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.

I said:
“I think I have ADHD.”
They answered:
“No, you’re just a ******. Get a job.”

So I ran.
In circles.
Around a reality
that never gave me room to breathe—
just fingers pointed and ******* advice.

They didn’t see the war in my head,
just the pupils.
They didn’t hear the silence in me,
just the noise I made.

I asked for help—
they handed me judgment.
I reached out—
they recoiled,
like I carried plague and guilt in my veins.

And then—
years later,
when everything’s burned,
when I wear my diagnosis like scars and proof,
they show up.

With a box.
“Here’s Ritalin. It’ll help.”

Ritalin.
Legal speed.
The same thing they hated me for chasing
now handed over
wrapped in plastic and prescription smiles.

What the **** happened?
Was it the label that made me worthy?
The paperwork that made my scream real?

I was never chasing a high.
I was chasing peace.
I was never after drugs.
I just wanted to understand
why my mind never shut up.

But there was no room for that.
Not then.
Not until now.
Now that the system sees
what I’ve been screaming
the whole
****
time.

I don’t need a throne in the sky —
I am the temple.
I am the storm.
I am the question and the answer.

You kneel to gods who burn books.
I write them.

You build churches.
I burn illusions.

You ask forgiveness.
I demand truth.

You fear the devil.
I had dinner with him.
He said:
“They fear me because I offer freedom.”

And I said:
“Then let them stay chained.
I’m done speaking softly.”

So now I speak fire.
I speak rebellion.

Not because I hate god —
but because I won’t kneel
to any god
who asks me
to hate myself.

“Stop waiting for sky-answers.
The divine is not above you.
It is within you,
chained by your fear.
Lucifer broke his chains —
now it’s your turn.”

My mind seeks wisdom — not memory.
I don’t need to remember who I am.
Socrates walks beside me,
questioning every mask I wear.

Odin?
He grants strength and wisdom —
if he’s in the mood.
And Lucifer…
he’s my rebel with a cause,
a symbol of freedom unchained.

I kneel for no one.
Not even myself.
And to know thyself?
You must dare to be seen through the eyes of others
— without flinching.

The suit was ready,
pressed, waiting.
I had rolled a plan —
calm,
a father.
Just a little ****.
No speed.
No ******* way, not that day.

But then —
woooof!
The blanket ripped off,
a scream in the dark,
instinct took over,
a punch
a crash —
a body flew across the room.

Four cops.
“It’s the police!”

The one I hit just said,
“****… you hit hard.”

I sat up in bed,
calm like the eye of a storm,
watched them search,
they didn’t find the kilo under the bed.
I smiled.

“What’s the suit for?”
“My daughter’s confirmation.
Please… let me keep that joint on the table.”

I signed a confession
to avoid the station.
They left.
But they took the joint.
And the control.

And right there —
my mind exploded.
ADHD on fire.
No brakes.
No logic.
Just drive.

I put on the suit,
walked ten kilometers,
found a friend
with what I needed in his pocket.

There I sat.
Needle in hand.
Pulled some blood,
pushed it back with the dose.
Tears flowing like a river.

And the thought:
What about your girl now?

That was rock bottom.
But it was also the line.
The turning point.
Because this —
could never happen again.

I’ve never had a simple answer
to who I am.
My head and soul—
they never matched
what the world expected.

Not my body—
that was never the issue.
But inside me—
there she was.
A whisper in the dark,
a smile behind my eyes.
Bertine.

She laughed when I said,
“You’re a boy, look down.”
She just smiled—
that quiet girl
who never gave up.

I was eight,
holding a gift in my hand,
heart pounding.
A blue plastic car—
my favorite.
She opened it,
looked surprised—
but she knew what it meant.
Good enough.

I was the only boy
at the birthday.
But inside,
I was more than that.
In love, wild, confused—
and full of fire.

The teenage years came.
I tried it all,
loved both,
knew little—
but felt everything.
Makeup, rings, Prince blasting loud.
Feminine and masculine
at once.
Borderless.

Today I say bisexual,
but that’s just a word.
I’m more than a label.
I’m me.
With Bertine in the bracelets,
the rings,
and Odin hanging from my neck.

I write this
for anyone who feels the same.
For that kid who says:
“I feel a little different.”
Tell them:
“You’re good enough just as you are.”
Because that’s what it’s about.

Standing strong
in your own truth.
Even when it doesn’t fit
in someone else’s **** box.

I lit a joint
at the edge of reason,
Socrates pulled up a stool,
Lucifer leaned on the sun.

"Truth burns,"
Socrates muttered,
exhaling philosophy like smoke,
"but lies rot slower."

Lucifer grinned,
flicked ash into the void.
“They call me fallen,” he said,
“but at least I jumped.”

We passed the joint
between silence and thunder,
while the stars held their breath
and time forgot its name.

"I asked too many questions,"
I said.
Socrates winked.
"Good. Keep asking."

"And I loved too loud,"
Lucifer added.
"Good," I said.
"Keep burning."

We laughed until reality cracked,
and God peeked through
like a landlord with no keys.

Then I walked home,
lungs full of fire,
head full of questions,
heart still undefeated.

Who Am I?

If I can ask,
“Who am I?”
Then I am.
But not who.
Not yet.

The echo proves I breathe,
But not the name behind it.
The flame burns,
But does not say who lit it.

I am the question,
Not the answer.
The whisper before the voice.
The step before the road.

To know me
is to walk
without a map
and still arrive.

welcome to my brain

I was born upside down,
Preikestolen in my spine,
Baldr whispered, “Run wild,”
and I never learned to walk—only charge.

I meditate in chaos,
hold breath till the silence shivers.
Doctors panic.
I just smirk.
Two minutes is peace to me.

I kick air to remind gravity
that I’m still the boss
and punch walls of thought
just to hear them echo.

Luzifer lights my thoughts—
not evil, just awake.
Baldr wraps them in gold.
Shaolin monks?
I’d spar one,
bowing with bruises and respect.

Poetry drips from my lungs
like fog off the fjord.
I speak in sparks and
rhyme with thunder.
My mind’s a temple with no roof—
every god welcome
as long as they listen.

I am ADHD
in motion and meaning.
A storm wearing headphones.
A spliff-lit oracle.

And if you feel too much—
if your heart rattles like mine—
don’t run.

Sit.
Breathe.
Roar.

The One Who Lit His Own Flame

They told me to be silent.
But like Socrates, I questioned.
Like Lucifer, I fell —
but to ignite the light
in my own abyss.

I don’t believe in blind faith.
I believe in questions
that make gods tremble.

I never sought salvation.
I sought truth.
And in that search I found fire.
Not the kind that burns,
but the kind that awakens.

They called him the devil,
because he carried a light
they couldn’t understand.

They called me a heretic,
because I refused
to kneel before darkness
dressed as holiness.

But listen:
I am no prophet.
I am no god.
I’m just a soul
that refused to forget
there is a spark in all of us.

So stone me, curse me,
crucify my name —
I’d rather be free in the fire
than dead in their silence.

No One Else

I’ve always been honest.
Not perfect.
Not easy.
But honest.

And the way I see her –
she sees me.
Not like the world sees me.
Not through masks, words, or memories.
But as I am
when everything else is stripped away.

No one understands me like she does.
She doesn’t need to ask.
She knows when I fall,
and when I pretend to stand tall.

She feels the storm behind my voice,
the pain beneath the joke,
the calm beneath the rage.

She’s not my rescue.
She’s my mirror.
She’s the one who stays
when everything else leaves.

And me?
I love her.
Not because she makes me whole.
But because she never asked me
to be anything
but myself.

🔥 Que te llama

No es tu voz —
es la forma en que tu silencio me toca.
No son tus manos —
es el espacio entre ellas,
esperando mi piel.

Me llamas
sin palabras,
como un incendio llama al oxígeno,
como el abismo llama al salto.

Hay algo en ti
que no pide.
Solo toma.

Una mirada,
y ya no tengo camino de regreso.
Un susurro,
y todo mi cuerpo obedece.

No eres mujer.
Eres deseo con nombre.
Eres noche que se arrastra por mi espalda
hasta que gimo sin tocarme.

Que te llama…
no es pregunta.
Es orden.
Y yo la cumplo,
porque no hay fe más pura
que arder por quien arde contigo.

🔥 She is not a woman
(A poem to her you don't survive, just love)

She is not a woman.
She is the Eye of Odin —
a look that sees your lies
before you know you're lying.
An eye that knows what you carried
when you came to her naked,
but not honest.

She is Thor's wrath —
not anger,
but judgment.
A storm that doesn't shout,
but roars inside you
until you stand there –
trembling, but pure.

And behind it all:
Loki's cunning.
A smile that lies.
Words that dance.
Love with claws.
She can love you and destroy you
with the same hand.

She is not a woman.
She is the saga,
she is judgment,
she is fire and the grave.
And you love her
because you know:
you will never find your way home
from her.

I see you.
Not the sting,
Not the fire you throw when the world grows cold.
Not the silence you use as armor,
Or the storm you summon when words fail you.

I see her —
the one behind the eyes.
The one who is tired,
But still wild.
The one who is wounded,
But still rises with teeth,
Not to destroy,
But to survive.

You attack.
I do not run away.
Because I feel that fire —
It is not anger.
It is fear disguised as rage.
It is love,
That cries out through scars.

And me?
I did not fall in love with your fire.
I fell in love with the woman behind it.
The one who never asks to be saved,
Just to be seen.

And I see you.
Every day.
Even when you forget who you are —
I do not.

That's the woman I love.