skin,
scent of smoke and citrus rind.
Murmured depth
her tongue behind my ear,
voice caramel-dipped
and decaying every doubt.
Velvet trace
nails dragged slowly down my chest,
painting constellations I would worship.

And in that moment
the incense stilled.
the wind bent.
the stars dimmed.

Because love
true love
moves
like she does:
with teeth,
with silk,
with the taste of forever
in her kiss.

What is poetry but a history of the human heart,
its joys and aches woven through time,
a thread of truth spun by countless hands.
All poets speak the same language,
wrestling with the same restless spirits:
fear, love, death, longing, adventure, failure.
We are seekers of what lies beneath,
hunters of shadows and light.

The pleasure of rhythm,
the echoes of sound—
words that feel more
and mean better.
We stretch them across the silence,
carry them from the known
to the uncharted,
wild, unhinged,
and alive.

Oh, how we long to hold poetry in our marrow,
to store every verse,
each fleeting line,
this romance with time.
We write for ourselves,
yet always for strangers,
hoping they find pieces of themselves
in the fragments of our truths.

Why do you read my words?
When your gaze is indifferent to me,
do you stay because they hold something real?
Do you feel comfort
or hear connection
in the quiet rhythm of the page,
as your eyes trace the spaces between lines?

Or is it because we love poetry
more than we love ourselves?
Because it sits uniquely,
where silence was—
a placeholder for longing.
These words,
small as they are,
stretch farther than the edges of this page.

When you saw the title, did it call you?
Did it offer a whisper, a welcome,
a taste of something untasted,
a key to a door of simple lines?
How did two words pull you near—
two words that opened
the depths of this moment,
this offering,
this memory of the human heart?

Love is not a question whispered to the dark,
but a blossom daring the frost to bloom.
It comes not in thunder,
but in the hush between heartbeats
where silence leans in to listen.

It does not ask for witness or applause;
it is the feather drifting from a swan’s wing
as it cuts the mirror still lake of your being.
No blaze, no crescendo,
just a flicker of warmth laid soft on your soul
the feeling that rewrites the geometry of longing in all depths of understanding.

Many will search but you may find it
where whispers of gold dust gather on old windowsills,
in the unpolished spoon resting beside a bowl,
or the way your name feels
when spoken by the curling tongue of someone
who leaves quiet pauses for you to breathe in the moment.

Love wears no crown,
yet it rules the wind and raises oceans
guiding petals to fall where they are missed
and leaves to spin like dancers as they fall slowly
returning home from exile.

There is no map,
only the way the stars rearrange
when you touch the back of someone’s hand
and feel, for the first time,
that the universe answers in quiet.

Even in absence of all things, love sings its song or can be found
in the bent spine of a book shared once,
in the ghost of perfume that lingers on an old scarf,
and in letters written upon fine paper never sent
but folded like prayers
and placed beneath a moonless sky
as if the heavens were meant to understand.

To love is to step barefoot under moonlight in night air
into a cathedral made of warm breath and dusk,
to find within the remnant faint echoes of
a voice that calls you by your truest name.

Let it not be caged by expectation,
nor bent beneath the weight of forever.
Love is the art of being known,
even for a moment,
so entirely
that the world begins again
in the shape of your gaze.

Fair is foul, and foul is fair,
A dagger gleams before my eye,
The serpent coils beneath the flower's care.

The witches chant their eldritch prayer,
The cauldron bubbles, vapors rise
Fair is foul, and foul is fair.

"Out, brief candle!" Life laid bare,
A shadow struts, its hour nigh,
The serpent coils beneath the flower's care.

The stars retreat, their fires rare,
Desires burn where secrets lie
Fair is foul, and foul is fair.

In thunder, lightning, poisoned air,
Ambition bids the world comply,
The serpent coils beneath the flower's care.

By pricking thumbs, I sense despair,
As fate decrees that kings must die
Fair is foul, and foul is fair,
The serpent coils beneath the flower's care.

she's asleep
and I’m not.
my arm’s around her waist,
my face buried in the space where her neck curves soft.
it smells like us—like skin, heat, the night that hasn’t fully left.
I don’t want to move.
not because I’m tired
because I’m afraid the moment will slip.

her back breathes against me, slow.
that rhythm I’d follow into the dark if I had to.
there’s light starting to break in through the blinds,
drawing gold across her spine,
the little arch above her hips,
where I kissed her last before we drifted.

her skin—God,
it’s warm like the world never is.
smooth, like it was poured over bone just for me.
her shoulder, her collarbone,
the ***** of her chest against mine.
I know every part of her,
but still I look.
every **** time.

there’s this bruise on her thigh.
a mark I left.
not from hurt—
from want.
from holding her like I was starving.
because sometimes I am.

her lips are parted,
just a little.
like she’s whispering to the room without saying anything.
her hair’s all over the pillow—wild, tangled, beautiful.
I remember how I gripped it.
how she looked back at me like nothing else mattered.
how she took me—no fear, no pause.
that fire in her…
nothing else burns like that.

but now?
now she’s calm.
like a storm that passed but left the warmth behind.
her fingers twitch a little,
then slide over my hand.
she finds me even in sleep.
every time.

I don’t speak.
I don’t need to.
this quiet is louder than anything else.
just me and her.
no one watching.
no masks.
no pretending.

she stirs.
presses herself back into me.
and I pull her closer
like I’ll never get enough.

her body fits mine
like we built each other out of all the broken pieces that finally made sense.

outside, the world is already starting its noise.
but in here?
it’s still us.
just me and her,
and this space we made
out of heat and breath
and something I’ll never find anywhere else.

When I was green, the heavens oft did frown,
With tempests dark, yet sometimes pierced by gold.
My garden, scarr’d by rain that beat it down,
Bore naught of fruit its gentle womb might hold.

Lo, autumn cometh with her solemn tread,
And I must seek my grove, now left forlorn.
The yield I ought have gatherèd lies dead
By briny tides to grave and shadow borne.

In soil thus sick, by salt and sorrow marred,
What hidden balm could nurse a seedling’s breath?
May blossoms dreamt in sleep the frost discard?
Or must all bloom be choked by time and death?

An inward fiend grows glutted on my pain,
It drinks my heart and sings in tones profane.

I am the wind, that shifts endlessly, never still,
I walk the earth where mountains rise, then fall.
All things are born, yet in time they will die,
Return to dust, one truth, the greatest call.

Can you see the silent lotus, blooming through the mire,
Its petals soft, but rooted in the deep.
So too, you find wisdom through the fire,
In the darkest places, let your spirit leap.

The river’s current carries both pain and grace,
Suffering, like rain, falls where it may,
Yet through the storm, the heart must find its place,
For with each storm, the clouds give way to day.

In each breath, a universe unfolds,
Impermanence, the seed of all we are.
Let go of grasping, for life’s tale is told,
Not in what we keep, but in what we are.

Love is the sun, both tender and fierce,
A flame that melts the cold of selfishness in life.
In truth know this, that real love can pierce
And through the pain, your heart will be blessed.

Walk every path with mindfulness, let it guide your way,
Joy and sorrow, both will pass you by.
In every step, the truth will open wide
In letting go, you touch the heavens,

For I am the silence beneath your breath,
The stillness that holds all things in place,
When you release your fear of life and death,
You will see: you are then enlightened, and this is grace.

Our leaders tell us war can be avoided,
but the past says different,
these leaders say wisdom will guide trembling hands, but where was this guidance previously?
hovering over the nuclear switch,
While the weight of our history presses heavy against the future,
a script we've read before,
tattered and frayed at the edges, blood-stained in the middle,
lives lost without pause.

These mighty Empires begin to fall and decline not with dignity,
but with the echoes and shouts of the desperate,
As they clutch at the last fragments of their power,
like broken glass cutting into a trembling fist.
Economies shrink while debt swells, promises empty and hollow,
while banners of "freedom" fray in the winds of the luming chaos.

Rising powers sharpen their teeth and prepare for the feast
on the bones of alliances formed in desperation,
silken agreements now unraveling in the heat
of trade wars and territorial dreams.
China's yellow brick roads stretch far,
binding continents in a golden snare while bridging indifference,
the West stumbles through days,
tripping over yesterday’s triumphs during nights of false comfort.

The war machine prepares while generals dream in algorithms now,
Old minds stepping to shadows as AI thought hums lullabies of control
over drones that dance across the sky,
but who programs caution?
Who codes regret?
A single spark,
miscalculated, misunderstood,
and the sky burns again, shadows and screams burnt into cold cement.

Oceans boil,
not from heat, but fury,
as Arctic ice melts into disputed borders,
and resource wars writhe in the depths.
The future generation drinks bitter water
from a cup cracked by climate's revenge.

Diplomats, hollow-eyed,
speak of "talks" and "sanctions,"
but beneath the table,
hands clutch at guns and knives.
Appeasement tastes of ash
a prelude, not a solution.

History's will say that Peace, is our inheritance, our new right.
what is peace really when it feels cheap and has worn too thin to cover the old scars that have never disappeared,
new wounds that burn.
The drums of this new war beat softly now, unheard in the distance
but still,
they beat when close enough there is unmistakable sound,
a rhythm we cannot unlearn.

And when the final ultimatum falls
in whispered threats and coded commands,
will we still feign surprise,
pretending the play was never rehearsed?

What right have poets to beseech truth from poetry’s veil?
Is it not a fragile whisper, fleeting amidst the maelstrom,
A reverie crafted from ink, meant to capture what the eye can’t hail,
Yet clutched by hands yearning for warmth, for something whole?

Why do we demand the words to unveil light in a world sewn in obsidian,
As though mere script could dispel the suffocating gloom?
Is it not the prerogative of stars or the sun's blazing minion,
To rend the dark, to chase away what makes the heart assume?

How can mere glyphs, strung in their delicate order,
Possess the power to strip away the veils of unseen night?
Do they not quiver like a cosmos at its farthest border,
Groping for lucidity, for revelation’s fleeting light?

At what fathom will we permit our hearts to sink,
Before ascending the rungs of wisdom’s sacred spire?
Is it only in grief that we pause, reflect, and think,
Or in silence’s embrace, where we confront our deepest fire?

If the question were posed—“Death or a life without Poetry?”—which would you claim?
Would you surrender to the void or wield the quill as your lance?
And if Knowledge itself stood bare, would you dare the same,
To consume its burden, though it spirals into an unknowable trance?

What is true illumination when the poet’s plight is plain,
To question as a sage, to tear the heavens open wide?
What if the universe offered its truths, but only in pain—
Would you seize them, though they lead to naught but a hollow stride?

Rivers cascade; the sun bleeds, and still we pry,
Is the answer tucked in silence, or sung in the song?
For only in questions, not feeble answers, do we untie,
The enigma of the cosmos, where we all belong

Beneath the veil of a perfect life,
A beautiful home, three children, a wife,
The hearth was warm, but the fire grew cold,
Yearnings untold in the silence rolled.

A chance encounter, a fleeting stare,
A whisper of something beyond repair.
Not love at first sight, but a seed was sown,
In the quiet corners where dreams are grown.

A life of halves began to unfold,
Guilt wore thin, but the heart stayed bold.
The lies, the longing, the laughter, the ache,
Each stolen moment, a soul to forsake.

Two hearts entwined in a fragile tryst,
The world looked on through a shadowed mist.
The playground whispers, the friendships frayed,
A fortress of secrets they desperately made.

To her, a husband, to him, a wife,
But together they tasted forbidden life.
The children watched, confused and torn,
As families shattered and lives were mourned.

A spit in the face, a punch in the night,
Eyes of the innocent, wide with fright.
The cost of passion, the price of desire,
A burning love from a reckless fire.

Years have passed, and the whispers fade,
But scars remain where choices were made.
The world has moved, but shadows persist,
In the town where the scarlet woman exists.

Would she undo it, the hurt, the pain?
Or would she fall down that hole again?
For love remains, but the question’s there—
Was it worth the weight of the cross she bears?

A Love Anthologies

I. Invocation

Beauty, abyssal in your seraphic trance—
flames licking stars that don’t dare look back,
I ache in your gaze, soft as a lie,
the twilight’s kiss, trembling on your lips.
How could we, so fragile, not fall—
plummeting into you, undone by desire?

Your fragrance is a hymn, a psalm sung
to gods that don’t care about the rain.
Kisses that bind and break,
potions meant for the meek,
to erase the gods—burn them clean.
What fate did you draw from the stars,
casting ruin and ecstasy, reckless in your design?

Beneath your steps lie broken hearts,
bones burned, wings shredded by your flames.
Still they chant, soaked in delirium—
“O radiant doom! You are both heaven and hell!”

II. The Meeting of Souls

How do we hide from this collision?
You, a bowstring, pulling me tight and arrow in the heart,
a song I never wanted, but had to hear, that plays on repeat
Who bent us into this? This clay formed into a beautiful sculpt
Some cruel composer,
writing melodies and songs of longing we never asked for, with words we don't know.

We break, we burn, we ignite,
twin sparks lighting up the darkness.
Your laughter rips through my silence—
a knife, an embrace, a prayer.
And in your touch, I find everything
I thought I could not be,
yet was always meant to become.

III. The Autumn Sky

You are the autumn sky—
rose-lit and falling apart at the edges.
Joy? Grief? Who knows where one ends,
when the other swallows it whole.

Sadness floods me, a tide
that erodes my bones,
marking everything I loved as lost.
Your fingers trace the scars,
the ruins wolves left behind,
as if nothing ever mattered.

And still, you burn me.
A blaze that consumes,
but in the ashes, I find you,
once again.
I am yours—
in my destruction, in my surrender.

IV. The Weight of the World

Love is the weight we carry,
a gravity we cannot escape.
Through empty nights,
under the burn of distant stars,
we wear it like a crown,
heavy but made to stay.

It lives in the quiet of sleep,
and in the screams of waking life.
Love is what survives—
both a wound and its cure.
Through agony, it purifies,
and leaves us ragged,
but whole.

Without it—what is there?
Just hollow shells and bitter breaths,
choking on the ache,
and even in forsaking,
it refines.

V. A Memory Eternal

Do you remember me?
Your breath, the very air I inhaled—
the fire that surged in my veins?
Those nights when stars bled silver,
and the world, drowned in your smile,
became irrelevant?

Even now, with shadows creeping—
your ghost clings to me,
a hollow, a sickness.
Can love, now gone,
be reborn from the abyss we’ve made?

As suns rise from drowning seas,
so does your memory—
sharp, burning, and infinite.

VI. The Reckoning

Time crawls, hissing, without mercy.
And yet here I stand—naked, raw,
your touch branding me like a scar.
Your eyes, cold and unyielding,
mark my worth—
and I burn in your judgment.

In this decay, I find something untouched—
an ember, still breathing,
defiant against the abyss.
O Beauty, destroy me again.
Thread me with your broken needle,
and tear me apart once more—

For in this ruin,
your song never ends—
a hymn of fire,
always yearning,
always burning,
until nothing is left but ash and desire.

Fire's breath on canvas,
Illusive, cruel to adeath,
Whispers pierce the night.

Loom threads lies unseen,
Velvet dusk with molten glow,
Earth hums tales below.

Dark symphony calls,
Void swallows, leaving its mark,
Shadows in the field.

Winds howl through the wild,
Vigil kept beneath the sky,
Heart dares to take flight.

I never wrote this to make you feel good,
I never wrote this to make you feel bad,
However I did write with intention,
to make you feel !
To throw truth in your face,
Like it
Or not.

Look around you.
What do you see?
Is there anything in this life that will stay?
Look again.
What do you see?
Everything is temporary.
Everything you know,
everything you touch,
everything you love—
temporary.

A wife looks at her husband,
one day you will be gone.
A child looks at their mother,
one day you will be gone.
And it will hurt.
God, it will hurt.

Look around.
Do you see permanence?
Or do you see fragile moments,
slipping through your fingers
like sand you can’t hold onto?

Have you ever thought—
really thought—
about how it ends?
Everything,
everyone.
All of it,
gone.
And the love you feel now?
That love will turn to longing,
to aching,
to empty spaces where laughter used to live.
It’s the price we pay,
isn’t it?
For loving.
For living.

Nothing lasts forever.
Nothing is permanent.
Everything you smell,
everything you taste,
comes and goes.
Fleeting.
Fading.
This is the life we live.
A life of temporary joy
and inevitable loss.

And yet we pretend.
We carry on,
laughing,
loving,
living,
as if we’ve forgotten
that it all ends
too soon.

Have you ever looked at your dog
and thought about the day
they won’t be there to greet you?
Have you ever touched your father’s hand
and wondered how many times are left?
Have you ever heard your mother’s voice
and feared the silence that will follow
one day?
One day.
That day always comes.
And we are never ready.

They say,
a life worth living is the goal.
But does that make it hurt any less
when the ones you love
are ripped away,
leaving only memories
that ache in the quiet?

Look around you.
The car,
the job,
the house,
the clothes,
the people—
they will all disappear.
Whether before you,
with you,
or after you.
Truth is,
we are all just passing through,
filling time
with things that will crumble
and moments that will fade.

And yet, we ask—
why are we here?
What is this all for?
To love,
to hurt,
to leave,
to be left?
We cling to stories,
to hopes,
to beliefs that promise more.
But do they really help?
Or are they just another way
to delay the inevitable truth—
that nothing,
not even us,
will last?

Tell me about heaven.
Will it make this pain worth it?
Will it take the longing away?
Will it bring back the ones we lost?
Or is it just another story
we whisper to ourselves
when the silence gets too loud?

And what if there’s nothing?
What if one day,
it all just stops?
No more heartache.
No more missing.
No more pain.
Doesn’t that sound like heaven,
too?

Because this life,
this cruel, beautiful, fleeting life,
is full of too much loss,
too many goodbyes,
too many things
we should have held onto
just a little longer.

So, what do we do?
We love anyway.
Even though it will hurt.
We hold hands anyway.
Even though they will let go.
We laugh anyway.
Even though the echo will break us
one day.

Because nothing is guaranteed.
And no one knows
what comes next.
But right now—
right now,
we have this moment.

So tell me,
what did you do today
to truly hold onto it
before it was gone?
And what will you do tomorrow?
Will you remember these words ?
Or will they be temporary !
Lost with a click ?

Hope, the final shard of the box, remained,
Not a blessing, but a quiet tether,
Binding the will, a silken chain unseen,
Whispering promises through hollow winds,
The evils now roam free, clawing the earth,
And still, they hold to what was left inside.

Inside, they hold to what was left,
The earth clawing free evils now roam,
Through hollow winds, whispering promises,
A silken chain unseen, binding the will,
Not a blessing, but a quiet tether—
Hope, the final shard of the box, remained.

The box of Hope, remained shard-like,
An anchor tied to despair’s subtle breath.
Action waits, lulled in its hypnotic hum,
Hands falter, waiting on stars to align.
The cycle repeats, unbroken, a spell cast,
Inside and out, the box is never empty.

Empty is never the box; out and inside,
A spell cast unbroken repeats the cycle.
Align stars to waiting hands falter, hum,
Hypnotic in its waits; action breathes subtle,
To despair tied, an anchor of Hope.
Shard-like, remained, the box of the final.

The final breath of Pandora’s folly,
Hope weaves its lie into mortal veins,
“Better will come,” it whispers so sweet,
Yet better never comes, just the waiting.
Palindromic is its promise, circling
Forever, always, back to the same song.

Song the same to back, always, forever.
Circling promise its palindromic waiting,
The just comes never better; sweet whispers,
It will better, "Come," so mortal veins lie.
Into its weave Hope folly Pandora breathes,
The final shard, the box of evils remains.

Hope remains—the illusion unchanged,
Its promise a mirror of stillness.

Beneath an ancient, gnarled oak I sit,
Reflection caught where waters flit.
Solitude cradles thoughts that weave,
A dance of dark and light to cleave.

“What is virtue?” I beseech the breeze,
“And what is vice that tempts and teases?”
Mortal laws seem brittle, vain,
Molded by the hands of gain.

Eyes close to conjure a shadowed man,
Stealing for love, a desperate plan.
To nourish kin, he breaks decree
Where lies the wickedness in need?

Does virtue wear a crown of thorns?
Is sin the harvest justice scorns?
Does harm reveal the hidden blight,
Or shift with who defines the right?

In fevered dreams, I wander wide,
Where tyranny and greed collide.
Statutes defend the gilded throne,
But is rebellion’s rage alone?

“If I stand alone, my truth ablaze,
While others hurl their scorn and gaze,
Am I the rogue, in shadows steeped,
Or is their blindness shallow, cheap?”

I see the ghosts of martyrs burned,
By pyres where fickle fate has turned.
Legends born of ashes speak
Condemnation turns to sacred seek.

No absolutes, no iron creed,
Virtue and vice, capricious seed.
Fashioned by the pulse of fear,
Shaped by hunger, ever near.

Still, doubt becomes an iron shroud,
How can one discern the proud?
My mirrored face in ripples torn,
Asks if I rise or if I mourn.

Goodness, not pristine, but fought,
Is hewn from choices daily wrought.
Harm none, tread the narrow way,
When sirens sing, and dark holds sway.

If my compass, lone, defies the throng,
Will I, errant, sing the wrong?
Or will truth, against the gale,
Be the song that breaks the pale?

Certainty remains a ghost,
Yet I pursue it, tempest-tossed.
To question deep, to bear the flame,
With courage braving doubt and shame.

The sun now bleeds across the sky,
Night unfurls with a mournful sigh.
The battle of good and evil starts,
A clash within, the soul’s fierce art.

Palette yellow of yolk,
silver guns—many—hung high on the wall.
A man sips whiskey in a short glass,
thinking three, maybe four.
Black coat pressed to brick,
he wonders:
What is it all for?

People pass—tall ones, short—
their eyes scan the street
like art for sale.
Men in white jackets,
women in skirts
with long legs
that could outrun yesterday.

And what if the guns
on that yolk-yellow wall
were melted into sculpture,
and the sky turned
from grey to night?

Sculptors and sculptures,
artists with red-stained brushes,
writers dropping clichés
like skyscrapers collapsing into verse.
Letters stretch like towers,
spaces bustle like streets.

Salesmen and people preach—
pitching concepts
to crowds like prophets in tailored suits.
The sound spills into the square.

Horns hoot,
cars hiss past,
exhaust coils in the air
like city incense.
People march left, right
ants with nowhere real to go.

A man taps a bucket drum
metal echoes in rhythm.
The cling-clang of falling change
fills his heart with warmth
but not the scarf
that guards him at night.

Coffee steam and scattered chatter
ghost through his thoughts.
Green light: go.
Amber: maybe go faster.
Red: stop, or forget to look back.

A man in a pressed white shirt,
Italian shoes,
watches it all.
Importance—just a trick of the mind.

Windows sparkle in every direction—
selling what we crave,
but never need.
Cliché,
but honest.

And in the center,
beneath neon breath,
a statue—bronze and copper—
shines.

A buffalo.
Mighty.
Fighting off a leopard
as it leaps upon his rear.
What did the artist feel
when tool met form?
What soul spilled
into metal?

Around me
reds, blues, greens, yellows.
Purple sweaters
draped like royalty.
Name-brand blazers,
black shoes polished
like ambition.
A black-and-white scarf
like city stripes.

This place hums
with sound, with scent,
with people and pulse.
Billboards beam
scenes that feel
like a worm becoming butterfly.

This is the city I live.
Alive. With potential.

Yet so many
walk head down,
clutching yesterday’s newspaper
like it still breathes truth.

And then—
I met the flower seller.
A basket of blooms at her hip,
bunches of color
and single red roses
like soft weapons of the heart.

“Buy these for someone special,”
she said with a smile.
And I thought, who could that be?

I paid.
Clutched the roses
as their thorns pricked my hand
love is just like this,
a sharp poke
wrapped in beauty.

She smiled,
a kindness in her eyes
as I walked away
holding six red roses
with no one to give them to.

It’s strange
how women smile
when a man carries flowers
like a banner of romance.
They think: some lucky woman.
But the truth?
I bought them out of pity.
They had no home.

So I gave them away.

To strangers
not for beauty,
but for need.
Left one on a park bench.
Another at the feet of a sleeping person.
One placed gently
on a café table
where a woman sat alone,
a waiter laying down the bill.

She declined.
I left it anyway.
And walked off.

Looking back,
she held it.
Smiling.

The final rose I held close for a moment,
stopping a couple walking hand in hand.
“Excuse me,” I said, “this is for you.”
The gesture caught them off guard.

This is what the world needs more of.
More cling-clang of change
in a busker’s bucket.
More roses
for those who need a reason to smile.
More quiet kindnesses
that ripple outward.

And then I moved
toward the subway,
where people crowd the cars
everyone going somewhere.
Who knows where?

A pregnant woman stepped on,
her hand resting on the small of her back.
Someone stood,
offering their seat
without a word.

I caught their eye,
nodded,
and smiled
a silent thank you
carried in the crowd.

Everyone
going
somewhere.

Thy hollow eyes like haunted lanterns blaze.
In silence dost thou bear thy soul's unrest,
While madness cloaks thee in a shadowed haze.

Did sirens draw thee with their viper’s breath,
To drown thee in a brine of love and fear?
Or didst thou dream too close the verge of death,
And wake to find no guiding angels near?

I knew thee once all fire, fierce and fair,
Thy voice a flame that sang in measured grace.
Now wand’ring winds do toss thy golden hair,
And chaos paints strange sorrow on thy face.

Yet rise, O Muse, from ash and bitter rain
Let verse restore thy light, and break thy chain.

Before you sleep my beautiful one,
Don't let sleep be jealous of your beauty,
Let us walk hand in hand down to the ocean,
Let the moonlight guide our way to the shore.

Let passion be a journey into love's depth,
As we walk, let night air consume us,
As the heavens spark with soft, gentle light.
Let the stars bathe us in their bright aura.

I want to hear the silence of each footprint
As we walk across the golden sand.
Your breath is of sweet delight.
Oh my love, hold my hand tight;
Never let it go as we walk in the shadow of the moon.

You spark and ignite every inch of my desire!
Let's stop for a minute and watch the ocean.
The time is upon us, let us absorb the moment.

The stars in the sky call your name softly,
And the sands dance on your perfect feet.
What stillness in the enormous heavens,
And what whispers of harmony we share.

In this timeless moment, I pull you close,
Your soft locks of hair through my hand,
Never have I felt such fleeting thrills!
Every desire crying loudly in silent echoes.

The night feels more lovely than the day;
It writes in a forbidden language of its own,
Eternal words through silent speech
The infinite name of Love!

You are my only lover, my fire burns for you!
You are my full and every desire!
Let us become one and hold each other.
The nights are dark, but our hour is everlasting!

From heaven’s grace or hell’s unholy flame?
You move like wine—both remedy and sting.
Both love and ruin follow in your name,
And eyes like suns make trembling senses sing.

Your kiss undoes the pride of wiser men,
Transforms the meek to kings, or kings to dust.
No law can tame your steps, again and again
You rule with neither mercy, care, nor trust.

I’ve seen you dance where tombstones split the earth,
Your jewels like blood, your laughter like a knife.
You dress in death and sell it under mirth,
And fools call that destruction love, or life.

What matters source—divine or demon’s art?
You light the dark, and that undoes my heart.

You rage in CAPS, but never find your place,
Your fury burns, but leaves no trace.

A limerick laughs, a sonnet steals the show,
Your words fall flat, with nowhere to go.

You bark at form, at rhyme, at meter’s grace,
But tantrums fail your win erased.

You write with slurs, as if that buys you time,
Yet poetry’s fire is sharp and prime.

You could’ve learned a style a villanelle or line
Instead, you mock what needs that's fine.

Each sestina loops, it's a mindful art,
While snow globe and lava lamps just fall apart.

Pantoum, haiku, blank verse come on take your pick,
Tools to build, not tricks you *****.

You troll and scroll, but never touch the page,
Afraid to step into the poet’s stage.

R your name won’t last in rhyme,
Lost to noise and lost in time.

So throw your shade, pretend you’re deep,
But poets hold the truths you keep asleep

This ever winding road, the smell of uncertainty and despair
Thoughts buzz like little insects in my mind, mosquitoes
Days flash like lights or a candle flickering in the wind
Time passing like sand through the hourglass—so are the days of our lives.
Laughter as this thought passes my mind, but true
Screaming at silence I wonder what is it all worth, this life of decline
Moments and people, our relationships build but only to break
These are the thoughts that stick to my skin
That burn without a flame.

The end seems so empty at times
Strange how days and moments last when you're young but pass you by ever more quickly with age.
Life is like a roll of toilet paper, an old man once told me
“What do you mean?” I said.
“Well, the closer to the end you get, the quicker it goes.”
Didn't make sense at first
I thought life would stay like those long days of May
Or the running through summer or spring
Autumn—oh those red skies of shepherd’s delight, those rolling hills of forever more
Those golden sunrises of I miss you more
Left with only grey as days pass away

You only realize you're getting older when you start going to fewer birthdays with cake and candles
and more funerals with sandwiches and tears,
more memories than wishes
Trading tears of joy for those of loss and
“I’m sorry you're feeling this way, but it too will pass.”
The inevitable is—we all end up on the shelf,
scattered to the wind and the ocean or eaten by the worms
as we lay forevermore in the stone garden, a reminder that we were here,
Birds will ****, fly over, and if you're lucky, pass a plopping **** on you
to say you still were part of something, even in absence.

I remember looking to the sea once and thinking I own this life
only to revisit that same space years later asking why.
I asked the ocean,
Why do we grow old too soon and learn so late?
Why do the hands of time keep moving?
The reflection in the mirror no longer recognizes me,
or is it that I don't remember the reflections?
Those that I have loved—all things come to pass,
probably the most cruel reality,
and everything I thought mattered once

well look now that I've walked the path of the unknown,
upon the days and nights of yonder wide,
I've come to realize—well, these things don't matter much anymore.

Oh cruel life, what is this terrible game you play
of moth to flame, knowing it will always end in death?
In life subtly burning its wings off,
you knew all along—little children reach to touch the sky
but instead touch the sun and burn our fingers, one by one.

I know my time comes,
creeping at first it seems, but these days—
it's almost like they run, and I'm trying to catch up.
I know my time is coming, and even if I don't like this concept
it's how it is.
I know that time comes for me, and it will carry me forward in its wings
until the day comes where I no longer can fly with it like a dove.

And that's okay
because I know my words will scatter the earth
and find refuge in new minds, in open hearts,
and the distance of the souls.

As I walk this path, mornings come and days go,
night consumes and flowers bloom,
birds do sing and rain does fall
and this is what happens to us all.

There is an island where night wears perfume
of crushed orchids, rain-soaked roots,
and the shadows of drums echoing through
wild fig, mahogany, and sandalwood.
It is shaped like her
hips in the curve of the bay,
lips in the rise of each tropical thunderstorm.

Dark waterfalls pour from her crown,
cascading curls of black fleece,
chaotic rivers that snap the teeth of combs
and drown the day’s discipline.
In each cove, a secret hums
a memory, a map,
a honey-thick promise.

She shakes herself loose and I follow
a rag in the wind of her motion,
spun silver threads, stripped, surrendered.
My thoughts tangle in her forest of scent
spice, sweat, incense,
a melody too wild for music.

This is no place found on any map
but I’ve been here in dream and fever.
Oarsmen chant in rhythm with my breath,
bright sails crack like kisses overhead,
and vessels glide over gold-threaded waves
toward the core of her heat.

Her island is a hearth for the starved,
where no thirst remains unquenched,
no ache unacknowledged.
I come hollow, dry
I leave fulfilled, wet
she fills me with color,
with rhythm,
with her storm-fed pulse.

And when I rest,
head cradled in the dark tide of her,
she rocks me gently
as the night sings low
under moonlight sky
and eyes staring down
a connoisseur of ecstasies,
nursing the nerves of every storm-tossed soul
that dares arrive
and stay.

Sun-born
Dawn-drawn
Petal-flame
Still-name

Root-deep
Mist-sleep
­Grace-bloom
Shadow-room

Sky-touch
Silk-clutch
Soul-bright
Lotus Delight

Not every fire burns the flesh.
Some arrive with breathless stillness,
draped in dusk-colored light,
a gaze too wide for one face to hold.
blinded still –
I called to you.

I did not know
what love could become
when it puts down its veil
and steps forward,
not as comfort,
but as divinity.

You were not gentle.

You stood where the air bent around you–
more presence than person,
a voice like thunder wrapped in silk,
fingertips trailing the edges of my ruin
like a priest naming what can’t be saved.

And still, I stayed.

Where are the days
when love was a glance from across the room,
a laugh shared over fruit and rain?
Now it is an archangel
descending through my ribs,
setting fire to my lungs
my soul catching flame
with every beat that dares endure you.

You asked for nothing–
only that I remain still
as you unfolded
in the space between heartbeats.

Who are you?

You are not lover, not ghost,
but the god hiding in desire.
You are the pollen of all beginnings,
the storm-light before any world was shaped,
the echo that built the sky
just to have somewhere to fall.

You are the mirror held to my face
after I have vanished.
And yet–
I call to you still.
Not because I will survive the blaze,
nor revive a soul,
but because I would rather burn in your nearness
than live untouched.

The word intrinsically
is tossed into conversations
like loose change in your ash tray
its weight overlooked,
its meaning lost
in the noise of hedonism.

But it is important to understand:
Unlike the word instrumental,
it carries no condition,
needs no chain to bind its worth.

Money, so often mistaken for gold,
it is only a reflection
instrumentally valuable,
its true purpose realized
only when it buys a fleeting moment.
But it is not intrinsically valuable.

Pleasure, though, stands alone,
its joy neither traded nor diminished.
The experience itself,
pure, undiluted, whole,
is enough.

Even if it leads nowhere,
even if it touches nothing else,
pleasure exists,
and that is the value.

Often I stand on life’s sidelines,
thinking – real calm, real clear:
I couldn’t give two *****,
’cause without a doubt,
you’d just want more…
and I ain’t about to give three or four.

Winds howl through my ears
empty voices, empty rules,
dust beneath my feet.

Stars burn, mountains fall,
yet still they beg me to care.
I just light my smoke.

I tore silence apart in my mind.
The universe spoke softly, whispering secrets of the unknown.
Unspoken truths fractured my thoughts apart
into tiny shards.
I watched it all crumble.
Meaning slipped quickly through the cracks of my hands,
where all logic folds.
Every drawn map of my mind dissolved
How would I find north
when my compass lies?

My dreams echoed lands unseen.
Waking to think of it made my skin hum.
A wolf moved in and out of my visions,
eyes of glowing green.
It was as if the mirrors warped.
Every door was a new question.
How could it be,
while madness smiles?

The wind blew intuition restlessly.
Everything I once knew trembled.
The trees whispered, Instinct knows.
I wanted to run, but instead
I followed the unknown path.
All fear behind me,
each step as unknown as the path.

My thoughts danced through each moment.
There was no knowledge to watch.
Facts pile.
Truth slips.
Hands empty.
Cathedrals fall.
Mosaic of every colour.

Wisdom now waits
not still, but circling above.
Its eyes are moons that do not blink.
It speaks in ruins,
and I follow where the path cracks wider.

The ground becomes dream—then memory—then nothing.
I walk barefoot across my forgotten years.
Cities built from questions rise and fall.
Rain falls sideways.
Time bends into golden loops.
A crow leads me down a hallway of mirrors.
I speak, and my voice echoes in languages
I never learned, but always knew.

The sky peels back into velvet stars.
Each one pulses like a heartbeat.
I remember the name I had
before language was born.

A stairway made of books ascends the sea.
I climb.
Clouds whisper philosophies too ancient to hold.
Mountains lean in, eavesdropping.
The wind tastes like fire and ink.
I drink water that teaches forgetting.

I meet a version of myself
with eyes made of clocks.
We trade silence.
We argue with no words.
We weep into the same river.

Forests hum with dreams still sleeping.
There are doors inside trees.
Oceans where light has never been.
Stars that teach me how to kneel.
Every creature speaks in riddles.
And all of them are me.

The road vanishes again.
I walk anyway.

Not gone—but woven through shadow.
No answers wait on peaks of glass.
Stillness rings inside the void.
Release doesn’t shout.
It softens everything.

Deeper than thought, beneath sleep,
we breathe the same breath.
We dream from the same source.
Thoughts ripple through unseen waters.
Echoes remain.

I hold nothing.
Fingers trace the edge of myth.
Questions spin.
Meaning slips.
Madness nods.
Silence stays.
Quietly looking into the abyss.

All is question and echo,
a dance between shadow and light.
Wisdom is the stillness beneath noise,
and silence—the place where knowing begins.
We are fragments seeking the whole,
walking maps made only as we move,

held gently by a vast, patient void.
of this great unknown.

If an Angel Loved Me
If it whispered my name
into the hush between stars,
would i turn
or would the heavens shudder
and pull me deeper into their breath?

Even one glance from you,
one touch drawn from the edge of fire,
might undo me.
I would dissolve
like moonlight poured into a kiss.

For what is beauty
if not the ache of reaching
the sweet peril of standing near the flame
that chooses not to burn?

You terrify me
in the way a rose might
if it suddenly spoke my name.

And yet, beloved shadow,
I call to you.

Not in fear,
but in the wild hope
that you might step down
from that solemn choir
reach out
and touch me,

barefoot,
radiance tucked beneath a traveler’s coat,
your voice no longer thunder,
but rain on sleeping skin,
of the lost.

I would go with you
without map,
without question
if only once,
your wings bent low,
not to rescue,
but to rest
beside me.

Life's questions keep man a part,
Philosophy isn’t some distant art,
It's not reserved for minds worlds away.
It's when my mind finds thoughts to play,
It’s what I find in the quiet of life,
When questions won’t be cut by knife..

I wonder why the stars align,
What it means to seek and define.
In the pause of life’s steady race,
I ask my place in time and space.

I can’t help but question, it’s how I’m made,
To pierce through shadows, through light and shade.
Not content with answers handed down,
I reason, I search, I stand my ground.

I think of Socrates, who knew he knew not,
A legacy of questions, his greatest thought.
No written truths, no final decree,
Just the courage to question endlessly.

Like him, I speak, I argue, I learn,
Through each “What if” and “In turn...”
Debate sharpens, it keeps me awake,
Every “Yes, but...” makes my mind break.

I see in Plato the clash of minds,
Ideas that soar, reason that binds.
And Aristotle’s bold defiance still,
Proof that answers bend to will.

For me, wonder’s a flame that won’t fade,
A longing that’s both gift and blade.
I don’t need final truths to find,
I thrive in the seeking, the grind.

So I join the great thinkers, their endless refrain,
I challenge, I question, I reason, I strain.
Philosophy isn’t answers, it’s the striving to see,
It’s the wonder that lives and grows within me.