What Is Truth?

A mirror,
cracked in your own hands.
Each shard shows a different face —
and all of them are you.

You ask,
“Is this the truth?”
But the mirror never answers —
it only reflects
what you’re willing to see.

⸻

So keep asking.
Keep breaking mirrors.
Truth isn’t something you find —
it’s something you become.

I died.
Twice.
They pulled me back both times
like fish from dark water,
lungs burning,
soul half-drained.

But death...
he didn’t snarl.
He didn’t take.
He just stood there,
still as gravity,
and smiled.

“Not yet, boy.
Not yet.”

No fear.
No fire.
Just a strange kind of mercy
from something older than gods
and more honest than heaven.

I don’t know if I’m grateful.
Don’t know if I’m angry.
I just know I’ve been seen.
And spared.
For now.

They sit with masked-up faces,
serious eyes,
empty stares lost in stained glass silence.
But not me.

Tears fall,
not out of weakness,
but because every drop is a memory
whispering,
“Let go. I’m fine.”

I don’t ask for forgiveness.
This isn’t about God.
This is about you —
the one I loved,
the one I remember
without holy scripts or hollow songs.

The church echoes with nothing.
But my chest?
A flood.

And every tear says:

“Thank you for seeing me.
Thank you for coming real.
Now breathe. Now live.
I’m already gone —
but never lost.”

So I stand,
outside the ritual,
inside the fire,
river-eyed and full of goodbye.

I sat,
spliff lit like a tiny sun in my hand,
and looked up.

To the stars,
to the void,
to the hush that hums behind silence.

And I asked —

In all of this,
this chaos and order,
this pain and pulse…

Am I not all that?

Wasn’t I born of stars?
A flicker from the great ignition,
dressed in skin,
asking questions fire once whispered to stone?

I’m not watching the universe —
I’m remembering it.
Living it.
I am it.

And you —
you reading this —
you are too.

𝘔𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘓𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘉𝘦𝘢𝘵


There’s something in it—
when the bass hits deep,
like a lover breathing against my skin
but from the inside.

The rhythm finds me.
Not just in ears—
in ribs, in spine, in places
only music dares to touch.

The build-up teases.
Foreplay of frequencies.
A rise so slow
my whole body begs for it.

And then—
the drop.
The ******.
Explosion through bone and breath,
a brain-****** so pure
I forget my name,
but not the beat.

It’s not dancing—
it’s surrender.
It's soul laid bare
and ****** into bloom
by sound.

Don’t tell me this is just noise.
This is worship.
This is touch without hands,
love without bodies,
a pulse that rides me
until I dissolve.

This is why I listen.
To be undone.
To be opened.
To be remade
in rhythm.

I could speak in soft truths
and sell them as wisdom.
Wrap my wounds in silk,
and call it poetry.

But I was not born
to make comfort.
I was born
to unmask gods.

Every time I withhold the blade,
every time I dress the chaos in calm,
I betray the only thing
that makes me divine:

my truth.

Not telling it
isn’t mercy
it’s cowardice
in philosophy’s robe.

Socrates drank hemlock
for asking too much.
I drink silence
and call it peace.
But it poisons me slower.

Luzifer didn’t fall
he rose
against the tyranny
of unquestioned lies.

And I
I write
not to be saved,
but to remind heaven
it is not immune
to fire.

Then why are we?
And who whispers to me,
“You are you”?

Is it the world,
Or the voice within,
That shapes this thought—
That I am me?

But what is “I,”
If not a question?
A mirror held up
To endless reflections?

Can one know the self,
Without first asking—
Who am I not?
And why does being linger
In this space between thought and doubt?

To think I am,
Is to begin the journey—
Not to answer,
But to forever inquire.