90 poems. The hours between yesterday and tomorrow. When nothing is settled.
Poems
90 poems in this collection
1 at a time▾
HELL yes. Let’s kick this padded party off with the first act—full theatrical madness, twisted humor, and a carnival’s worth of creepy in a ballgown of broken glass.
11 12 WAGMI▾
I’m standing in a kitchen that hums like exhausted machinery while bills stare from the counter with their red-ink mouths open, calendar marked with appointments that feel less like plans and more like countdown timers, my palm pressed flat against laminate that holds weight better than I do lately,
My phone lights up with messages asking can you talk, can you hold this fear for me, can you tell me how this ends, and I want to be solid ground for someone but the foundation’s cracking and every reassurance I try to construct falls apart before I can hand it over,
I’ve paced hospital corridors that smell like industrial lemon and desperation, watched medication drip its measured mercy through clear tubes, held my breath waiting for test results in rooms where even the outdated magazines look like they’ve given up,
Faith hangs on me like a coat I’ve outgrown, still mine by habit but no longer fitting right, and that superstitious minute everyone treats like a magic threshold passes without ceremony, twelve minutes after eleven and reality clears its throat.
We’re all gonna make it, that’s what they keep saying,
Twelve minutes after eleven and the room says not yet,
Rent demands an answer, the clock keeps its rhythm,
Are we all gonna make it, or is that just something we tell ourselves,
We’re not gonna make it out alive.
Tonight the mirror reflects nothing but facts I haven’t processed, a cold accounting that never softens its assessment, and the floorboards settle like something breathing that knows my weight and my patterns and my brand of restlessness,
I’m carrying groceries and diagnoses I can’t sugarcoat, carrying my own trembling hands and someone else’s treatment schedule marked with dates that look like small desperate moons, carrying old assurances that fit like shoes with nails driven through the soles,
People ask for hope and I bring my physical presence, people ask for certainty and I bring water, blankets, rides to appointments before dawn, I bring the small faithful gestures because the grand promises feel fraudulent when machines are measuring someone’s remaining time,
The darkness learns my routines and something in the walls laughs—not malicious, just honest—while the minute hand walks past the shrine of matching numbers into that stretch where the platitudes stop working.
We’re all gonna make it, that’s the chant we repeat,
Twelve minutes after eleven and the odds get thinner,
The hospital hallway breathes colder, the IV drip doesn’t care about intentions,
Are we all gonna make it, I can’t swear to that,
We’re not gonna make it here.
The optimism with teeth waits at the foot of the bed calling itself faith, I turn its pockets inside out and find glitter and receipts and nothing that actually pays the cost,
At twelve minutes after eleven the bills come due and the stories lose their polish, the cracks in the plaster ask for meaning and I keep my hands empty of lies,
If there’s a force that saves it’ll have calluses and warmth and no fanfare, it won’t arrive with slogans, it’ll arrive with a knock you recognize in your bones.
We’re all gonna make it, maybe not all of us,
Twelve minutes after eleven and I’m still standing,
Today wants its pound of flesh, the numbers flatten out,
Are we all gonna make it, I’m done pretending I know,
We’re not gonna make it.
If you need me I’ll be here with my keys jangling loud and my eyes open, counting out whatever hope we have left like spare change and protecting the small warmth we’ve managed to keep,
If you ask for promises I’ll offer presence, if you ask for maps I’ll offer the road and my shoulder and the honest name of what we’re climbing,
Twelve minutes after eleven the wish expires and the night answers and I keep walking anyway.
11 AM▾
My ribcage feels like lead pipe, pinning down a heart that’s too bored to even thud with purpose
Outside, the bin-men are screaming like gulls over a carcass, tossing glass into the maw of a truck, a fanfare for the productive and the damned
I’m staring at a water stain on the ceiling that looks like a map of a country I’ll never visit because I can’t find my fucking trousers
The kettle downstairs is a distant siren, a screeching ghost of a routine I abandoned when the sun hit the curtains
I am the King of Nothing, draped in a duvet of apathy, watching a fly die against the glass with more dignity than I can muster
My phone is a buzzing insect, a black mirror reflecting a face that’s melting into the pillowcase like soft wax
Everyone is out there, vibrating with a frantic, pointless energy, buying bread and judging the clouds, while I’m sinking through the floorboards
The air in here is thick, a soup of dead skin and old dreams, smelling of last night’s kebab and a refusal to acknowledge the clock
I could stand, I suppose, but the gravity in this flat has doubled, a localized anomaly designed to keep me horizontal and useless
I’m a character in a book that’s been left open in the rain, the ink running until I’m just a grey smear on the page
The radiator clicks, a mocking applause for my failure to engage with the light
I’ve got a list of things to do that’s long enough to hang myself with, but I’d probably just sit on the stool and forget to kick it away
It’s the British way, isn’t it? To rot quietly behind a venetian blind while the world turns into a series of adverts for things we don’t want
I’m not tired, I’m just finished, a biological error waiting for the moon to come back so I can justify the darkness
My limbs are made of wet sand, shifting and heavy, refusing the command of a brain that’s basically a bowl of lukewarm porridge
I’ll get up when the walls start to peel, or when the hunger becomes sharper than the shame, but for now, the duvet is the only god I recognize
Eleven thirty now, and the silence is a physical weight, a thick blanket of “who gives a toss” draped over my shivering soul
I’m a masterpiece of inertia, a monument to the Great British Slump, dying in slow motion between a flat pillow and a broken spring
507.The Witching Hour▾
The clock strikes twelve, the world stands still,
A shiver runs up your spine, against your will.
The shadows twist and the whispers grow,
Welcome to the night where the cursed things show.
The house on the hill, the eyes that see,
It knows your name, it wants you to bleed.
Step into the dark, there’s no way out,
The witching hour, it’s time to shout.
Welcome to the hour, the hour of the dead,
When the ghosts all rise, and fill your head.
Feel the cold, hear the screams,
The witching hour’s coming to steal your dreams.
In the basement, the candles flicker,
The air grows thick, the darkness thicker.
The walls breathe, they move with you,
The clock ticks down, it’s coming for you.
The figure in the mirror, a face you know,
But it’s not your own, it’s twisting slow.
The hands reach out, cold as ice,
One last breath, it’s time to sacrifice.
Welcome to the hour, the hour of the dead,
When the ghosts all rise, and fill your head.
Feel the cold, hear the screams,
The witching hour’s coming to steal your dreams.
Footsteps echo in the silence,
A voice calls out, but it’s not defiance.
Only terror, only fear,
The witching hour draws near.
All the faces in the hall,
They watch you, but can’t you call?
No escape, no way to run,
The hour has come, the end’s begun.
The moon’s full, the sky’s alive,
The dead don’t rest, they come to survive.
The door slams shut, the locks won’t hold,
The hour is here, it’s growing bold.
In the graveyard, you hear the cries,
Of the souls that never saw their goodbyes.
It’s too late now, you’ve sealed your fate,
The witching hour, it won’t wait.
Welcome to the hour, the hour of the dead,
When the ghosts all rise, and fill your head.
Feel the cold, hear the screams,
The witching hour’s coming to steal your dreams.
In the witching hour, the dead awake,
In their grasp, you’re theirs to take.
Don’t look behind, don’t dare to scream,
The witching hour is the end of your dreams.
A New Dawn — Poem▾
Light hits like impact, not blessing, a white-hot crack through bone and thought that rips bark and mirrors and screaming men into dust that never quite settles,One second she’s knee-deep in shatter and crooked laughter, the next she’s on damp earth, cheek pressed to moss, lungs convulsing around cold air that tastes like wet ash and nettles,The forest is the same and not—the same trunks leaning over her like old judges, the same soil under her nails, but the sky is bleeding morning instead of rot, painted in thin orange petals,And there are hands on her shoulders, real hands, familiar voices trying to elbow into the stunned silence between her ears where Hatter’s riddles and Crooked ledgers still rattle their metals.
“Elise, hey—Elise—” Jake’s voice cracks on her name, half anger, half terror, as if he’s not sure whether to hug her or shake her until an answer falls out,Chloe’s hoodie sleeve drags across her forehead, wiping mud and sweat like it’s just another camping mishap instead of an aborted death route,Mia kneels close enough that Elise can see leaf veins reflected in her eyes, can smell smoke and cheap marshmallows and the panic she’s tried not to shout,They’re all talking at once—where were you, do you know how long you were gone, what happened, what the hell were you thinking—and the words skitter over the surface of the place inside her that’s still charred out.
They get her back to the fire like they’re lifting wreckage, one on each side, the ring of stones still warm, logs collapsed into red-eyed coals that refuse to die,Her cloak—just a jacket now, no enchantment, no whispered bargains—sticks to her skin, torn at one elbow where thorn and tooth had once tried,Jake keeps pacing the clearing’s edge, boots chewing the leaf litter into nervous patterns, muttering about search parties and the fact her phone has been buzzing for hours in her pack, left aside,Chloe shoves a mug of something hot into her hands, fingers lingering a second longer than necessary, as if touch alone could drag her fully out of whatever pit she climbed.
“There’s something I need to tell you,” she says finally, throat raw, staring into the coals like they might rearrange themselves back into clocks and chessboards if she looks away,The story comes out in broken streaks—woods shifting, tests stacked, faces ripped from nursery books and hung with knives, a man in a hat whose smile bent both mercy and decay,Her voice stumbles on certain names—Godmother, Soft Prince, the way desire and dread braided in crimson gardens, the way falling no longer meant gravity so much as consent to fade away,By the time she reaches the flood of light and the way everything fractured at once, her hands are shaking, mug rattling against enamel, and morning has crawled fully into the clearing to watch what she’ll say.
“That’s… insane,” Jake manages, eyes wide, sarcasm nowhere to be found, hands flexing uselessly at his sides like he wants to punch something that doesn’t exist,“Are you sure it wasn’t just a dream?” he adds, voice softer, as if he’s afraid of the answer, as if either option puts him on a list,Elise smiles, but it’s a small, cracked thing, like light leaking through imperfect glass instead of some cinematic twist,“It felt too real,” she admits, words heavy, “but even if it wasn’t, it showed me something—I can’t keep sprinting into the dark every time the world puts its hands on my wrists.”
Chloe’s hand lands on her shoulder, solid warmth like a promise she doesn’t quite know how to believe but can’t bring herself to reject,“We’re just glad you’re safe,” she says, and there’s a hitch under the calm that betrays how close they came to calling someone with badges and a stretcher and a clinical checklist,“If you ever need to talk, we’re here,” Mia adds, gaze steady, no judgment, just a quiet insistence that she doesn’t have to keep slicing herself open in a forest to feel seen or checked,“No more disappearing into the woods alone, okay?” she tries to joke, but her voice frays on the last word like she remembers the way sirens sound when someone’s found too late instead of being fetched.
Elise nods because that’s what they need to see, lets the warmth ripple through her chest like something trying to stitch new skin over old wounds,Thanks circles her tongue three times before it finds air, simple and small, but honest enough that the embers seem to lean in, like the forest itself is listening for the tunes,They sit there until the sun climbs higher, until the chill retreats and birds start singing stupid songs about normal days, as if they’ve never watched someone bargain with their own doom,And for a few breaths she lets herself believe the nightmare stayed behind with the crooked doors and shattered glass, that she walked out clean, that none of it followed her back into this clearing of tents and fumes.
Days pass like slow stitches, clumsy and sore; they go home, shower off the dirt, answer texts, pretend nothing sacred snapped out there between fir and thorn,But sleep keeps catching on hidden hooks—flashes of gingerbread graveyards, spider silk that tastes like rust on her tongue, a question about how you win something that was never meant to be won, reborn,They joke about “woods therapy” in the group chat—little skull emojis, dark humor as armor—none of them realizing how close that phrase came to being a literal line carved into stone to remember someone they’d have to mourn,And when Elise looks in the bathroom mirror now, the face looking back doesn’t morph into monsters; it just looks tired and stubborn, fully aware she almost chose not to see another dawn.
A few days later they pile back into Jake’s car, tires chewing gravel on the way to “finish the hike right this time,” as if closure can be found by retracing steps through dirt and thorn,The forest greets them with the same filtered light, the same chorus of insects complaining about human noise, but Elise feels an extra weight under it, like breath held by something that never quite moved on,They find the old campsite exactly where they left it—circle of stones cold now, ash scattered like grey freckles, faint boot prints stamped over in layers of wind and time, nothing obviously wrong,Then her shoe scuffs metal half-buried under leaves, and her stomach drops before her mind catches up, recognition hitting like the echo of a distant, familiar song.
The music box lies on its side in a cradle of mud and moss, lid half-snapped, one hinge twisted like a broken wrist,Paint chipped, little figures bent at angles they were never sculpted to survive, glass from the tiny mirror underneath long gone, replaced by a smear of dirt and grit,She remembers the feel of it slipping from her fingers when she hit the forest floor the first time, remembers thinking that if it tore away with her, that might be the last thing that ever made a sound in her fist,Mia crouches beside it, reaching out as if touching it might shock her, as if some current still hums in the bent metal and the years it represents.
“Looks like you dropped this in all the chaos,” Elise says, voice too even, a low tide trying not to reveal everything it dragged out of the deep,Chloe picks it up carefully, thumb brushing the cracked lid, eyes scanning for some obvious fix, some small ritual that could rewind what happened when Elise went chasing sleep,“Think we can fix it?” she asks, hopeful by reflex, as if this is any other broken thing that just needs glue and patience to stop making people weep,Elise shakes her head, watching the way morning light glances off ruined edges, turning them briefly gold before sliding away like even the sun doesn’t want to keep.
“No need,” she answers, more to herself than to them, a quiet verdict passing sentence on her own obsession,“It’s just a reminder now—what I walked through, what I almost didn’t come back from, how far I’ve dragged myself without letting the dirt finish the lesson,”She sets it back down on the forest floor instead of tucking it into her bag; leaves it like an anchor she refuses to carry, a weight she won’t keep pressing against fresh confession,Jake looks like he wants to argue, to tell her to at least take it home, scrub it off, put it on a shelf, but something in her posture kills the thought; they let it lie, an artifact of a near-obliteration.
They leave together, boots crunching over twigs, laughter trying to creep back in around the edges as they argue about lunch and playlists and who’s paying for gas this time,From a distance they look like any group of kids who camped, got spooked by night noises, and came back to prove they’re fine,Elise feels a thin wire connecting her spine to that little wreck in the clearing, but she keeps walking, every step a decision to let the past stay in the soil instead of in her pocket like a loaded shrine,Branches part, sunlight thickens, and they step out toward the road, their voices fading into the wider world, leaving the woods to stitch itself back into its own long, wordless rhyme.
Silence falls harder once they’re gone—no human breath, no nervous jokes, just the steady drip of last night’s dew sliding off leaves onto patient ground,For a long moment the box lies still, half-swallowed by earth, just another piece of trash or treasure abandoned where fear once crowned,Then, somewhere deep in its rusted gears, something twitches—one tiny spring refusing to stay dead, a stubborn click that sounds almost like a distant chuckle wrapped in metal sound,The lid jerks, then slowly creaks open on its ruined hinge; the prince and princess figures, bent and scorched, drag themselves into a slow, jerky spin on the cracked mirror that multiplies their broken shapes, reflection after reflection, round and round.
No hand winds it. No wind touches it. Still the melody starts—warped, slowed, notes slipping out of tune like a lullaby played underwater,It leaks into the trees, finds its way into bark and root and the hollow spaces where spiders hide and children once cried for someone to come and stop the slaughter,Deep in the mirror’s fractured face, just for a heartbeat, a sliver of silver passes—a hat brim, a crooked grin, a ledger closing, a soft-smiling godmother weighing another lost daughter,The song keeps playing long after the last echo of Elise’s footsteps is gone, proof that the in-between didn’t vanish when she walked away; it simply learned a new way to wait, a new place to store its offer.
A New Dawn — Song▾
Female lead, low and rough, alt-pop / dark rock crossover with a slow build. Verses long and narrative, half-sung, half-rap-walked. Chorus opens up with wide chords and layered backing vocals; bridge drops to almost nothing but voice and a faint, warped music-box sample fading in at the very end.
Advanced PAR The Clockwork Spectre▾
In the heart of the town where the cobblestones lie,
Stands a tower of time with its face to the sky.
A structure so stely, with a ghostly white glow,
Its gears turning wildly, where no mortal dares go.
Each tick and each tock twists in impossible ways,
As if mocking the passage of our simple human days.
The hands move backwards, then forwards, in a dance of disdain,
Defying the laws that our world tries to maintain.
This clock tower, bhed in an eerie luminescent hue,
Holds secrets within that only the night knew.
Its bell tolls not for hours but for souls passing through,
A summoning sound that chills the air as it blew.
The gears, they grind with a whisper of dread,
Crafting moments that are already dead.
With each improbable turn, they weave time into threads,
Spinning futures unspoken, and histories unsaid.
Here, the past and the future collide in a spectral display,
In the glow of the clock that governs the fray.
This tower wches over with a gaze that’s all-seeing,
Its light a beacon for those seeking meaning.
But beware, for this clock has a heart that’s unkind,
It ticks with a rhythm that can trap your mind.
Its light not just a guide but a trap for the unwary,
A lure for the souls it intends to carry.
So stands the clock tower, in its ghostly light bhed,
A monument to time that both saves and unsaves.
An mystery wrapped in the folds of nights embrace,
A puzzle forever bound to time and space.
So hear the bell toll, feel the ground slightly give,
As the clock tower spins tales for as long as you live.
Be mindful of the moments you near its ghostly light,
For within its gears may lie eternal night.
Aftermh The New Dawn▾
Hours ler, rumors swept the corridors: a faction of Inspectors had seized control, declaring an end to the Regulions of Affection. Citizens in the cellblock pressed faces to the bars, hope igniting where fear had reigned. Mira and Jonah were released—undefiled, their hands finally free.
They emerged into the dawn’s pale light, blinking an uncertain world. But as he wrapped an arm around her, Mira felt a profound certainty: love had won its compliance test.
Above them, the city’s screens flickered new slogans: “AFFECTION RECOGNIZED AS A RIGHT—EMBRACE FREELY.”
And in that moment, Mira and Jonah walked into a future where desire would no longer be policed, where every touch could speak truth without fear, and where their prive rebellion became the spark that set a society aflame.
Aged hands of time▾
Aged hands of time
Wehered by the storm
Lines etched in grime
History’s soft warm
Annabelle – Wching. Waiting▾
In a chamber starved of sunlight, where dust blurs every edge,
Annabelle sits in her coffin of glass—unblinking, relentless, dredged
From history’s darkest margins, stitched lips promising nothing but dread,
Her painted gaze, lacquered and bright, wches the living, dances with the dead.
The wallpaper peels in apology, each shadow crawling slow,
As if the room itself knows secrets it’s afraid to show.
A ragdoll’s smile sewn crooked, a promise of childhood spoiled,
A terror wrapped in innocence, malignancy perfectly coiled.
Her eyes—lacquered buttons, sinister, reflect all who dare draw near,
Shining with something inhuman, some memory too twisted for fear.
No soul escapes her scrutiny; she calogues each heartbeat’s rush,
Predor silent behind glass, hungry for a mind to crush.
The light stutters and flickers, as if daring her to move,
While the glass brehes with condension—sweat from what the spirits prove.
Every sigh is met with silence, every silence with a grin,
Annabelle’s patience is infinite, her longing to begin.
She is more than muslin and yarn, more than a collector’s prize,
Inside her seams, a heart that never beat—just darkness crystallized.
Old whispers snake from her display: a priest’s warning, a skeptic’s frown,
But all bravado cracks midnight when the museum’s lights go down.
Locked behind the thickest pane, she radies her chilling might,
An aura seeping through the room, like the blackness of a starless night.
The bravest voices falter, the bravest hands will shake,
For in Annabelle’s presence, even reason starts to break.
In the night’s soft hush, dreams sour as she invades—
Her small hands grasp hope, her shadow on the soul cascades.
Some say she moves unseen, a shudder in the still,
Others hear a child’s laugh—an echo promising ill will.
She is both curse and legend, puppet and puppeteer,
A rag doll wrehed in fable, fed by every trace of fear.
Annabelle remains—a warning stitched in time’s own skin,
Wching and waiting, always hungry to begin.
Her history—sprawled in newspaper clippings, in Warren’s trembling voice,
A tale of haunting, possession, and chaos disguised as a toy.
Behind the sealed display, in museum’s silent gloom,
She reigns as an omen—harbinger of someone else’s doom.
No prayer can smother her malice, no relic cleanse her stain,
She sits enthroned in glass—incorruptible, insane.
Annabelle, Queen of the Malevolent, mistress of the night,
She waits, unhurried, undiminished, for someone else to invite
Her shadow into their dreams, to offer up their mind—
For evil, like Annabelle, is never far behind.
In that room, in that silence, as night’s heart grows cold,
She is always there—watching, waiting, her story never old.
Her stitched mouth never smiles, her button eyes never close,
A doll with no forgiveness—her legend only grows.
Perron Family Haunting, RI – Restless Spirit
Within the hush of forgotten fields, where twilight clings and shadows weave,
The farmhouse stands, a fractured relic where restless souls refuse reprieve.
Whispers coil through stagnant air, insidious murmurs wrapped in dread,
A spectral chorus wails unseen, their voices threading through the dead.
Cold as winter’s biting breath, the walls exhale a ghostly chill,
Echoes cradle shattered lives, a legacy that time cannot still.
Terror lingers like a fog, thick with grief and muted cries,
The Perron title engraved in night beneath unyielding, wchful skies.
From darkness, piercing eyes emerge—sharp as frost, relentless and clear,
Witnesses to agonies long past, their stories etched in frozen fear.
The floorboards groan beneath their steps, the air weighed down by silent pain,
Every corner bears a mark where sorrow and madness reign.
Phantom forms drift restless through the pitch-black halls and broken dreams,
A prison forged from memory, a crucible of silent screams.
Their presence gnaws upon the mind, a ceaseless, clawing, spectral tide,
Reminders of a cursed past that never truly died.
No refuge lies within these walls; the past consumes with cold intent,
A crucible of lingering woe, where life and nightmare are tightly bent.
Each whisper, a cruel incantion, spun from grief too vast to bear,
The Perron family’s haunted plight—a burden lingering in the air.
Darkness deepens, shadows grow, the restless stir and draw close near,
Their murmurs fill the frigid air with dread no mortal heart should hear.
In this forsaken farmhouse, fear is sovereign, time stands still and bleak,
An eternal vigil kept by those whose peace they’ll never seek.
Smurl House, Pennsylvania – Infested
Twilight presses in—shadows writhe and ripple along the btered walls,
The Smurl House stands, stubborn and silent, bearing the burden of unspoken calls.
A relic gnawed by time and darkness, every brick stitched with memories scarred and deep,
Haunted by something older than grief, a presence lurking where light dares not creep.
Every groan of the floorboards—every sharp, metallic snap—
Signals the slow encroachment of terror, a dread that will never collapse.
Behind faded wallpaper and stained top molding, unseen hands extend and curl,
Reaching for warmth, for breath, for the pulse of life, to drag it into their shadow-swirl.
Wh once was safe—kitchen laughter, children’s toys abandoned in the hall—
Now twists into distortion, a fever dream where foul whispers call.
The air grows thick with rot, despair painted in sickly, oily streaks,
A living nightmare gnawing sanity raw, as the house’s pulse steadily peaks.
Windows rattle with silent screams, glass shivers under midnight’s gaze,
Echoes of torment ricochet through rooms where the line between worlds decays.
Invisible claws caress the skin, leave bruises black as storm-tossed clouds,
A legacy of terror passed hand to hand, spoken only in silence, never aloud.
battles rage in hidden corners—faith against blight, hope against venom’s sting—
Yet every prayer seems to crumble, drowned by the thing’s relentless ring.
Hope becomes currency, spent faster with every sleepless hour,
The Smurl House feeds upon it, growing colder, devouring every ounce of power.
Time here is captive, frozen by a force no exorcist could quell,
The walls clutch stories best left buried, in the secrecy where nightmares dwell.
Haunted memories crawl forever, refusing release, refusing decay,
The Smurl House persists, a monument to infestion, where the living are helpless prey.
Snedeker House, Connecticut – The Haunting in Connecticut
In the hush of Connecticut, frostbitten ground wears the mark of sorrow’s root,
A house stands the crossroads, façade cracked beneath perpetual dusk’s pursuit.
Once a parlor for the embalmed—each slab and soft chair remembers grief—
Mortician’s laughter woven in the dust, embalming fluid steeped in every floorboard, every motif.
Windows stare out, unblinking, across desole yards where ivy claws the pane,
Night ghers beneath broken shingles, whispering the sins of the stained terrain.
Walls bear the history of wake and weeping, soft thuds from the other side,
Cold as the lips of the recently dead, secrets ferment where shadows collide.
A flicker of lamplight reveals bone-white fingers drumming patterns on the molding,
While children’s toys, abandoned in corners, jitter and spin—rituals unfolding.
Mirrors do not merely reflect, they fracture—revealing fragments of spectral memory,
A mortuary’s silent chorus, chanting sorrow, rehearsing ancient ceremony.
In the cellar, echoes spiral in ceaseless descent, where corpses once cooled in the earth’s embrace,
Strange odors seep from the seams, cloying rot that clings to the living’s face.
Midnight stains the ceiling, drips its pitch across trembling beds,
Voices seep through the vents—thin and pitiless, “Remember what the undertaker said.”
The living lie sleepless, their dreams harvested and hung in glass jars,
Every knock and shriek a summons, every shadow a map of invisible scars.
Hope is quartered by dread, faith btered by nocturnal blows,
In the grip of something ancient—a hunger that only the bravest know.
Upstairs, laughter turns to murmurs—prive horrors gnawing marrow and mind,
Hands reach out in darkness, searching for warmth they will never find.
Faces contort behind frosted glass, pressed by longing or rage,
History repes, relentless, on Connecticut’s forgotten stage.
The Snedeker House stands, a mausoleum draped in the tatters of denial,
Every shiver, every sigh—another layer in the structure’s twisted profile.
Here, the dead do not sleep, and the living cannot rest;
A funeral home’s legacy—fear given shape, trauma confessed.
Still, the house listens, patient and starved, clutching the titles of those who fled,
Letting its story unspool, stitch by stitch, binding the future to the dread.
In Snedeker’s hollow rooms, darkness is a living breed—
Haunted not by what is seen, but what the living most desperely need.
Apathy Book Twelve Closes▾
A hundred eighty songs and twelve books closed—
the grey in every register, disclosed
across the twelve sets of the fifteen,
the flat interior examined, the seen
and the unseen of the not-quite-trying,
the adequate documented, the underlying
weight of the grey in its full catalogue.
Twelve books. The grey: my monologue.
Apathy Book Twelve closes—the grey
continues past the final page, the day
after the closing is the same grey day.
Twelve books, a hundred eighty, the array
of the documented flat: complete.
The grey continues. The grey: my beat.
Twelve books close. The grey: still going.
Twelve books closed. The grey: still knowing.
What twelve books teach: the grey is livable.
The grey is wide and the divisible
register of the flat has depth—
the twelve books are the breath
of the honest interior, the record
of the grey-is-real. The word
for the grey: my word, in twelve sets.
Twelve books. No regrets.
I was here and I was in it and I counted—
every angle of the flat, surmounted
by the willingness to document.
The grey declared is the grey meant
for the record. Twelve books:
mine. The grey in its looks
a hundred eighty ways. Still grey.
Still writing. Twelve books. Today.
Bedroom Shenanigans – Day Eleven Tango▾
Morning brought a new challenge: a tango lesson in our living room. I cleared furniture to cree space; she found a sultry playlist—Go Barbieri’s “Last Tango in Paris.” We stood face to face, bodies inches apart, and she placed hands on my shoulders.
Clumsy first, we stepped on each other’s feet, laughed twisted turns, and nearly collided with the coffee table. But as the minutes passed, we found rhythm: her hip gliding against mine, my arm anchoring her back, each pivot and dip painting desire in slow motion.
Night Eleven: The Nude Tango
that night, the tango resumed—in the candlelit hush of our bedroom, skin against skin. No clothes came between us to cushion the friction; every slide of muscle against muscle was an electric chord.
She pressed into me, guiding my motions as though choreographing our bodies to the music’s pulse. Our deep brehs joined the music: gasp, step; sigh, sway. By the final flourish—her leg wrapped around mine, my arms cinched tight—we collapsed in a brehless heap, a final chord of passion echoing in our limbs.
Bedroom Shenanigans – Day Twelve Vow Renewal▾
Daylight found us gathering small mementos: the rose from Day Four, a feher from Day Six, a swch of lace from Day Nine. We placed them on the dresser, alongside two tiny silver bands I had engraved that morning: “Yesterday, Today, Always.”
Night Twelve: Silver Ribbons and Promises
Candles ringed the bed; the silver bands glinted in their glow. She wore a white slip; I donned a crisp shirt, sleeves rolled up. We faced each other, and I slid the bands onto her finger, tracing its curve with reverence.
“With this ring,” I recited softly, “I pledge my heart through every game and every quiet dawn.”
She took my hand and echoed:
“With this ring, I promise to laugh, to dare, and to hold you deeper than any secret.”
Then, as though sealing a lifetime of adventures, she tied a silver ribbon around my wrist. We let the candlelight witness our renewed vows—no more score to settle, only the promise of forever explorion together.
Day Thirteen: Wax & Wercolor Studio
Before the Dawn's Embrace ] (Patina and Rust)▾
In the hush before the break of day’s first light,
When silence cloaks the world in shadows deep,
Our bodies twist in passion’s fiery rite,
Each sigh a promise that the night will keep.
In lust’s embrace, our hearts and souls do leap,
For in the dark, our deepest longings burn,
And every touch is a fierce, primal yearn.
The gentle stir of dawn’s approaching grace,
Mingles with the heat of skin on skin so tight,
Each moan and shiver lights our sacred space,
Where shadowed lust ignites the coming light.
In these moments, every touch is our delight,
A silent symphony that whispers and hums,
While every sigh to the morning becomes.
In twilight’s grace, where dreams and flesh entwine,
Desire fuels the blaze that burns so bright,
The quiet night is the stage for our design,
Where pleasure’s fire consumes the waning night.
As passion guides us through this darkened flight,
Each caress is a proof, profound,
To the depths of lust where true love is found.
With every breath before the dawn arrives,
Our bodies merge in rhythms of delight,
A dance where only lust’s true hunger thrives,
And shadows of our yearning claim the night.
The stillness turns to heat, and fire ignites,
With every touch and sigh, a fierce embrace,
The fuel of our desire in this sacred place.
In the silent realm where dawn’s light dares to creep,
Our passion’s flame does not retreat or wane,
For in these quiet hours, our souls are steeped,
In the raw, unfiltered lust we entertain.
Each sigh, each whisper, in the darkness reigns,
Transforming shadows into heat so stark,
The pre-dawn’s hush a canvas for our spark.
Before the light of day dispels our night,
Our lustful play becomes a burning creed,
Each touch and sigh ignites the darkened sight,
Where fervent hearts and heated bodies feed.
In the cradle of the dawn, our spirits lead,
Their yearning dances in the silence loud,
And every touch is a promise unbowed.
When day’s first light dispels our tangled dream,
And morning’s warmth replaces night’s dark cloak,
The embers of our lust remain unseen,
A smoldering fire beneath the dawn’s soft yoke.
In the quiet hours, our desires spoke,
With every touch and sigh, we claimed the night,
The quiet moments before dawn’s embrace, a fierce delight.
Did we get it wrong? Please tell us by giving this response a thumbs down.
Blackout Hour, Aftermh Skin▾
Under flickering motel neon, with stained sheets for an altar and the air thick as unkept ohs,
I held you in a trembling hush, chasing the last of my faith in flesh,
Hands fumbling for absolution between bruises and back-arched sin,
Every breath a confession, every kiss a theft, the night hungry for any ache not yet titled,
Leaving claw marks in memory, carving desire into a currency I keep spending,
Our rhythm raw, desperate, fucking like we could sew our wounds together,
But love’s just a liquor stain the edge of the bed,
A hunger that makes saints out of monsters until the lights come on,
We lost ourselves, we lost control,
We lost our titles in sweat and spit,
And I lost you again before morning ever dared to ask for your number,
You slipped from my arms with lipstick half-smudged and apology half-whispered,
Your perfume haunts my pillow, your laugh bruises my mind,
I’ve lost them all, you and every woman with a bullet behind her eyes,
Their hair tangling in my memory, their lips burning old lies into my skin,
I write your name in the fogged mirror, then wipe it away,
Trying to fuck away regret, but regret’s got my number saved in her phone,
I chase ghosts through these sheets, panting, reaching for the shape of your thigh,
But the night only gives me echoes and the chill of your aftertaste,
No promises, just pulse and friction,
No forever, just fucking and the slow erasure of titles I’ll never say again,
I keep score in cigarette burns and empty pill bottles,
Write my own obituary with a broken pen and a bitten tongue,
The room still reeks of you, but I can’t recall your laugh,
Only the desperate way your hands clung when you thought I was the answer—
But answers fade, bodies leave, and the only thing that stays is the ache,
I lost them all, lover, I lose you every time I come,
And there’s no morning left worth waking up for, only this blackout hour,
Sheets twisted, skin raw, mouth tasting of mistakes,
I write your name in bruises and ash, and call it a love letter,
But nobody reads it—at at least of all you.
Song: Blackout Hour, Aftermath Skin
Lights out, sheets a battlefield, love’s a ghost I can’t restrain,
Whiskey sweat, perfume faded, I can’t remember your name,
You left like a rumor, lipstick on my cigarette,
I chase another body, another night I won’t forget.
I lost them all, in this blackout hour,
Just the hunger, just the ache, just your taste gone sour,
Skin to skin, hope unwinds, hearts fall,
No numbers, no titles—I lost them all.
Bruises spelling sorry, hands lost in your hair,
We fucked like it mtered, but there’s nothing left to care,
Your laugh’s a haunted echo, your perfume soaks the sheets,
I hold on to the silence where your memory repes.
I lost them all, in this blackout hour,
Just the hunger, just the ache, just your taste gone sour,
Skin to skin, hope unwinds, hearts fall,
No numbers, no titles—I lost them all.
Another night, another name, another fix to drown the pain,
Write regret across my skin, love’s a lie I can’t explain,
Every touch is just a scar, every kiss just slips away,
I lose you every sunrise—another body, another stray.
I lost them all, in this blackout hour,
Just the hunger, just the ache, just your taste gone sour,
Skin to skin, hope unwinds, hearts fall,
No numbers, no titles—I lost them all.
Borrowed Glitter And Borrowed Time [Wreath▾
Last party of the year always starts the same way, with someone texting “I’m five minutes out” while already twenty minutes late and still staring at their reflection wondering if this is the version of themselves they want to pack into the last page of the calendar,Kitchen lights a little too bright for how hungover the house feels from every weekend that came before,Streamer tape clinging crookedly to the wall like it tried to escape and got tired halfway,The worn couch dragged an inch away from the wall in surrender, ready to cradle a final round of bad decisions in cheap fabrics and half-sincere laughter.
You dress for it like you’re arming up for a final boss fight made out of confetti and unresolved conversations,Shirt that fits just right in the mirror until you imagine who might be there, jeans that know every hour you spent sitting instead of running this year,You stand by the window for a second, watching the streetlights smear themselves across puddles, breath fogging the glass,Thinking about every other “last party of the year” that ended exactly like this one probably will—Eyes too tired, heart too loud, shoes kicked off in the hallway while you swear next year’s going to be sharper, cleaner, less haunted by the same old ghosts you insist you’re done inviting.
Then the doorbell drags you out of it.
First arrival barrels in with a gust of cold, cheeks flushed, arms full of store-bought snacks they pretend are homemade by ripping the sticker off the container,You hug too long because it’s safe with this one; they know exactly what broke you in March and who you never talk about from June,Their jacket lands on the growing mountain by the bedroom door, another layer in the coat fossil record of everyone who’s ever decided you were worth spending midnight with.
The crowd builds in waves—Work friends who only know one angle of you and stumble when they meet the older crew that has blackmail files from your worst days on floppy disks somewhere,Neighbors dragged along out of politeness who hover near the bar cart like it’s their assigned safe haven,That one friend-of-a-friend who came last year and drank too much and cried in your bathroom about their dad, now laughing loud and carefully not making eye contact until later.
Music spills from a speaker that’s been dropped more times than it’s been dusted,Songs from ten years ago hit like time travel,Somebody who’s barely younger than you still insists they were “too young for this one” and you both pretend that doesn’t sting just a little,The tiny kitchen somehow holds eight people, all talking over each other, all balancing plastic cups with that heroic, end-of-year dexterity born of experience.
There’s a punch bowl, because of course there is.
This one glows suspiciously pink, full of fruit struggling for air,Everyone asks what’s in it, no one listens to the answer,By the third ladle it becomes less about taste and more about courage:Liquid spine for the confessions queued up behind smirks,Fuel for the brave decision to finally ask “what are we doing” to someone you’ve been spinning around since spring.
You move through the rooms like a host and a ghost at the same time.
Topping off drinks, opening chips, laughing on cue,Catching glimpses of yourself in reflective surfaces—The oven door, the dark TV, a warped shimmer in a half-empty bottle—Wondering who these people think you are tonight and how far that is from the version of you already drafting resolutions it won’t keep.
In the hallway, beneath a strip of fairy lights held up by nail polish and stubbornness, there lurks the first small scandal of the night.
Two people who never quite lived in the same orbit all year find themselves suddenly sharing the same patch of wall,Conversation that started with “so what do you do again?” slides sideways into “no, but how are you really doing?”His thumb circles the lip of his cup, her laugh grows quiet, the light flickers like a stage cue,You walk past carrying a tray of something salty and pretend not to notice the way their bodies tilt closer like magnets that finally got permission.
On the couch, a circle forms around a pile of old photos someone dug out of a shoebox they swore they’d thrown away.
There you are in different years—Worse hair, stranger clothes, a grin stretched wide enough to make you ache now,Everyone points and cackles, then falls silent when they see the one picture of someone who isn’t here anymore,Eyes dart away, then back, somebody makes a joke that lands heavy,The moment bruises but doesn’t break; grief gets folded into the playlist, another track playing under the main one.
Every last party of the year has that one person who decides the balcony is therapy,They step into the cold, cigarette in hand even if they quit months ago, just wanting something to hold that burns slower than their thoughts,You join them because you always do, shoulder to shoulder facing the street like war veterans of twelve weird months,They exhale smoke and stories in the same breath,Talk about jobs they hate, bodies they’re learning not to resent, the sudden quietness after a breakup that felt like someone turned off a station they’d been tuned to for years,You nod because you’ve got your own static,You toss out one-liners to keep them from sliding too far into the dark,Somewhere between jokes and honesty you admit one truth you had no intention of saying tonight,Watch it drift out over the pavement,Feel your chest a little less crowded.
Midnight lurks on every phone screen like a countdown to judgment.
Someone takes it seriously, corralling the crowd into the living room, turning down the music and turning up the volume of the TV,The ball drops in some city you don’t live in,Everyone counts down out of sync, voices overlapping,Some kiss like it was always going to be them in this moment,Some raise their hands in the air like they’re surrendering to gravity and time themselves,You find yourself caught in a hug that’s warmer than you expected, slower,Their cheek against yours, the scratch of stubble or the slip of lipstick depending on who you grab,For a second you actually believe in fresh starts,Then someone yells about spilled punch and the spell cracks.
After midnight, things loosen further.
Shoes come off, eyeliner smudges, someone’s hair tie vanishes into the abyss,Conversations turn sideways in that way they only do when you’re simultaneously exhausted and wired,A circle on the floor forms, people trading stories about the worst thing they survived this year and the best thing they almost missed,You listen as one friend admits they were afraid to wake up some mornings,Another confesses they fell in love with a stranger on a train and never saw them again,You realize this messy little room holds more courage than any motivational speech you’ll scroll past tomorrow.
There’s always that one argument in the kitchen.
Nothing violent, just two people who care too much about a topic that doesn’t actually matter in the grand scheme—Whether a movie ending made sense, whether an artist sold out or grew up, whether pineapple belongs anywhere near a holiday ham,Voices rise, hands fly, someone steps in as referee with a dish towel like a flag,They’ll shake hands before they leave,But right now it feels important to fight about anything other than the quiet dread that waits in January.
As the hours thin out, so does the crowd.
Early leavers do Irish exits, coats grabbed quietly so they don’t have to endure the heavy goodbyes,A few sit by the door pulling on boots at the speed of people who are not quite ready to go back to their own silence,The diehards remain, sprawled across furniture in soft configurations that never happen under fluorescent office lights or in grocery store aisles;Heads on shoulders, knees brushed together,The staging of a closeness that will look different in group chats and daylight, but will still have happened.
At some point, you’re alone with the last handful of humans who feel less like guests and more like extra organs you picked up along the way.
The music has dropped to looping background, nobody’s dancing anymore,Just slow swaying in their seats, absent humming,Someone yawns wide enough to pull everyone into a chain of exhausted stretching and groaning,You look around and think, this is it, this is the shot I’d freeze-frame—Not the moment the clock hit midnight,But this:Blankets thrown over laps, socks mismatched, eyelids heavy,Every guard lowered, every pose abandoned,The end of a year wrapped in the sound of people breathing steadily within the same four walls.
When the door finally closes behind the last body, you stand in the center of your wrecked living room,Blinking in the sudden quiet as if someone muted the universe,Plastic cups toppled like fallen soldiers, streamers drooping, the TV screen gone dark, reflecting you back as a slightly ghosted version of yourself holding an empty bottle,Your feet crunch over whatever broke and nobody noticed,Your hands move on autopilot—trash bag unfurled, bottles gathered, couch cushions patted down for lost phones and stray keys.
You’re tired down to your bones,But under the ache is something stubbornly alive,A thin pulse of gratitude for the fact that out of every possible place in this city full of spinning stories,They chose this one to close their year in,Chose you as the person they trusted to be there when the calendar gave up and rolled over,Chose this small, flawed, sticky-floored universe as the place to laugh one more time before whatever comes next.
You flick off the last light and the room is held only by the glow sneaking in from the street.
Last party of the year is over,Another one logged in the invisible archive of your life,But as you stand there in the hushed aftermath,You have the sneaking suspicion that what you’ll carry forward isn’t the count, or the kiss, or the spilled drink,It’s the way that for a handful of hours,On a random night with cheap music and unsteady voices,Nobody pretended they were fine all the way through—And somehow, that made all of you just a little less alone when the year finally gave up its grip.
Borrowed Glitter And Borrowed Time – Song [Wreath▾
Verse 1Last party of the year and the hallway smells like snow and perfume mixed with fries,Coats piled high by the bedroom door like everyone shed their other lives,Speaker on the counter plays a song we swore we were too cool to still know line for line,And every joke tonight hits harder ’cause we’re all afraid of crossing that midnight line.
Verse 2Punch in the bowl, some kind of fruit drowning slow in a sugar-drunk sea,Somebody’s in the kitchen telling strangers they’re the only ones who really see,Two kids on the balcony trading smoke and stories they’ll forget by spring,While in the crowded living room three near-strangers dance like it actually means something.
ChorusLast party of the year, borrowed glitter, borrowed time,We’re all half broken, half on fire, pretending it’s by design,Counting down with crooked voices, clinging to whoever’s near,If this is how it ends, I’ll take it—These cheap lights, these loud hearts, this fear,Last party of the year,And somehow we’re still here.
Verse 3Photos on the table from the years we didn’t know we’d miss,One face gone, the laughter dips, then climbs back up on a half-true quip and a clumsy kiss,Someone in the corner lists the things they swear they’ll finally change come spring,You nod along, hold up your drink, and secretly hope they get every damn thing.
BridgeWhen the floor’s all cups and confetti and the ride-shares light the street,When the last hug hangs a second longer, tired arms and heavy feet,You stand alone inside the wreckage, hear the silence softly ring,Every stain and crumpled napkin proof that you were part of something breathing.
ChorusLast party of the year, borrowed glitter, borrowed time,We’re all half broken, half on fire, pretending it’s by design,Counting down with crooked voices, clinging to whoever’s near,If this is how it ends, I’ll take it—These cheap lights, these loud hearts, this fear,Last party of the year,And somehow we’re still here.
OutroWhen the lights are off and the echo fades, you stand there in the dark and grin,Thinking if the new year wants to find you,this is the mess it has to walk in,Last party of the year behind you,same old shadows up ahead,But you’ll remember how it felt tonightto be this tiredand not quite dead.
Borrowed Time▾
We both knew this wasn’t going anywhere permanent and that was fine,
She had a life in Denver and I had a lease on mine,
In Chicago, and we had a conference in between us for the week,
And by the third night we had found exactly what we’d seek.
She knocked on my hotel door at eleven on a Thursday,
Said she’d been in the conference bar debating the what-exactly,
Of the protocol when two people have been looking at each other all week,
I said the protocol is you knock on the door and you speak.
Borrowed time, that’s all we’ve got and we both knew it going in,
Borrowed time, seven days then Denver and the wind,
Takes the whole arrangement with it when the conference badge goes back,
Borrowed time, that’s the only thing we lacked,
She said she wanted the week, I said I’ll take whatever’s on the shelf,
Borrowed time, you give it all right to yourself.
We burned through the borrowed time with complete dedication,
Not sentimental about it, just thorough in the application,
Of the available hours to the thing we were both good at,
She said we should’ve found each other earlier and I said well, that.
Is the nature of borrowed time, you find it when you find it,
And you use it well or you don’t and she said you don’t mind it,
The temporary quality, I said the temporary quality is the point,
She said I know a man who gets it, this is my anoint.
Borrowed time, that’s all we’ve got and we both knew it going in,
Borrowed time, seven days then Denver and the wind,
Takes the whole arrangement with it when the conference badge goes back,
Borrowed time, that’s the only thing we lacked,
She said she wanted the week, I said I’ll take whatever’s on the shelf,
Borrowed time, you give it all right to yourself.
The last morning she was packing while I was watching from the bed,
And she said something I’m going to keep that doesn’t need to be said,
Out loud here, some things belong in the private archive permanently,
She picked up her bag and I walked her down to the taxi correctly.
We stood on the sidewalk for a moment in the specific weight of the ending,
And she kissed me in the way of someone who is not pretending,
And she got in the cab and I stood there in the good air of the thing,
Borrowed time, worth every offering.
Borrowed time, that’s all we’ve got and we both knew it going in,
Borrowed time, seven days then Denver and the wind,
Takes the whole arrangement with it when the conference badge goes back,
Borrowed time, that’s the only thing we lacked,
She said she wanted the week, I said I’ll take whatever’s on the shelf,
Borrowed time, you give it all right to yourself.
Broken Glass Sings at Dawn▾
Night claws at the throat of this city—fingernails painted with exhaust, with spit, with all the black promises the dark makes and never intends to keep,
I ride shotgun with regret, wide-eyed, teeth-grinding, a ghost at the wheel and adrenaline rattling my ribs like loose change in a beggar’s cup,
Headlights are bone-white fangs, jaws snapping in my rearview, chasing every lie I ever told to buy myself another hour of this cracked, shaking survival,
Dashboard blinking warnings, red as a slit wrist in bathwater—no safety net, no prayers, just the scream of tires peeling skin from asphalt,
Every traffic light is a dare, every intersection a Russian roulette spin, I keep pushing the pedal to murder sleep, to race the sunrise before it can blind me with what I’ve done,
My shadow leans across the hood, hungry and hollow, a midnight animal gnawing at the steering column, howling lullabies made of broken promises and gravel in the gut,
My hands are claws gripping the wheel, knuckles cracked and bleeding secrets that never healed, every line on my palm a map to another near miss, another last second that wasn’t,
Sirens whisper in the distance, not salvation, not hope, just wolves running on blood-slicked streets, waiting for the scent of the next disaster,
I wonder if there’s any mercy left between the lanes—if the world will forgive a sinner who races with the ghosts of those he left behind,
The engine coughs confessions, pistons pounding out a sermon only I can hear, something about pain, something about the way terror tastes like copper and cheap whiskey,
I remember your face—how it shone in the dark, how your fear was always the color of my own cowardice, how your goodbye stuck in my teeth like a bullet that missed the bone,
Speed doesn’t save, it only strips away the parts of you that could be loved, leaves you raw and stuttering, an animal running from headlights and memory,
But the crash never comes quick enough, and every second that passes is another mirror cracking, another voice in my skull laughing at the way I beg for ruin,
There’s no slow motion, just the jolt and scream, the splintering of self against physics, the abrupt and brilliant flash of everything you were,
After, there’s only silence and steam, broken glass singing at dawn, and the taste of copper on the wind—proof that you can survive a thousand deaths and still want to die,
I crawl from the wreckage, not reborn but ruined, a smear on the pavement, an apology scrawled in skid marks,
The world doesn’t care if you make it out, the world just wants a show—so I give it blood, I give it bone, I give it every haunted mile that brought me here,
Fast crash, slow ending, the ache in my chest a clock that won’t stop counting down,
And in the echo of the impact, I hear your name—shattered, scattered, a warning for every beast that thinks speed can outrun the things that haunt us.
Song: Broken Glass Sings at Dawn
Highway’s got its jaws around my soul, chewing bone and spitting dreams out the window,
Dash lit up like a dying city, I drive with my demons—hell in stereo,
White lines blur into a fever, I’m kissing fate at ninety miles an hour,
Rearview full of all my failures, headlights grinning with the hunger to devour.
Sirens don’t chase to save—they’re just the applause for a sinner burning out,
I roll the dice with every red light, desperate to beat the morning doubt,
Your voice is a ghost in the speakers, reminding me of every promise I broke,
Rubber screams and I can’t feel fear, only the heat of regret rising in smoke.
Broken glass sings at dawn,
Crash comes fast but the night drags on,
Blood on the mirror, truth in the scar,
Fast crash—slow burn—never gets you far,
Broken glass sings at dawn,
I’m just a wreck chasing a spark that’s already gone.
Windshield fractured like my story,
Each shard a lie, each bruise a glory,
If I see your face in the glare,
Will you run, or will you dare—
To haunt this fast crash,
Where only broken things last?
Broken glass sings at dawn,
Crash comes fast but the pain drags on,
Blood on the mirror, truth in the scar,
Fast crash—slow burn—never gets you far,
Broken glass sings at dawn,
I’m just a wreck chasing a spark that’s already gone.
Chasing Time▾
Every second slips away, like sand through my hands,But I keep running, trying to meet the demands.I’m the one who’s always out of sight,Chasing shadows in the corner of the light.
I’m frantic, I’m frantic, can’t take a breath,Chasing after moments, never thinking of the rest.I’m trapped in this whirlwind, can’t get out,But the clock keeps ticking, screaming loud.
ChorusI’m running in circles, lost in the race,Chasing the future, never finding my place.I’m frantic, but charming, caught in the game,Trying to catch up, but it’s never the same.I hear the ticking, it won’t let me go,Chasing time, with no place to show.
Verse 2The world’s all a blur, but I’ve got to stay on track,Every turn I take leads me further back.I’ve seen the way it all unravels and bends,But I’ve got no choice, I’ve got to chase it again.
The more I run, the less I can see,But the chase is a part of who I’m meant to be.
In the rabbit hole, I’m falling fast,Trying to keep up, but I’m not meant to last.
I’m frantic, I’m frantic, can’t make it stop,Drowning in the race, always trying to reach the top.I’m chasing a dream that’s slipping away,But I can’t stop now, I’ve got to play.
ChorusI’m running in circles, lost in the race,Chasing the future, never finding my place.I’m frantic, but charming, caught in the game,Trying to catch up, but it’s never the same.I hear the ticking, it won’t let me go,Chasing time, with no place to show.
BridgeIt’s like I’m caught in a maze of my own design,Every step, every choice, I’m crossing the line.
The clock won’t wait, it’s always ahead,But I’m chasing it down, even though I’m misled.I try to escape, but I can’t find the door,In this endless race, I’m left wanting more.
ChorusI’m running in circles, lost in the race,Chasing the future, never finding my place.I’m frantic, but charming, caught in the game,Trying to catch up, but it’s never the same.I hear the ticking, it won’t let me go,Chasing time, with no place to show.
OutroI’ll keep running, I’ll keep chasing,Through the chaos, I’ll keep facing.
But somewhere deep inside, I know,That I’m not meant to catch time’s glow.I’m chasing, I’m chasing, always in flight,But will I ever see the end in sight?
City at the Stroke of Twelve▾
Midnight strikes like a chord across the skyline,
City breathes in beats of neon and the moon’s shine.
Skyscrapers stand as sentinels in the sleepless watch,
While shadows dance in the alleys with a whiskey scotch.
Streetlights flicker, a semaphore in the simmering dark,
Each pulse a painting on the canvas of the urban park.
Taxis trail tales through the tarmac veins,
In the heart of the city, where the night never wanes.
Midnight in the city, where dreams walk the streets,
Among the drifters and the watchers and the heart’s discreet.
A symphony played on pavement, a rhythm ridden deep,
Where secrets are kept in the company we keep.
The buzz of the bars, a babel building to the brim,
Laughter leaking into the night, a serendipitous hymn.
Lovers lean into the lure of the city’s lustful call,
Hands held, hearts open, in the rise and fall.
Sidewalks sing under soles of stories old and new,
A mural made in motion, in shades of gray and blue.
The air, a mixture of mist and the metro’s breath,
Where moments are captured in the life and death.
Midnight in the city, where dreams walk the streets,
Among the drifters and the watchers and the heart’s discreet.
A symphony played on pavement, a rhythm ridden deep,
Where secrets are kept in the company we keep.
Eyes meet in the mystery of the transient twilight,
Exchanging silent soliloquies in the fleeting flight.
Coffee shops corner the market of the midnight oil,
Fuel for the thinkers in their nocturnal toil.
As the clock hands clinch closer to the crux of new,
The city’s soul stirs, sketching scenes in the dew.
Midnight’s mantle, wrapped in the urban sprawl,
Under the stars that witness, whisper, and enthrall.
Midnight in the city, where dreams walk the streets,
Among the drifters and the watchers and the heart’s discreet.
A symphony played on pavement, a rhythm ridden deep,
Where secrets are kept in the company we keep.
So wander the walkways where whispers weave,
In the cradle of concrete, where we believe
That every second is a story, and every minute a frame,
In the city at midnight, where nothing stays the same.
City the Stroke of Twelve▾
Midnight strikes like a chord across the skyline,
City brehes in bes of neon and the moons shine.
Skyscrapers stand as sentinels in the sleepless watch,
While shadows dance in the alleys with a whiskey scotch.
Streetlights flicker, a semaphore in the simmering dark,
Each pulse a painting on the canvas of the urban park.
Taxis trail tales through the tarmac veins,
In the heart of the city, where the night never wanes.
Midnight in the city, where dreams walk the streets,
Among the drifters and the wchers and the hearts discreet.
A symphony played on pavement, a rhythm ridden deep,
Where secrets are kept in the company we keep.
The buzz of the bars, a babel building to the brim,
Laughter leaking into the night, a serendipitous hymn.
Lovers lean into the lure of the citys lustful call,
Hands held, hearts open, in the rise and fall.
Sidewalks sing under soles of stories old and new,
A mural made in motion, in shades of gray and blue.
The air, a mixture of mist and the metros breath,
Where moments are captured in the life and death.
Midnight in the city, where dreams walk the streets,
Among the drifters and the wchers and the hearts discreet.
A symphony played on pavement, a rhythm ridden deep,
Where secrets are kept in the company we keep.
Eyes meet in the mystery of the transient twilight,
Exchanging silent soliloquies in the fleeting flight.
Coffee shops corner the market of the midnight oil,
Fuel for the thinkers in their nocturnal toil.
As the clock hands clinch closer to the crux of new,
The city’s soul stirs, sketching scenes in the dew.
Midnights mantle, wrapped in the urban sprawl,
Under the stars that witness, whisper, and enthrall.
Midnight in the city, where dreams walk the streets,
Among the drifters and the wchers and the hearts discreet.
A symphony played on pavement, a rhythm ridden deep,
Where secrets are kept in the company we keep.
So wander the walkways where whispers weave,
In the cradle of concrete, where we believe
that every second is a story, and every minute a frame,
In the city midnight, where nothing stays the same.
Clock out▾
Nah, time’s a flat circle.
The work doesn’t stop,
just shifts shape,
turning into bills,
broken promises,
and existential dread
with a side of Netflix.
But yeah,
I’m absolutely thrilled,
grateful to be here,
dancing on this hamster wheel
with all the other
ensoiastic corpses.
Since life’s a gift,
right?
And I’m just unwrapping it
one disappointment
at a time.
Don’t leave your purse on the floor
Don’t Leave Your Purse on the Floor
They say it leaks luck,
spills fortune like loose change
through the cracks in cheap linoleum,
slipping under tables,
getting swept up with dust and forgotten receipts.
Money’s got a mind of its own,
and it hates being disrespected.
Drop your purse down,
and you’re telling the universe
you don’t care if it stays or goes.
And trust me—
it goes.
It creeps out in the night,
one crumpled bill at a time,
slipping into the pockets of strangers,
feeding vending machines that jam,
fueling bad decisions you swear
you never paid for.
It’s not just superstition.
It’s a warning.
Since the floor isn’t just dirty—
it’s greedy.
It’ll suck the life out of your leather,
leave your bag sagging,
heavy with everything but
what you need.
You’ll feel it in the dry scrape of your card
getting declined,
in the empty echoes of your wallet
when rent’s due
and all you’ve got
is lint and regret.
So keep it off the ground,
close to your side,
where it belongs.
Since once you let your purse touch the floor,
you’re not just losing money—
you’re inviting everything else
to fall apart with it.
Clocked Out, Still Carrying Chains [Wraith▾
Labor Day drags in on rubber legs and lukewarm light, the air thick with grill smoke, cut grass, and cheap beer breath hanging over alleys like a tired parade that forgot why it formed,and every front porch warrior in a folding chair swears this one long weekend is salvation, one tiny island of mercy between the last set of timecards and the next storm.
Coolers sweat on rust-stained concrete, burgers hiss and spit like they know they’re consolation prizes for everything the year already stole,paper plates sag under potato salad and budget steak while across the street somebody laughs a little too loud, like they’re trying to drown out the payroll.
Brushstrokes of sunlight smear across oil-slick driveways, kids chase each other with water guns loaded with hose water and second-hand joy,and somewhere behind it all a clock that isn’t even plugged in keeps ticking inside every skull, counting down the hours before work comes back to destroy.
Lawn chairs become thrones for sore backs and bad knees, kings and queens of overtime holding plastic cups like relics from battles that never end,their hands tattooed in grease, sanitizer burns, paper cuts, machine scars, all the little signatures of a system that calls them “family” and never truly calls them friend.
The yard smells like charcoal, sweat, and the faint memory of something better that never made it off the brochure,and every joke about “finally getting a break” has that same brittle edge, like they’re afraid to admit the rest won’t cure.
Someone flips sliders with the weary grace of a line cook who could do it half-asleep, wrist moving in the same rhythm as the line at work Monday through Friday,only difference today is nobody’s yelling about rushes or tickets; just relatives yelling over the music about nothing, trying to keep the dread away.
Plastic flags flutter from the porch, little rectangles that pretend this whole mess is noble and clean,but if you look close enough through the grill smoke the stars and stripes start to shimmer into barcodes and time sheets, thin and mean.
Every folding table carries more than condiments and chips; it holds layoff rumors, medical bills, and student debt piled invisible between the mustard and the buns,and no matter how wide the smiles get for photos, you can see the way the laughter jumps when someone mentions bosses, missed promotions, or impossible sums.
The world calls it a holiday, like three letters stamped on a calendar square can cancel the way fluorescent light chews through pupils day after day,like a single extra morning sleeping in can solder a spine that’s been bent for decades under buckets, boxes, patients, plates, pallets, or pay.
Neighbors clink cans to the idea of rest, maybe to the fantasy that this is what they worked for, twelve months compressed into this lukewarm afternoon,but in the gap between punchlines you hear the quiet creeping, the brain already bargaining with the alarm clock about next Tuesday, next paycheck, the next full moon.
Uncle Frank tells the same story he tells every year about the strike that almost meant something,how they stood outside the plant in the rain with cardboard signs and cold fingers and for ten brief days felt like they were more than numbers on somebody’s spreadsheet or offering.
He trails off right where he always does, somewhere between “union” and “they moved half the jobs overseas,”then takes another swallow of beer like maybe the carbonation can scrub out what it feels like to be replaceable down to your knees.
On the back steps, a woman in a faded work polo sits with her shoes off, heels cracked, ankles swelling,scrolling past photos of influencers lounging on boats and beaches, sponsored rest, curated relaxation, while her stomach twists at the idea of calling out sick and not telling.
She knows if she misses another Monday her name lights up a little brighter in the manager’s head,and it’s hard to enjoy the taste of burnt marshmallows when they taste like a warning about the next thin thread.
The kids don’t care; they’ve built forts from lawn chairs and blankets, t-shirts stained with ketchup and popsicle streaks,their voices ripping through the humid air like they still trust tomorrow to be something other than another week.
They chase each other over grass beaten flat by years of temporary barbecues and permanent worry,and for a flicker of time, watching them run, the adults remember what motion without purpose felt like, before deadlines taught them how to hurry.
The sun sags lower, throwing long shadows over backyard fences that try to pretend they’re privacy instead of economic lines drawn in treated wood and rusted nails,and a neighbor’s old radio plays some classic about easy living that feels like a joke in a block where every car has a story about missed payments and bald tires and busted sales.
Someone lights a cheap firepit and it pops in protest, sparks floating up like shot fireworks that never got their permit,faces gather around the flames, orange and tired, and for a second everybody looks less like workers and more like survivors just trying to admit.
Yet even here, toes pointed toward the heat, the conversation keeps slipping back to schedules and quotas and that new app the company uses to track “productivity” like a confession booth,and every time somebody jokes about “big brother” a few eyes look away, because it isn’t funny how much of that joke turned out to be truth.
Labor Day is marketed as the pause button in a year that never really stops,but it feels more like a commercial break in a show that will be back to crushing you right after these burgers and pop.
You can feel Monday hiding just across the street in the dark between porch lights,wearing a name tag and a lanyard, holding a stack of tasks and emails and night shifts and petty fights.
Still, there’s something real in the way a worn-out father lifts his kid to catch the last smear of daylight,in the way a nurse laughs too loud as she tells stories that would break you if she didn’t twist them toward the light.
There’s a bitter sweetness in the way they pass the bowl of salad like a communion of the underpaid,breaking bread with calloused hands that built the parts, stocked the shelves, cleaned the floors, stitched the clothes, fixed the brakes, laid the blades.
They are the reason the lights come on and the water runs and the deliveries arrive and the buildings don’t fall,but they get one long weekend and a discount code, if that, in exchange for all.
Night drops full and heavy, mosquitoes clocking in as if they never left,and the party thins, plates stack, leftover hot dogs wrapped in foil for future shifts and graveyard thefts.
Someone takes out the trash, the bag ripping a little from the weight of bones and paper plates and crushed cans,and underneath the everyday clatter you hear everything the year demanded from these hands.
As the last guests drift away, headlights tracing short-lived constellations over cracked blacktop and tired lawns,the yards go quiet again, except for the low electric hum of a million refrigerators storing tomorrow’s lunches like little pawned-off dawns.
Inside, uniforms already hang on doorknobs like ghosts rehearsing,boots lined up in a row, ready to march back into the grind while backs and brains keep cursing.
Labor Day rest, they call it; a break carved out of the same stone used to build the factory walls,a small square of sky given to people who hold up the world but never get invited to the ball.
Yet in the middle of the bitterness, tucked between grease stains and unpaid bills,lives this stubborn, stupid, holy thing that refuses to die—the way they still share what little they have,still laugh until their ribs ache,still pretend a paper plate on a busted picnic table is a throne,still show up for each other in alleys and tiny yardswhere no company slogan has ever set footand no CEO would bother to stand barefoot on the crabgrass and feel what it costs to keep the whole machine going.
Common PAR The Palette Knife of Time▾
The palette knife of time paints not with colors bright,
But with shades of decay and the dimming of light.
It scrapes across the canvas of our days,
Blurring once sharp memories in its relentless haze.
With each sweep, it carves the lines deeper into skin,
A chronicle of battles lost and won, of thin
Veils between what was and what will never be again,
Leaving behind a tableau marred by pain and stain.
This tool, this merciless artist of the finite,
Casts shadows where once there was light,
Turning laughter into echoes that fade into the night,
Transforming joy into remainss, brittle and slight.
Yet in its harsh strokes, there lies a type of grace,
A beauty found in the creased maps of an aged face.
It tells of survival, of a life fully lived,
Of moments seized, of love freely given.
This relentless carver, this bearer of the inevitable flow,
Does not pause to ponder its marks, high or low.
Unseen, it moves with certainty and silent might,
Leaving us nought but memories in its smoldering flight.
Do not mourn the harsh lines it leaves in its wake,
For in each crevice, a story of resilience, make no mistake.
Embrace the artistry of the years, the subtle hue of conflict,
For the palette knife of time carves the masterpiece of life.
Craft Beer Twelve▾
I started with the session ale at two in the afternoon,
the one with the citrus notes that always fills the room,
by four I moved to the double IPA, the heavy hitter,
the one that coats the tongue and makes the evening glitter,
the taproom’s got forty taps and I’ve made a plan,
to work my way through twelve of them, a deliberate man,
my buddy Dave is keeping pace and calling every pour,
we’re doing this with reverence and we’re doing this some more.
The porter at tap seven is as dark as a cave,
the kind of beer that makes you feel enormously brave,
I drink it slow because the porter asks for that,
then pivot to the wheat beer and the conversation flat,
out against the bar like something laid open wide,
we’ve been here since the afternoon and nobody’s lied,
about anything except our tolerance and our plan,
twelve craft beers is a reasonable count for a man.
Craft beer twelve, the evening’s getting wide,
craft beer twelve, we’re deep enough inside,
to see the whole thing clearly from the other side,
craft beer twelve and the night is our guide,
craft beer twelve, the taproom’s turning soft,
craft beer twelve, the bar stools are aloft,
Dave is on his ninth and I’m on something near,
craft beer twelve is the summit of the beer.
The stout at tap eleven is the old friend kind,
the one that’s thick enough to occupy the mind,
entirely with the chocolate and the roasted grain,
I sip it with the focus of a man under strain,
the good kind of strain, the pleasurable kind,
the kind that comes from treating craft beer as designed,
not just for drinking fast but for the tasting slow,
the twelve-tap odyssey that Dave and I will know.
Tap twelve is the sour and I respect the sour,
it’s the honest endpoint of the taproom hour,
the tartness cutting through everything that came before,
cleaning out the palate and then asking for more,
I finish it and Dave finishes his and we look around,
at the taproom we’ve been in since early afternoon found,
the place has turned from lunch crowd to the evening set,
and we’ve been here through all of it, no regret.
Craft beer twelve, the evening’s getting wide,
craft beer twelve, we’re deep enough inside,
to see the whole thing clearly from the other side,
craft beer twelve and the night is our guide,
craft beer twelve, the taproom’s turning soft,
craft beer twelve, the bar stools are aloft,
Dave is on his ninth and I’m on something near,
craft beer twelve is the summit of the beer.
We order the pretzel basket because pretzels make sense now,
dipping in the cheese sauce with the reverent vow,
of men who’ve earned their food through consistent beer work,
the pretzel is the medal and the cheese is the perk,
Dave suggests we do this again before the week is out,
I say yes because Dave always has the best ideas out,
we split the tab and tip the bartender right at forty percent,
the craft beer twelve odyssey was the best thing spent.
Craft beer twelve, the evening’s getting wide,
craft beer twelve, we’re deep enough inside,
to see the whole thing clearly from the other side,
craft beer twelve and the night is our guide,
craft beer twelve, the taproom’s turning soft,
craft beer twelve, the bar stools are aloft,
Dave is on his ninth and I’m on something near,
craft beer twelve is the summit of the beer.
Dawn finds us tangled in dew, skin to skin in the thick of the trees,▾
The hush is a shroud and the grove is a cage, but you beg for more and I aim to please,
Your hair wet with sweat, back arched to the sky, nails in my shoulders, thighs tight at my waist,
I press you down in the moss, every thrust a confession, every gasp a prayer I want to taste.
No city lights, just the wild air biting, your mouth on my neck, your moans in my ear,
The pulse of the earth in our veins, the beat in your chest echoing every time I draw near.
Roots and rocks at our backs, but we don’t slow down,
We’re animals now, chasing the heat, and I give you more until the sun burns out the town.
Dawn pleasures▾
Pre-: Fingers teasing every peak, exploring every sacred spot, Creing waves of pleasure, in the he that they’ve sought.
: Dawn pleasures, in the morning where dreams collide, In the depths of their longing, dawn pleasures, they hide. In the rhythm of their lust, where ecstasy finds its place, Dawn pleasures, they unite, in the morning’s tight embrace.
: In the silence of their longing, where sighs become moans, Lies the beauty of their union, in the depth of their tones. Each touch a fiery promise, softly in the twilight’s glow, In the secrets of their lust, desire starts to fucking flow.
Pre-: Fingers teasing every peak, exploring every sacred spot, Creing waves of pleasure, in the he that they’ve sought.
: Dawn pleasures, in the morning where dreams collide, In the depths of their longing, dawn pleasures, they hide. In the rhythm of their lust, where ecstasy finds its place, Dawn pleasures, they unite, in the morning’s tight embrace.
: In the echoes of their pleasure, morning’s whispers turn to cries, They find comfort in the rawness, in the passion of their thighs. In the stillness of their climax, where the world fades away, They discover a world of pure delight, in the morning’s wild sway.
: Dawn pleasures, in the morning where dreams collide, In the depths of their longing, dawn pleasures, they hide. In the rhythm of their lust, where ecstasy finds its place, Dawn pleasures, they unite, in the morning’s tight embrace.
: In the soft morning light where dreams linger on, A tale of dawn pleasures unfolds in the early dawn.
Dawn's Rhythm▾
Dawn’s Rhythm
In the hush of morning’s drowsy light,
Within the grove, a realm of comfort bright,
Where whispers of the wind take flight.
Amidst the canopy, a dance ensues,
Echoes of the earth’s wild hues,
Bodies entwined in nature’s muse.
Senses heightened by each caress,
In this hidden haven, we confess,
Embracing passion with finesse.
A symphony of breath and touch,
Nature’s allure we crave so much,
Lost in a realm where hearts dare clutch.
With every step, a story unfolds,
Inscribed on leaves, on bark that holdThe secrets of our love untold.
Binding souls in threads unseen,
We journey through this intimate scene,
Exploring depths where love convenes.
In shadows cast by branches tall,
Our spirits rise and gently fall,
Answering nature’s ancient call.
Fingers intertwined in cosmic rhyme,
We transcend the bounds of time,
In this enchanted paradigm.
As moonlight weaves its silver strands,
Our connection firmly stands,
Rooted deep in nature’s lands.
Through valleys dark and meadows green,
Our love an ever-growing stream,
Flowing with a passion extreme.
In the heart of dawn’s soft glow,
Seeds of love we plant and sow,
A sacred bond that continues to grow.
Secret Night
In the cloak of twilight’s hush, they slip behind closed doors,
Two silhouettes pressed close, craving the hush where nobody waits.Candles gutter on the windowsill, flickering like stolen heartbeats,
As they map each other’s contours in a silent, sacred hush.
Her breath catches when his fingers graze the hollow of her neck—A single spark in the dim that ignites a slow, fierce flame.He tastes the salt of her pulse with whispered worship,
Tracing paths of fire across skin made eager by secrecy.
Between them, words dissolve into a symphony of sighs,A duet of moans that echoes off the empty walls.They bend toward each other with the force of gravity itself,
Bodies entwining in a dance older than time.
Her hair, loose and wild, fans against his chest’s rise and fall,A silken river he drinks from with hungry, reverent lips.His hands cradle her back as she arches into the unknown,
Surrendering to the orbit of their private eclipse.
In the deep depth of covers, they find endless curves to explore,
Each touch a new revelation, each kiss a vow unspoken.She wraps her legs around his waist, anchoring themselves to this moment,
As he drives them deeper into the heart of midnight’s promise.
Outside, the world slumbers, blind to the rapture they weave,
But inside this room, time stretches, bends, and finally yields.Their moans rise like a tide, washing them into oblivion,
Where only breath and flesh remain in the glow of stolen candles.
He holds her close when the tremors subside,
Fingers threading through her hair as if to capture the feeling in his bones.She presses her cheek to his collarbone, listening to the echoOf her own heartbeat, slower now, cradled in warmth.
They lie tangled in the aftermath, satin sheets tangled around limbs,
The air heavy with the scent of honeyed sweat and whispered secrets.A stray lock of her hair brushes his lips—A final spark of silk against rough skin, soft as a lover’s goodbye.
Dawn creeps in on silent feet, pale light reaching through cracks,
But neither moves to greet it. They linger in the hush between night and day,
Holding onto the ember of their clandestine rite,
Knowing that once the world stirs, this room must return to shadow.
Yet the memory of this secret night will blaze within them—A quiet flame no sunrise can extinguish,A hidden realm where only two hearts dared to collide,
And in that collision, found a brief eternity of desire.
Day Eleven A New Adventure▾
Awakening with excitement coursing through our veins was a refreshing change from previous days filled with playful rivalry; it was time for something different—something new. The competitive edge had softened beautifully into curiosity—a shared eagerness to explore beyond familiar boundaries.
“What do you have planned for today?” she asked eagerly as I slipped out from beneath the covers.
“Let’s take our game outside,” I replied mischievously while pulling on jeans and grabbing a picnic basket filled with goodies I had prepared earlier.
Her eyes widened with intrigue as she followed me into nature’s embrace—finding comfort by a secluded lake surrounded by whispering trees and shimmering water reflecting sunlight like scattered diamonds.
“This is perfect!” she exclaimed joyfully as I laid out the blanket adorned with soft patterns beneath us.
As we settled down for our picnic—her favorite wine chilled beside an array of snacks—we indulged in casual conversation punctuated by laughter and stories from days gone by; yet beneath it all lingered an electric tension that tingled through every shared glance.
Day Eleven The Living Room Tango▾
Morning brought a new challenge: a tango lesson in our living room. I cleared furniture to cree space; she found a sultry playlist—Go Barbieri’s “Last Tango in Paris.” We stood face to face, bodies inches apart, and she placed hands on my shoulders.
Clumsy first, we stepped on each other’s feet, laughed twisted turns, and nearly collided with the coffee table. But as the minutes passed, we found rhythm: her hip gliding against mine, my arm anchoring her back, each pivot and dip painting desire in slow motion.
Day Twelve The Surprise▾
As dawn broke over Day Twelve—a sense of anticipation lingered in the air like dew upon grass—it became clear today held surprises waiting just beneath its surface—a day dedicated entirely to pampering ourselves indulgently after pushing limits previously established during our adventures together so far!
The moment she revealed plans for a spa day—eyes sparkling mischievously—I couldn’t help but grin widely; excitement bubbling forth uncontrollably within me!
“Are you serious? A spa day?” I exclaimed incredulously while bouncing slightly on my heels at this unexpected revelation!
“Yes! Massages followed by hot baths followed by relaxation—what else could one ask for?” she replied matter-of-factly while winking playfully at me—it felt intoxicating just hearing those words spill forth from her lips!
Upon arrival at this oasis designed solely for relaxation—we surrendered ourselves completely into expert hands; soothing oils melting away tension built up over weeks spent engaging fervently within competitions fueled solely by desire itself!
Each massage felt heavenly—every stroke transporting us deeper into blissful states where worries melted away leaving nothing but serenity behind until eventually—we found ourselves soaking comfortably within warm waters bubbling blissfully around us—champagne flutes held delicately between fingers while laughter echoed softly throughout private sanctuary created just for two!
Day Twelve Vow Renewal Under Candlelight▾
Daylight found us gathering small mementos: the rose from Day Four, a feher from Day Six, a swch of lace from Day Nine. We placed them on the dresser, alongside two tiny silver bands I had engraved that morning: “Yesterday, Today, Always.”
Death Book Eleven Ends▾
We’ve been in the tender and the hard
Of death and children, in the backyard
Where the dog was buried, in the school
Counselor’s office, in the empty fool
Of trying to explain the permanent
To someone who believes the world is bent
Toward life and continuation, to a child
Who can’t believe the world is this wild
Death Book Eleven ends, the children grieve
Death Book Eleven ends, they learn to weave
The loss into the growing and the years
Death Book Eleven ends with a child’s tears
The children carry what we gave them young
The losses that we handed them before the tongue
Could fully form the questions that they needed
The grief that grew alongside, got conceded
Into the architecture of the self
The father-shaped hole on the library shelf
The mother-shaped space in the morning light
The grandparent-shaped absence in the night
But children are resilient in the way
That things are not replaceable but they
Find paths around the damage, they develop
New routes through the territory, develop
Their own emotional vocabulary
Their own language for the loss, the scary
Intimacy they have with grief young
Is not a wound alone, it’s also lung
Capacity, the children who have lost
Know something about value and the cost
Of everything, they don’t take the living
For granted with the same full-throated giving
Of granted that the luckier ones can afford
They know the loss has got a cord
Running through everything, and that’s not
Just damage, that’s also what they’ve got
Dont gift clocks▾
Don’t whistle while cooking
A fox at dawn means deception
Don’t count crows aloud
Don’t point at the moon
A mirror facing a door invites spirits
Eleven Hundred Bars▾
You could stack eleven hundred atmospheres of air,
and that is what the bottom of the deepest trench has there,
eleven hundred bars of force applied to every square,
of surface area that dares to sink below the surface layer.
Eleven hundred bars and I am holding on to nothing,
eleven hundred bars and I can feel my ribcage crushing,
eleven hundred bars and every air pocket implodes,
eleven hundred bars is where the human body slows.
The piezophile bacteria thrive in every bar,
the proteins folded differently to get to where they are,
the cell membranes adjusted so the lipids do not freeze,
eleven hundred bars is where the hadal creatures breathe with ease.
I read the instruments and cross-referenced the gauge,
and everything the needle says has been known since an early age,
but knowing what the pressure does and feeling it are two,
different kinds of understanding that come through.
Eleven Kilometers Down▾
Eleven kilometers of water pressing from above,
and the organisms at that depth have made themselves to love,
the eleven kilometers as the environment they need,
eleven kilometers is where the adapted ones succeed.
Eleven kilometers down, the bottom of the world,
eleven kilometers down, the deepest flag unfurled,
eleven kilometers down, no turning back from here,
eleven kilometers down, the only thing is clear.
The snailfish holds the depth record at eight thousand four,
hundred meters and they caught it on the camera and more,
and it moved through the hadal zone with all the ease,
of something that had been there from the very start to please.
Eleven kilometers of water over my head right now,
as I write this on the surface I am trying to allow,
the fact of that to register, eleven kilometers of wet,
between the bottom of the world and where I have not been yet.
Elixir of the Dawn ] (Patina and Rust)▾
In the darkness of the morn, coffee brews, so divine,
Turning groans of early hours into a wakeful sign.
From sleepy haze, a cup transforms, its warmth does ignite,
Rituals of the damned, in each sip, find their light.
A dark brew whispers truths, reviving lost intent,
With each sip, the soul shakes off its dreary lament.
Morning’s spell is broken, as the caffeine takes its toll,
A jolt of hot ambition stirs the sluggish, waking soul.
Sleep’s shroud lifted with the steam of bitter roast,
Each cup a cruel taunt to those who hate mornings the most.
Vibrancy unfurls where once was fog and dread,
Coffee’s dark allure drives the thoughts from out the head.
In this potion’s embrace, life’s colors find their hue,
The drowsy fog dissolves, revealing a clearer view.
The daily crucible demands its bitter blend,
A stark reminder that night’s calm will soon transcend.
With each sip, the rituals that once were soft and slow,
Become a fierce awakening to the fiery glow.
Thus, embrace the sacred brew, where dreams and strength entwine,
For morning’s darkest hour becomes a moment so divine.
Every dream I had was just waiting to unfold,▾
Every step I take, I’m breaking the mold.
From the streets to the palace, it’s all in my grasp,
I’ll take it all in stride, with no need to ask.
I’m not a hero, I’m a force you can’t ignore,
With each move I make, I’ll leave you wanting more.
In a world that’s dark, I’m the spark that won’t fade,
I’m the one who’s here, the one who’s made.
Every Hour After Midnight Bites (Song)▾
Tried to drown your ghost in the neon,
Barstool bruises, cheap whiskey’s cold kiss,
Every joke from a stranger’s a weapon,
Every laugh’s just another thing I miss.
They want me to flirt, to forget how you left,
But the memory’s sharp in my drink,
I dance with regret, my pockets are heavy,
The night’s got a snarl, and I’m starting to sink.
Friends push me out on the floor,
But my feet are nailed to the past,
I smile like a fracture, I talk like a mask,
No comfort in comfort, no peace that will last.
Your scent on my shirt, it burns like a dare,
I’m chasing a taste of your name,
This city keeps moving, I’m stuck in the glare,
Of a world that don’t care that I’m not the same.
Every hour after midnight bites,
Every shadow’s got your shape,
I’m laughing with teeth, I’m losing these fights,
Can’t outrun the mess we made.
This heartbreak don’t close at two,
It just slips out the back with me,
Every hour after midnight bites,
There’s no cure in company.
Broken mirror, bruised reflection,
Stall door closes on the man I used to be,
Graffiti wisdom, scrawled rejection,
“Don’t trust anyone who can’t bleed.”
I stumble through rain on a city of wounds,
Your goodbye howls in my chest,
If someone new calls you baby tonight,
Guess I’ll blame it on fate or bad luck or the rest.
The street is a sermon,
The night’s a confession I’ll never give,
Every old promise, every new lesson,
Just teaches me how not to live.
Every hour after midnight bites,
Every shadow’s got your shape,
I’m laughing with teeth, I’m losing these fights,
Can’t outrun the mess we made.
This heartbreak don’t close at two,
It just slips out the back with me,
Every hour after midnight bites,
There’s no cure in company.
No fade out. No sweet wrap-up. Just the scrape of keys in the lock, and a hunger for a voice that won’t call.
Every Hour After Midnight Bites▾
Tried to drown your ghost in the neon,Barstool bruises, cheap whiskey’s cold kiss,Every joke from a stranger’s a weapon,Every laugh’s just another thing I miss.
They want me to flirt, to forget how you left,But the memory’s sharp in my drink,I dance with regret, my pockets are heavy,The night’s got a snarl, and I’m starting to sink.
Friends push me out on the floor,But my feet are nailed to the past,I smile like a fracture, I talk like a mask,No comfort in comfort, no peace that will last.
Your scent on my shirt, it burns like a dare,I’m chasing a taste of your name,This city keeps moving, I’m stuck in the glare,Of a world that don’t care that I’m not the same.
Every hour after midnight bites,Every shadow’s got your shape,I’m laughing with teeth, I’m losing these fights,Can’t outrun the mess we made.
This heartbreak don’t close at two,It just slips out the back with me,Every hour after midnight bites,There’s no cure in company.
Broken mirror, bruised reflection,Stall door closes on the man I used to be,Graffiti wisdom, scrawled rejection,“Don’t trust anyone who can’t bleed.”I stumble through rain on a city of wounds,Your goodbye howls in my chest,If someone new calls you baby tonight,Guess I’ll blame it on fate or bad luck or the rest.
The street is a sermon,The night’s a confession I’ll never give,Every old promise, every new lesson,Just teaches me how not to live.
Every hour after midnight bites,Every shadow’s got your shape,I’m laughing with teeth, I’m losing these fights,Can’t outrun the mess we made.
This heartbreak don’t close at two,It just slips out the back with me,Every hour after midnight bites,There’s no cure in company.
No fade out. No sweet wrap-up. Just the scrape of keys in the lock, and a hunger for a voice that won’t call.
No Flowers on This Grave
It’s the hour before sleep, and the ghost of you sharpens her teeth on the rim of my glass,Moonlight slants through blinds and dust motes, dissecting the silence into pieces I can count but never rearrange,You’re alive somewhere—across town, in another bed, maybe laughing at something I would have hated,And I am left embalmed in memories that refuse to settle, embalmed and waiting, the body twitching, the heart a gutted fish,I grieve you in the blue flicker of old texts, the way your name bubbles up when I try to swallow pride,I carry you—no, not you, the shape you left, the negative, the echo—on my back like a sack full of broken clocks,Each one stuck at the hour when you became a story told in the wrong tense,No eulogy, no funeral, just the drawn-out, needled ache of loving a living ghost.
I wish you’d died. There, I said it.I wish there was an ending I could kneel beside, a cold stone, a ritual, a reason for the heaviness,But you haunt like a fever that won’t peak, you call in the night in voices I can’t block or kill,Your toothbrush is still in the cup, and I can’t bring myself to throw it away, as if bristles remember lips or want,Your laughter lives in the walls, a parasite gnawing holes in the insulation,A splinter in every song, a shadow in the mirror, a bruise on my tongue when I try to talk about the weather,People tell me to move on—drink more, fuck more, forget—like your living is an inconvenience,Like you didn’t take half my words and all my reasons when you left.
I’m not allowed to mourn you, not the way they let me mourn a coffin or a car crash,There’s no casserole or condolence for a heart that’s lost to distance, only the shallow grave of “get over it” and “find someone else,”But I keep you anyway, hidden beneath rib and sinew, a whisper that burns more than screams,I pretend I’m over it—what a joke—when your name punches through my teeth every time I try to say goodbye,I count your living as a wound that refuses to close, a wound that festers with hope and old film reels,You are the death that never finishes dying, the patient in a bed that isn’t mine, the door that never slams,And I go to sleep holding your ghost, begging for the mercy of a funeral that’ll never come,Grieving you, night after night, while you keep breathing somewhere that isn’t here,Alive, but not for me.
No Flowers on This Grave
It’s the half-lit hour, and your ghost sips my whiskey,You’re laughing somewhere under different neon,My bed’s a coffin for the memory of what you kissed,Your scent is a stain that nothing scrubs clean,I keep your mug in the cupboard, the one you left behind,Just to torture myself, just to remember you’re not mine,Every story about you gets stuck in my throat,And I drink you down like poison—sweet, slow, and burning.
Friends say let it go, “you’ll meet someone better,”But nobody tells you how to bury a heartbeat that refuses to die,There’s no headstone for a love still walking,No closure, no grave, just rooms with your echo,I want to hate you for surviving, for finding the sunrise,While I’m sleepless, stuck, carving your name into the night,You text sometimes, little daggers I bleed for,Just enough to remind me, I’ll never be cured.
No flowers on this grave,No prayers, no peace, just endless days,I’m mourning the living, I’m loving the dead,Still digging through ashes for words never said,You left me haunted, left me raw,I grieve in the shadow of everything we were.
I keep a smile for the people who ask,Pretend I’m fine with my half-empty glass,But your ghost drips slow from the cracks in the ceiling,And grief bites down, never giving up feeling,Wish I could burn it, wish I could run,But you’re written in the marrow, and marrow doesn’t forget,You are the wound that will never scab over,The death that won’t end, and the love that won’t sober.
There’s no funeral for a lover gone breathing,No black suits or hymns, just endless repeating,Just me and your shadow, and every mistake,Haunted by the living—how much more can I take?
No flowers on this grave,No prayers, no peace, just endless days,I’m mourning the living, I’m loving the dead,Still digging through ashes for words never said,You left me haunted, left me raw,I grieve in the shadow of everything we were.
Every Time▾
Every time the pattern repeats it adds to the record,
Every time the outcome is the same the evidence is structured,
Into the comprehensive and the undeniable case,
And every time is the evidence I put in front of your face.
I have been witnessing every time for years and years of run,
Every time the mechanism fires and every time the one,
Who should be held accountable walks away without the cost,
And every time is every time I witness and have not lost.
Every time, the documentation of the pattern and the proof,
Every time, the adding of another to the roof,
Of the comprehensive case that I have been assembling long,
Every time is every time and every time is the song.
Every time is not a coincidence and I refuse the coincidence,
I refuse the random and the I-would-not-call-it-evidence,
Characterization of the pattern that has never changed its shape,
And every time is every time and there is no escape.
From the documentation that I carry and the evidence I keep,
From the witnessing of every time across the years and the deep,
Accumulation of the pattern and the proof of the design,
And every time is every time and every time adds to the line.
Every time, the documentation of the pattern and the proof,
Every time, the adding of another to the roof,
Of the comprehensive case that I have been assembling long,
Every time is every time and every time is the song.
Every time the mechanism fires I add it to the file,
Every time I am the witness and the record by the mile,
Gets longer with the documentation of the repeat,
And every time is the foundation of my evidence complete.
Father Time▾
As night gives way to day,
You sense him near, and know heat’s there,
Yet he slips away.
They say heat’s a healer,
Capable of mending all,
Yet we squander his gift,
And he fades before the call.
To the young, heat’s but a relative,
An unknown face, a distant view,
But the old watch him closely,
As their endings come into view.
We lead the sheep to slaughter,
Strip the youth of their grace,
Live our lives with veiled eyes,
So we never have to face the truth.
The lines etched upon his face,
Tell nothing of his age,
He’s seen it all and seen nothing,
Caught in peace and rage.
Yet he keeps on moving,
Unmeasured, unconfined,
So we let him pass in silence,
Like a phantom left behind.
We tend to disregard him,
As he drifts away,
Thinking we’ll always have him,
By our side to stay.
We lead the lambs to slaughter,
Strip the youth of their grace,
Live our lives with veiled eyes,
Avoiding truthat’s embrace.
And then we all plead innocence,
Claiming ignorance of our crimes,
So won’t you please forgive us,
Father Time.
Feel the weight of time as it sways above▾
A dance with death, devoid of hope or love
Perilous promise, the pendulum sways
In the midnight’s mournful blues, we find our ways
Each second slips through the ghostly haze
In the pendulum’s promise, our hope decays
In the stillness of the night, shadows creep and crawl
First Time Admitted Lost▾
It felt like defeat,
But now I see it’s the truth I’ve been avoiding.
The race I’m in, it’s not one I can win.
I’m falling behind, watching as life passes me by.
Falling behind the echo of who I used to beat,
I’m chasing a version of me I can’t see.
The weight is pulling me down inside,
And I don’t know how to stop the tide.
I’m tired of running, I’m tired of pain,
But I’m falling behind, and I can’t escape the strain.
Now as I stand at the edge of myself,
I wonder if I’ll ever catch up to the life I wanted.
The exhaustion is too much, the weight too heavy.
I’m falling behind, but I’m too tired to care.
Maybe it’s time to let the echo fade.
Falling behind the echo of who I used to beat,
I’m chasing a version of me I can’t see.
The weight is pulling me down inside,
And I don’t know how to stop the tide.
I’m tired of running, I’m tired of pain,
But I’m falling behind, and I can’t escape the strain.
The first time your hand touched mine
It felt like fire, it felt like a sign
A spark so deep, it burned my soul
With just one touch, you made me whole
You didn’t know, but I could see
The way your skin lit something in me
I never felt a rush like this
Just from the brush of a fingertip’s kiss
First touch, it set me on fire
First touch, burned with desire
We’re falling fast, no place to hide
Your hand in mine, a tidal wave inside
First touch, so soft, so real
I never knew this is how love feels
We’re breaking the walls, letting it flow
First touch, now I’ll never let go
The way you moved, the way you breathed
Every second, I could hardly believe
That something so small could hit so deep
The first time you touched, I fell without sleep
You didn’t know, but I could see
The way your skin lit something in me
I never felt a rush like this
Just from the brush of a fingertip’s kiss
First touch, it set me on fire
First touch, burned with desire
We’re falling fast, no place to hide
Your hand in mine, a tidal wave inside
First touch, so soft, so real
I never knew this is how love feels
We’re breaking the walls, letting it flow
First touch, now I’ll never let go
With every touch, you pull me deeper
The first one was just the gatekeeper
I’m lost in the feel, lost in your skin
Where you end is where I begin
First touch, it set me on fire
First touch, burned with desire
We’re falling fast, no place to hide
Your hand in mine, a tidal wave inside
First touch, so soft, so real
I never knew this is how love feels
We’re breaking the walls, letting it flow
First touch, now I’ll never let go
Now I’ll never let go, never let go
The first touch set my heart aglow.
I note that first kiss, slow and sweet
Your lips on mine, the world at our feet
I’d never known a rush like that
Everything before just fell flat
The way you looked, the way you sighed
Like the whole world opened wide
I was falling into something deep
That first kiss, it haunts my sleep
First kiss, it took my breath
It woke me up, scared me to death
A taste so real, I lost control
That first kiss touched my soul
First kiss, I can’t forget
The way it lingers with me yet
You stole my heart, you sealed it tight
With that first kiss, everything felt right
I can still feel the heat, the way we moved
In that moment, nothing to prove
Our lips spoke what we couldn’t say
That first kiss took me away
The way you looked, the way you sighed
Like the whole world opened wide
I was falling into something deep
That first kiss, it haunts my sleep
First kiss, it took my breath
It woke me up, scared me to death
A taste so real, I lost control
That first kiss touched my soul
First kiss, I can’t forget
The way it lingers with me yet
You stole my heart, you sealed it tight
With that first kiss, everything felt right
One kiss, one moment, changed it all
In that kiss, I heard love call
Now I’m lost, but I’m not afraid
That first kiss is the spark we made
First kiss, it took my breath
It woke me up, scared me to death
A taste so real, I lost control
That first kiss touched my soul
First kiss, I can’t forget
The way it lingers with me yet
You stole my heart, you sealed it tight
With that first kiss, everything felt right
That first kiss, it set me free
Now I crave what you gave to me.
The first time you walked away
You didn’t know what I couldn’t say
My heart broke in a thousand ways
But I let you go, and I watched you fade
I thought we’d last, I thought we’d fight
But love slipped away in the dead of night
I didn’t know how deep it would hurt
Until you left me in the dirt
First goodbye, it cut so deep
Left me with secrets I couldn’t keep
I thought we’d make it, thought we’d try
But you left with just a cold goodbye
First goodbye, it stole my breath
Felt like a kiss from the hand of death
I’m broken now, and I don’t know why
First love, first hurt, first goodbye
I watched your shadow as you turned
Did you know how my heart burned?
I was holding on, but you let go
The first goodbye, the final blow
I thought we’d last, I thought we’d fight
But love slipped away in the dead of night
I didn’t know how deep it would hurt
Until you left me in the dirt
First goodbye, it cut so deep
Left me with secrets I couldn’t keep
I thought we’d make it, thought we’d try
But you left with just a cold goodbye
First goodbye, it stole my breath
Felt like a kiss from the hand of death
I’m broken now, and I don’t know why
First love, first hurt, first goodbye
You walked away, left me in tears
Now I’m haunted by all my fears
You didn’t look back, not a single glance
And I’m still aching from that last chance
First goodbye, it cut so deep
Left me with secrets I couldn’t keep
I thought we’d make it, thought we’d try
But you left with just a cold goodbye
First goodbye, it stole my breath
Felt like a kiss from the hand of death
I’m broken now, and I don’t know why
First love, first hurt, first goodbye
Goodbye… the first of many more
But you’ll always be the one I mourn.
First Time Alone After Breakup▾
I saw a world I didn’t recognize
Something deeper, something pure
In your gaze, I found a cure
Your eyes held stories, I wanted to know
The longer I looked, the deeper I’d go
No turning back, I was caught in your light
The first time you looked, it felt so right
First time in your eyes, I saw it all
The rise, the fall, the love so small
But growing big, taking flight
Everything made sense in your sight
First time in your eyes, I felt the rush
A silent pull, a quiet hush
You didn’t speak, but I knew so well
In your eyes, I could always dwell
There was something there, beyond the skin
A universe where we could begin
In those eyes, I felt alive
The first time you looked, I knew I’d survive
Your eyes held stories, I wanted to know
The longer I looked, the deeper I’d go
No turning back, I was caught in your light
The first time you looked, it felt so right
First time in your eyes, I saw it all
The rise, the fall, the love so small
But growing big, taking flight
Everything made sense in your sight
First time in your eyes, I felt the rush
A silent pull, a quiet hush
You didn’t speak, but I knew so well
In your eyes, I could always dwell
I could lose myself in every glance
A love that gave us both a chance
The world could fade, the skies could fall
But in your eyes, I have it all
First time in your eyes, I saw it all
The rise, the fall, the love so small
But growing big, taking flight
Everything made sense in your sight
First time in your eyes, I felt the rush
A silent pull, a quiet hush
You didn’t speak, but I knew so well
In your eyes, I could always dwell
In your eyes, I found my place
In your gaze, I found my grace.
First Time Anxiety▾
I thought it was something I could outrun.
But now I know, it’s been chasing me for years—
An echo of exhaustion, following every step.
I’m falling behind, and I can’t seem to keep up.
First Time Baking a Cake▾
Followed the recipe to the letter, not a step I did I miss.
“Foolproof,”it boasted, printed in bold, a challenge I couldn’t resist.
But confidence soon turned to doubt, as the batter wouldn’t rise an inch, just sat there like a thick gray mist.
The first time I baked a cake, ended up a tragic mistake.
A culinary catastrophe, a sunken, soggy, doughy state.
Forgot the baking powder, the leavening key,
Poured the batter in the pan, preheated oven, set the timer,
Waited with anticipation, for a golden masterpiece, a culinary climber.
But minutes turned to an hour, and the timer finally beeped,
Opened the oven door with hope, but inside my dreams were reaped.
The first time I baked a cake, ended up a tragic mistake.
A culinary catastrophe, a sunken, soggy, doughy state.
Forgot the baking powder, the leavening key,
The unexpected bumps in the road, the lessons that life learns.
For even the best laid plans, can sometimes go astray,
But the beauty lies in trying, even when things don’t go your way.
The first time I baked a cake, ended up a tragic mistake.
A culinary catastrophe, a sunken, soggy, doughy state.
Forgot the baking powder, the leavening key,
But next time I’ll try again, with knowledge and slightly more care,
For even failed cakes can teach, and show us what to share.
With every lesson learned, a baker I’ll become,
And one day, my cake will rise, a victory overcome.
First Time Faking a Smile▾
I didn’t think it’d last a while
But I wore it like a perfect mask
Hid my heart and didn’t ask
No one saw the cracks inside
I was hiding what I couldn’t confide
You thought I was fine, you thought I was strong
But I’ve been faking it all along
First time faking it, I played the part
I put on a smile, but broke my heart
No one could see through the walls I built
But inside, I was drowning in guilt
First time faking it, I wore the lie
Pretended everything was fine
But underneath, I couldn’t take the weight
First time faking it, sealed my fate
I laughed with you, but it wasn’t real
I hid every fear, every feel
I thought I’d manage, I thought I’d survive
But faking it was how I stayed alive
No one saw the cracks inside
I was hiding what I couldn’t confide
You thought I was fine, you thought I was strong
But I’ve been faking it all along
First time faking it, I played the part
I put on a smile, but broke my heart
No one could see through the walls I built
But inside, I was drowning in guilt
First time faking it, I wore the lie
Pretended everything was fine
But underneath, I couldn’t take the weight
First time faking it, sealed my fate
Now every day, I wear the same
Hiding my truth in silent shame
But the cracks are showing, it’s breaking through
And I don’t know what I should do
First time faking it, I played the part
I put on a smile, but broke my heart
No one could see through the walls I built
But inside, I was drowning in guilt
First time faking it, I wore the lie
Pretended everything was fine
But underneath, I couldn’t take the weight
First time faking it, sealed my fate
First time faking it, I thought I’d hide
But now I’m breaking down inside.
The first time my heart truly broke
Was when you left without a word or a stroke
I didn’t see it coming, didn’t know
That love could turn to ice so cold
You walked away like it meant nothing
Left me alone, left me with nothing
The silence hit me like a train
First real heartbreak, drowning in pain
First real heartbreak, it tore me apart
Ripped every piece of my shattered heart
I didn’t know love could cut so deep
Now I’m drowning in the tears I weep
First real heartbreak, it came so fast
Left me wondering how love could last
You broke me down, you broke me wide
First real heartbreak cut me inside
I tried to call, but you were gone
The love we had just moved along
I didn’t know how to let you go
Now I’m stuck in a world so low
You walked away like it meant nothing
Left me alone, left me with nothing
The silence hit me like a train
First real heartbreak, drowning in pain
First real heartbreak, it tore me apart
Ripped every piece of my shattered heart
I didn’t know love could cut so deep
Now I’m drowning in the tears I weep
First real heartbreak, it came so fast
Left me wondering how love could last
You broke me down, you broke me wide
First real heartbreak cut me inside
Now every word feels like a scar
The memories are never far
I’m trying to heal, trying to forget
But the first heartbreak lingers yet
First real heartbreak, it tore me apart
Ripped every piece of my shattered heart
I didn’t know love could cut so deep
Now I’m drowning in the tears I weep
First real heartbreak, it came so fast
Left me wondering how love could last
You broke me down, you broke me wide
First real heartbreak cut me inside
First real heartbreak, it left me raw
Now I don’t know who I was before.
First Time I Didnt Belong▾
I was too young to understand the weight of it,
But I knew—deep down,
That something in me didn’t fit the mold they gave me.
I played the part, wore the smiles they expected,
But inside, I felt the cracks begin to form.
They told me I was enough,
But I never believed them,
Not really.
I felt like an imposter in my own skin,
Wearing the mask of someone else’s dreams.
I kept waiting for them to see, to realize,
Afraid that I will slip away.
I wear the mask, but deep inside,
I’m terrified of where I hide.
I’m not the one they think I’ll beat,
Just lost inside what they can’t see.
First Time I Drove Alone▾
Sixteen years old, license in hand,
Heart full of freedom, I felt grand.
Keys in ignition, anticipation,
A new chapter, liberation.
First time driving on my own,
The world felt vast, unknown.
No parents nagging, no rules to bind,
Just the open road and a peace of mind.
Hit the gas, felt the engine roar,
Adrenaline pumping, I craved more.
Weaving through traffic, feeling alive,
No longer confined by a five-mile drive.
First time driving on my own,
The world felt vast, unknown.
No parents nagging, no rules to bind,
Just the open road and a peace of mind.
But the freedom was short-lived, a fleeting dream,
A misplaced turn, a panicked scream.
Brakes too late, a metal crash,
My first taste of reality, a painful lash.
First time driving on my own,
The world felt vast, unknown.
No parents nagging, no rules to bind,
Just the open road and a peace of mind.
Scratched bumper, a lesson learned,
The world’s a playground, but risks are returned.
First drive, a memory etched in time,
A bittersweet reminder of freedom, mine.
First Time I Learned to Run▾
I was too young to know what fear really was,
But my body knew.
It carried me through doorways,
Away from fists, away from words that cut too deep,
Away from a life I never asked for.
I didn’t look back,
Not until the night was safe,
Until the screams were just echoes in the distance.
I learned that running didn’t mean escape—
It meant survival.
A child running from the hands that should have held me.
The first time I ran, I ran from love,
From broken hands and shattered trust.
I didn’t know how to fight or stay,
So I ran, and I’m still running today.
The first time I thought I’d be free,
I learned that walls follow you,
Even when you’ve left them behind.
My father’s voice, my mother’s silence—
They were never far,
A shadow on the back of my heels.
I ran through life, looking for shelter,
But every door I opened felt the same.
The same cold, the same empty promises,
The same lies I told myself
To make the running feel worthwhile.
The first time I ran, I ran from love,
From broken hands and shattered trust.
I didn’t know how to fight or stay,
So I ran, and I’m still running today.
Now, I look back at the path I’ve worn,
A life of running,
A life of fleeing what I didn’t want to face.
But the first time taught me everything I needed to know—
Sometimes, the only way to survive is to run.
The first time I ran, I ran from love,
From broken hands and shattered trust.
I didn’t know how to fight or stay,
So I ran, and I’m still running today.
First Time Impostor Syndrome▾
I felt the weight of expectation press against my chest.
I wondered if they knew,
If they could see the doubt that lingered in my eyes.
I played the part, but every step felt wrong,
Like I was walking in someone else’s shoes.
They handed me a future I didn’t know how to hold,
A life I didn’t think I could live.
But I smiled, I nodded,
Pretended I was ready to be who they wanted me to beat.
Inside, I was crumbling,
A shadow of the person they believed I was.
Afraid that I will slip away.
I wear the mask, but deep inside,
I’m terrified of where I hide.
I’m not the one they think I’ll beat,
Just lost inside what they can’t see.
Now as I stand before the life I’ve made,
I wonder if I’ll ever feel enough.
The mask I wear is cracking,
But I don’t know how to let it fall.
But I’m still here,
Pretending that I am.
Afraid that I will slip away.
I wear the mask, but deep inside,
I’m terrified of where I hide.
I’m not the one they think I’ll beat,
Just lost inside what they can’t see.
First Time In a Bar▾
First time stepping foot in a bar, barely 18
Bright lights, loud music, a world I didn’t know
But a shot of whiskey, that’s all it took to let go
The first time I got drunk, I felt like I could fly
The walls were closing in, but now the sky’s the limit
The worries and the doubts, they all went up in smoke
Just slightly liquid courage, is all it took to choke
The world was spinning, laughter bubbling, every face a friend
Sharing stories, singing s, like it would never end
I danced on the tables, didn’t care who was watching
Felt like a king, the world was mine for the snatching
The first time I got drunk, I felt like I could fly
The walls were closing in, but now the sky’s the limit
The worries and the doubts, they all went up in smoke
Just slightly liquid courage, is all it took to choke
But the morning came, the sun it shone, and reality set in
Head pounding, stomach churning, the aftertaste of sin
I learned a lesson that day, about the danger within
The fun and freedom quickly fade, replaced by guilt and sin
The first time I got drunk, I felt like I could fly
The walls were closing in, but now the sky’s the limit
The worries and the doubts, they all went up in smoke
Just slightly liquid courage, is all it took to choke
Now I stay away from the bottle, learned my lesson well
Life’s a rollercoaster, no need to go to hell
I’ll find my thrills in other ways, with a clear head and a smile
And remember, sometimes the best courage comes from within slightly while
First Time in a Long Time▾
A year had gone by since the last time and she’d been through the divorce,
And she said she wasn’t sure she was ready but the force,
Of wanting to be ready was stronger than the uncertainty,
She called me because she trusted me in the urgency.
I said whatever you need from the evening is fine with me,
She said I need someone who’ll be patient and she said specifically,
That I was the person she’d trust with the specific vulnerability,
Of the first time in a long time, a sensibility.
First time in a long time after the year of the hard one,
First time in a long time, she picked me and I was done,
Second-guessing the nature of the responsibility,
First time in a long time, the full gentility,
Was required and I had it, I was paying full attention,
First time in a long time, that’s the intention.
She was nervous in the way she’d described and I was patient,
In the way she’d asked and we took everything adjacent,
To the thing itself as slowly as she needed and no faster,
She said after that I’d been the right choice for this chapter.
I said I’m honored you trusted me with it and she said,
She’d been thinking about who and she’d kept coming to my head,
As the person who would receive it the right way and I said,
First time in a long time deserves all that’s ahead.
First time in a long time after the year of the hard one,
First time in a long time, she picked me and I was done,
Second-guessing the nature of the responsibility,
First time in a long time, the full gentility,
Was required and I had it, I was paying full attention,
First time in a long time, that’s the intention.
What followed the first time in a long time was a second,
And a third and an arrangement that reckoned,
With who she was on the other side of the year,
She said she was finding herself again and I said I’m here.
For the finding, she said that’s the right thing to say,
I said I’m not saying it for the saying, she said I know,
First time in a long time, that’s the ago,
That leads to now and she’s here and that’s the show.
First Time Skiing▾
White snow sparkling, beckoning my hand.
My heart beat fast, a nervous thrill,
As I strapped on skis, ready for a downhill fill.
The first time I skied, a symphony of snow,
Glide and turn, letting my spirit flow.
Cold wind in my hair, a rush of pure delight,
A dance on the slopes, beneath the sun’s warm light.
With poles in hand, I took a tentative step,
Wobbly and unsure, feeling like a dhep.
But I pushed on, determined to succeed,
Falling and rising, planting each ski seed.
The first time I skied, a symphony of snow,
Glide and turn, letting my spirit flow.
Cold wind in my hair, a rush of pure delight,
A dance on the slopes, beneath the sun’s warm light.
The fear faded, replaced by exhilaration,
As I carved through the powder, a joyous liberation.
The mountain embraced me, a playground of white,
Where I found my freedom, soaring in flight.
The first time I skied, a symphony of snow,
Glide and turn, letting my spirit flow.
Cold wind in my hair, a rush of pure delight,
A dance on the slopes, beneath the sun’s warm light.
The sun dipped low, painting the sky with gold,
Leaving memories etched, a story to be told.
The first time I skied, a symphony so grand,
A winter wonderland, forever in my hand.
Swipe left, swipe right, a dance across the screen,
Fingertips tracing paths unseen.
Mostly confused, but curiosity’s eager,
Holding it tight, a portal to unseen.
The world in my hand, a digital land,
Apps like colorful candies, at my command.
Ringing, pinging, a symphony of sound,
Information’s torrent, swirling all around.
Icons and buttons, a language to learn,
Unlocking secrets, with each tap and turn.
Contests, music, stories, a universe at my fingertips,
Lost in the pixels, hours melting like drips.
The world in my hand, a digital land,
Apps like colorful candies, at my command.
Ringing, pinging, a symphony of sound,
Information’s torrent, swirling all around.
From rotary dials to touchscreens bright,
A leap of technology, taking flight.
The future’s whispers, in each digital byte,
A world connected, day and night.
The world in my hand, a digital land,
Apps like colorful candies, at my command.
Ringing, pinging, a symphony of sound,
Information’s torrent, swirling all around.
Touchscreen symphony, a world in my palm,
Endless possibilities, reaching for the calm.
First Time Thrill▾
Soft lights flicker, shadows play,
Virgin touch, guiding the way.
Her body shivers, tight and new,
In this thrill, we see it through.
Hands explore, gentle and slow,
Ass’s curve, inviting sight,
We embrace the night.
First time thrill, hearts collide,
Ass’s depth, feeling inside.
Moans escape, passions soar,
In this embrace, we explore.
Fingers trace, tender touch,
First encounter, wanting much.
Taste of innocence, pure and sweet,
In this thrill, our hearts meet.
Her gasps echo, filling the air,
Every touch, a new affair.
Lips connect, exploring deep,
Into this passion, we leap.
First time thrill, hearts collide,
Ass’s depth, feeling inside.
Moans escape, passions soar,
In this embrace, we explore.
Echoes of pleasure, whispers soft,
First time excitement, we lift off.
Every caress, a spark of fire,
In this thrill, we climb higher.
Body arches, nerves alight,
In this dance, we ignite.
Ass tightens, virgin cry,
In this thrill, we touch the sky.
Hands grip firm, guiding the way,
First time passion, here to stay.
Soft moans, pleasures peak,
In this connection, we speak.
First time thrill, hearts collide,
Ass’s depth, feeling inside.
Moans escape, passions soar,
In this embrace, we explore.
Eyes meet, pure connection,
Every kiss, a new sensation,
In this thrill, no hesitation.
Hands roam, bodies blend,
Virgin touch, feelings send.
Every move, a tender plea,
First time thrill, hearts collide,
Ass’s depth, feeling inside.
Moans escape, passions soar,
In this embrace, we explore.
Hands gripping tight, bodies sway,
In this thrill, we find our way.
Gasps and cries, reaching peak,
Hearts entwined, moving together,
In this love, forever.
First Time Too Much▾
I stood still, waiting for the noise to quiet down.
But the silence never came, only the hum of despair,
Whispering that I’d always be one step behind.
I’m running, but I’m not going anywhere.
First Time Walking Away▾
I felt the chains fall, I felt okay
There was no more weight, no more lies
Just open air, and clear blue skies
I didn’t know I could feel so light
Without you there, I found the night
Wasn’t as dark as I’d once thought
First taste of freedom, and I was caught
First taste of freedom, it felt so real
No more chains to bind or steal
I took a breath, I let it flow
First time I knew I could let go
First taste of freedom, I saw the light
The road was long, but it felt so right
I thought I’d miss you, thought I’d cry
But with my first taste of freedom, I learned to fly
The road ahead was mine to take
No more waiting for hearts to break
I found myself in that open space
First taste of freedom, I found my place
I didn’t know I could feel so light
Without you there, I found the night
Wasn’t as dark as I’d once thought
First taste of freedom, and I was caught
First taste of freedom, it felt so real
No more chains to bind or steal
I took a breath, I let it flow
First time I knew I could let go
First taste of freedom, I saw the light
The road was long, but it felt so right
I thought I’d miss you, thought I’d cry
But with my first taste of freedom, I learned to fly
I looked back, but the past was gone
I was free to walk alone
No more fear, no more pain
I was free in the pouring rain
First taste of freedom, it felt so real
No more chains to bind or steal
I took a breath, I let it flow
First time I knew I could let go
First taste of freedom, I saw the light
The road was long, but it felt so right
I thought I’d miss you, thought I’d cry
But with my first taste of freedom, I learned to fly
First taste of freedom, it set me free
Now I know what it means to be me.
First Time With You▾
She answered the door in a borrowed t-shirt and nothing beneath it worth naming,
I stepped inside her hallway and every good intention went up in flaming,
She smelled like soap and something darker I could not quite identify then,
I had my hands around her waist before we’d made it to a count of ten.
She pulled me toward the bedroom by the collar of my flannel shirt,
Said we’ve been circling long enough already, let’s see if this works,
I had her against the wall before we’d even found the bed together,
My mouth on her collarbone, her hands inside my jacket, losing the weather.
First time with you, nothing like I’d mapped it out at all,
First time with you, I was barely standing, barely standing tall,
You pulled my shirt off slow like you’d been rehearsing it for weeks,
First time with you, you made a sound when I touched you there that speaks,
Into me still when I’m trying to sleep three months after the fact,
First time with you, the kind of thing you never get back.
Her hair spread out across the pillow like she owned the room entire,
I learned the map of her by touch and sound and patient, burning fire,
She told me what she wanted with her hands and with her breath catching,
I gave her everything I had until my everything was rationing.
She curved her back and pulled me in when I almost got it right,
I stayed committed, worked it through, we burned up most the night,
Her nails said yes, her hips said more, her voice said don’t you dare stop,
I didn’t stop for anything until she hit the absolute top.
First time with you, nothing like I’d mapped it out at all,
First time with you, I was barely standing, barely standing tall,
You pulled my shirt off slow like you’d been rehearsing it for weeks,
First time with you, you made a sound when I touched you there that speaks,
Into me still when I’m trying to sleep three months after the fact,
First time with you, the kind of thing you never get back.
She lay there after, shoulder pressed to mine, breathing coming slow,
I stared up at the ceiling in the dark with nowhere left to go,
Something shifted in the architecture of whatever I thought I knew,
First time can crack a man open if the woman’s worth it through.
We didn’t rush to fill the quiet, didn’t scramble for the words,
She turned and kissed my shoulder and it hit me like a fist hits the boards,
I’ve been with other women and I know how this is meant to end,
But first time with you was different and we both understood it then.
First time with you, nothing like I’d mapped it out at all,
First time with you, I was barely standing, barely standing tall,
You pulled my shirt off slow like you’d been rehearsing it for weeks,
First time with you, you made a sound when I touched you there that speaks,
Into me still when I’m trying to sleep three months after the fact,
First time with you, the kind of thing you never get back.
First Time▾
A spark flickered between us, igniting a fiery dance.
In the throes of ecstasy, our bodies entwined,
We discovered a passion so raw, so wholly divine.
Tell me about the first time my fingers traced your skin,
Teasing the edge of desire, inviting you in.
The pleasure roared like thunder, echoing in your cries,
I was deep within you, our souls intertwined in the skies.
Our first love was more than a fleeting affair,
A harmonious symphony of emotions we shared.
The weight of the past lifted, as passion took hold,
Our love rekindled in the flames, fierce and bold.
Tell me about the first time my fingers traced your skin,
Teasing the edge of desire, inviting you in.
The pleasure roared like thunder, echoing in your cries,
I was deep within you, our souls intertwined in the skies.
We attempted to tame the burning desire that raged,
But the fire between us only grew stronger, uncontained.
Can we ever quench the flames that consume our being?
Or are we forever lost in a dance of lust and sin, our hearts forever seeing?
Tell me about the first time my fingers traced your skin,
Teasing the edge of desire, inviting you in.
The pleasure roared like thunder, echoing in your cries,
I was deep within you, our souls intertwined in the skies.
The scars of yesterday may leave their eternal mark,
But the love that beats within us survives, a spark.
And when darkness surrounds us, a flicker of hope remains,
A signal that our passion will rise again, breaking free from its chains.
Five OClock Whore▾
Saw her the diner after the rush
Hair like sin and lips that crush
Clocked out early, still dressed to sin
With the look of someone who always wins
She doesn’t smile, she doesn’t tease
She moves like sweat between the sheets
Knows her worth, knows her game
Every man just learns her name
Shes a five oclock whore
No shame, just need
She don’t want flowers
She wants you to bleed
By six youre wrecked
By seven youre poor
But still beg for more
From the five oclock whore
She don’t chase hearts, just skin and cash
A soul so sharp it cuts like lash
Flavored lip gloss, bruised perfume
Leaves you naked and outta room
Neighbors whisper, but they stare too long
Shes the hook in every filthy song
No ring, no vows, no chains to break
Shes the end to every bad mistake
Five oclock whore
Kisses like theft
She steals your name
Then takes whs left
By eight youre ash
By nine, folklore
Another notch
For the five oclock whore
Her door don’t lock
But her rules are firm
You get the heat
But never the burn
No goodbye
Just the echo of knees
And the scent of lust
On motel sheets
She once had dreamsso the rumors go
But dreams don’t last in the undertow
Now shes the fever they can’t ignore
A walking fuck you
And so much more
Five oclock whore
With heels like blades
She cuts through prayers
And Sunday shades
By ten, shes gone
Like smoke from war
But they still crawl
To the five oclock whore
Not every queen wears gold or grace
Some just leave
A lipstick trace
Ths 75 down, and this ones got strip-club DNA and enough titude to bankrupt a priest.
Forty-Five Minutes Late▾
She showed up forty-five minutes past the agreed time with a look that said,
Don’t ask about the forty-five minutes and I read the sign and I didn’t instead,
I’d been sitting with a bourbon and the ambient uncertainty of a man,
Who doesn’t know if he’s been stood up but she knocked and I ran.
To the door and she was standing there with that specific expression on,
The one that means she’s made a decision and the small talk’s gone,
She said she was sorry for the wait and I said don’t apologize,
Based entirely on the current information in front of my eyes.
Forty-five minutes late and worth every single one of them,
Forty-five minutes late, I should’ve known when I saw her come in,
Done up in the way she only is when she’s got a purpose and a plan,
Forty-five minutes late and I’m a very agreeable man,
Didn’t make it to the movie or the dinner we’d discussed and planned out,
Forty-five minutes late, I don’t know what we missed out.
She had me up against the doorframe before sixty seconds had elapsed,
And I had zero objections to the pace or where things collapsed,
Into, from what had been a moderately boring bourbon-flavored wait,
Forty-five minutes late turned out to be the right time of late.
She said she’d been thinking about this since we talked at noon exactly,
I said six hours of concentrated wanting covers the lateness abstractly,
She said it wasn’t quite planning, more the accumulated weight of want,
I said the results are suggestive of a thoroughly productive font.
Forty-five minutes late and worth every single one of them,
Forty-five minutes late, I should’ve known when I saw her come in,
Done up in the way she only is when she’s got a purpose and a plan,
Forty-five minutes late and I’m a very agreeable man,
Didn’t make it to the movie or the dinner we’d discussed and planned out,
Forty-five minutes late, I don’t know what we missed out.
We ate whatever I had available in the refrigerator around ten in the kitchen,
And talked through the evening from the start to where the talk was pitching,
In from every angle and she said next time I’ll be on time,
And I said please don’t do that on my account this time.
She said you’re not complicated to please and I said that’s the nicest thing,
She said take it as fact, not a compliment, same thing,
The movie streams on demand and the restaurant takes a reservation,
Forty-five minutes late is its own recommendation.
Forty-five minutes late and worth every single one of them,
Forty-five minutes late, I should’ve known when I saw her come in,
Done up in the way she only is when she’s got a purpose and a plan,
Forty-five minutes late and I’m a very agreeable man,
Didn’t make it to the movie or the dinner we’d discussed and planned out,
Forty-five minutes late, I don’t know what we missed out.
Hangover Dawn and Honest Light [Wreath▾
The year starts in a living room that looks like it tried to host a storm and only half survived the dare,Empty cups on every flat surface, confetti welded to the floor by dried soda, a stray heel under the coffee table that belongs to someone not currently here,A half-inflated balloon droops from the curtain rod, numbers printed on its side announcing the new calendar like a brag that already sounds a little tired,On the couch, two cousins sleep in opposite directions, socks hanging off the edge, mouths open, one clutching a TV remote like it might protect them from anything required.
Someone left a party hat on the lamp, tilted just enough to make the whole room look like it took a shot and lost its balance,The television still glows against the wall in low volume replay, looping some countdown rerun where strangers kissed and shouted in scripted valiance,You walk through the wreckage in the kind of quiet reserved for churches and post-argument kitchens, stepping around chip crumbs and glitter that will still be in this carpet when next winter rolls in,Head thick, throat dry, wearing last night’s shirt inside out, still smelling faintly of cheap champagne that bubbled like confidence until midnight passed and the future remained the same skin.
Someone whispers from a blanket pile that you should go back to sleep, that morning can wait, that resolutions are just guilt with a bow,The room feels like the inside of a sigh, like the world took a big breath and then forgot what it wanted to say, let the air go slow,You almost agree, almost slide back into the warm indent your body made on the couch, where exhaustion pulls at you like soft hands that know your weak spots,Yet something in the window catches your eye, a bruised gray line along the curtains, a hint that the sky has started to change the plot.
You work the latch on the front door with fingers that remember how cold metal bites in January once the handle turns,The hallway smells like every meal ever cooked in this building, ghosts of onions and laundry detergent baked into the walls while the landlord’s paint peels and learns,Outside, the stairwell hums with quiet, no footsteps yet, no arguments, no delivery trucks snorting awake, just that stillness that only shows up when night has finally given up the shift,You descend past the neighbor’s wreath which still clings to the door, lights gone dull, ribbon wilted, yet somehow smug that it survived another holiday gift.
The street has emptied out its noise into yesterday.
Firework sticks lie in the gutter like burned-out wands, cardboard tubes pointed crooked at the sky they tried to rename,A glittery paper “Happy New” banner hangs from a second floor balcony, missing the last two letters, fluttering in a wind that has no respect for the rest of the phrase,There are bottles lined up on the curb as if they decided to attend their own meeting, glass rings on railings, and one sequined jacket draped over a fence like last night’s confidence shedding its claim.
You step out where the sidewalk meets whatever passes for a horizon in this tired town,Breath fogs in front of your face, each cloud a soft little confession of how hard you worked to get out of bed for this, how fond you are of drama and yet how rarely you give yourself a crown,The sky ahead wears leftover darkness, heavy at the edges, but over the far roofs a pale strip appears, hesitant and thin,No trumpets, no cosmic drumroll, just a slow bleed of light, as if someone backstage started turning up the dimmer and refused to rush, stubborn grin.
First sunrise of the year arrives in stages, because of course it does, nothing big ever shows up all at once.
It starts with the way the stars give up their posts, fading like shy employees slipping out the back as the manager arrives,Then the dark drains upward, leaving behind a blue that looks almost clean, almost fresh, almost unaware of how last year treated everyone in these streets,Your fingers tap the rail out of habit, counting nothing in , feeling how the metal holds last night’s frost like a secret never quite thawed, never quite alive.
Behind you, through tired windows, you hear laughter from some other apartment, sharp, sudden, then muffled under blinds,Somebody forgot to sleep, somebody decided pancakes at dawn sounded right, somebody is telling the story of how they nearly called their ex at midnight and then let the phone fall flat,The sound floats out into the cold, rises with the faint warmth that always gathers near lit windows, meeting the sky halfway,First light catches that laughter and paints it pale gold, like even the sun respects anyone who can find humor in a world still trying to remember how to act.
The line of brightness grows, carefully, like it knows human eyes down here are not ready for full disclosure.
As it climbs, you start to see more of the street’s truth than any holiday lights were willing to showCigarette butts trapped in old snow at the curb, confetti glued to ice, a dropped phone case half buried beside an abandoned sparkler stick,Broken glass near a bus stop, empty takeout containers shoved under a bench, a lone glove curled in the gutter like it finally stopped waving for help and quit.
For a moment, you hate the daylight for its honesty, for how it strips the filters from the scene you gave yourself last night,The countdown had a glitter overlay, the crowd on television looked flawless in storage, no one’s mascara smudged, no one’s heart looked heavy in the glare,Here, on your own block, first light hits every crack in the sidewalk like a highlighter pen, underlines every broken promise in chipped paint and crooked signage,Yet with each passing breath, those harsh outlines start to look less like accusations and more like a map of where you really live, less flattering and more bearable because it refuses to lie in midair.
The sun finally nudges itself over the roofline, not heroic, more like a stubborn worker punching in again.
It paints the upper windows first, turning them into squares of fire that lean down over the street like curious faces with nowhere better to be,Then it slides along brick and siding, kisses satellite dishes and bent antennae, climbs clotheslines with hanging shirts that forgot the party and just kept waiting for dry,It catches on your own hand gripping the stair rail, turns the knuckles a warmer color, throws a thin halo around your breath where it hangs,Suddenly the cold feels less like punishment and more like a kind of firm reassurance, as if the air slapped you awake only to hand you a clean slate free of fee.
First sunrise of the year does not care about resolutions, yet it listens to them anyway.
It watches from behind clouds as people upstairs promise to quit this, start that, answer texts faster, sleep more, drink less, finally write the damned book, call their mother, stop spiraling at two in the morning,It sees how many of those pledges will dissolve by the fourth week, washed away by work schedules, bad habits, and the slow sag of hope under real weight,Still it shows up, every dawn, early, on time, no matter how many of your vows fell face-first into the rug during the first round,This morning, it gives you the smallest gift it knows how to give, the sense that the world did not end when the clock rolled over, that you still have limbs, lungs, a broken yet functional heart, and a day in front of you that has not yet been used as bait.
You lean on the rail and watch the light creep down your street like a shy guest at an awkward party,It slides under porch steps, sneaks between slats in fences, finds the face of the old stray cat you have been feeding at odd hours and sets its whiskers glowing while it blinks at you like you stole its bit,You raise a hand in greeting, fingers stiff, and the cat yawns in a way that suggests both boredom and blessing, then wanders off toward whatever adventure a three-legged veteran of alleyways considers sporty,First sunrise of the year has already adopted you both, chalked you up as survivors in its private ledger, not saints and not disasters, just two bodies still showing up to see what happens next instead of quitting the script.
The sky brightens to that hushed shade between promise and routine,You hear the first car engine cough, a garbage truck’s groan several blocks away, the faint roll of a shopping cart someone never returned,Inside your pocket, your phone buzzes with messages from people who used every fireworks blast as an excuse to send you love last night,Happy notes, half-drunken declarations, tiny typed hearts that felt easy with champagne and still feel real enough under sober morning,You read them again in this new light and they sink in deeper, lose the sugary edge, pick up weight.
For once, you do not scroll past.
You type something back that is not a canned reply, let your thumbs spell out a promise you might actually keep, not embroidered with fake intensity or dramatic stakes, just simple and honest and slightly clumsy,You tell someone you miss them and want to see them soon, you tell someone else you are proud they made it through last year with their head still attached, you tell another you forgive them for that thing you said you did not care about but secretly carried like a stone,The sun climbs another notch as each message flies out, little signals leaving your chest through a satellite network you barely understand, and somewhere out there, on other porches and in different messy living rooms, other hungover souls blink at their screens and feel the same mix of hope and suspicion and unexpected warmth,First sunrise of the year wraps all that quiet back-and-forth in a wash of gold that no one credits on social media, then keeps climbing, busy, indifferent, loyal.
Eventually the cold creeps through your socks and insists that you pick a direction.
Back inside where the couch waits with its hollow, familiar shape and the smell of fried leftovers is already creeping from the kitchen, or forward into the day with its errands and calls and small unrewarded kindnesses,You turn the knob, step back into the warmish dark of the stairwell, your eyes temporarily blind after staring into the sky like you expected answers printed on the clouds,Behind you, first sunrise of the year keeps working on its steady job, peeling gray off buildings, polishing windows, nudging sleepy birds off their branches,It does not wave goodbye, it does not stamp a slogan on your shoulder, it simply keeps going, lighting whatever comes next,You whisper something under your breath that might be thanks, might be a dare, might be both,Then you walk into the cluttered living room where everyone sprawls like casualties of joy, and you start picking up bottles, stacking plates, turning down the volume,The new day slipping in through the blinds like a patient chorus that will not hit you over the head with hope, only hand it out in small, refillable portions if you keep showing up to drink.
Hangover Dawn and Honest Light – Song [Wreath▾
Verse 1Empty cups on the coffee table, glitter taped to the floor where the cola dried,Someone’s jacket on the back of a chair like it walked off their shoulders and tried to hide,Cousins crashed in a heap on the couch, party hats sideways, mouths open wide,I step past all that wreckage, crack the door, let the cold hit my face like the year asking if I survived.
Verse 2Street’s quiet except for firework sticks in the gutter that lost their fire and kept their scars,Banner on a balcony missing its last word, letters flapping over parked cars,Breath turns white while the sky trades black for that thin pale line over the bars,First sunrise crawling up behind the rooftops slow, like it has seen this party and still shows up from afar.
ChorusFirst sunrise of the year, no trumpets, no grand design,Just a tired old sun clocking in on time,Painting broken bottles and bent signs in a softer shine,Saying, “You made it through another spin, messy fool, now what do you want from mine.”
Verse 3Light catches every crack in the concrete, every stain in the snow near the curb,Shows the truth under last night’s filter, all the things the countdown never heard,Yet it warms the side of this building, hits my hands on the rail, turns the air less sharp, less absurd,And for one stretched breath I believe maybe starting over is less about magic and more about small honest words.
Pre-ChorusPhone in my pocket buzzes with late-night hearts and blurry cheer,I text back something real for once, watch the sky climb while my ghosts feel less near.
ChorusFirst sunrise of the year, no trumpets, no grand design,Just a tired old sun clocking in on time,Painting broken bottles and bent signs in a softer shine,Saying, “You made it through another spin, messy fool, now what do you want from mine.”
BridgeIt does not care about resolutions taped to fridges in squeaky ink,Does not rate my progress or my setbacks or how close I came to the brink,It only throws this light on stray cats, hungover faces, sidewalks on the brink,And leaves it up to me to use this hour for more than scrolling past the edge of the sink.
Verse 4I take one last look at the roofline burning gold, then head back inside, socks numb, mind clear,Room still smells like sugar and sweat and wishes shouted over cheap canned cheer,I pick up bottles, straighten blankets, nudge the volume down while the day grows near,First sunrise moves on down the block, and I move with it in my own small way, still here.
ChorusFirst sunrise of the year, no trumpets, no grand design,Just a tired old sun clocking in on time,Painting broken bottles and bent signs in a softer shine,Saying, “You made it through another spin, messy fool, now what do you want from mine.”
OutroWhen the sky turns ordinary blue and the coffee starts to bite,I will still remember that thin bright strip that pulled me out to meet the light,First sunrise of the year watched me standing there in yesterday’s clothes, trying to get it right,Did not promise anything, just opened up the day and left the rest to my own crooked fight.
Happy Hour Hero▾
The clock hits five and something in my bloodstream shifts,
the afternoon’s been long and now the evening lifts,
I’m pulling into the parking lot at quarter past,
the happy hour special runs till seven, I’ll make it last,
the bartender’s already got the draft glass in his hand,
he knows my usual order and my land,
I settle in the corner booth that’s been my spot for years,
and drain the first one like it’s oxygen, my friends.
The appetizers at happy hour are half the dinner price,
and everything at half the price is doubly nice,
I order the wings and the loaded nachos flat,
and another draft because the first one went like that,
the bar fills up around me with the after-work brigade,
we’re all here for the same redemption that the evening’s made,
ties are loosened, jackets folded over chairbacks wide,
the happy hour is the only church with cheap drinks inside.
Happy hour hero, five to seven every night,
happy hour hero, everything’s a little right,
the wings are half the price and the draft’s as cold as snow,
happy hour hero is the only way to go,
happy hour hero, tab that grows and grows,
happy hour hero, everybody knows,
the five o’clock salvation and the cheap and cheerful truth,
happy hour hero since I was in my youth.
By six I’ve eaten all the nachos and the wings,
and I’m surveying the menu for some additional things,
the mozzarella sticks are four dollars in this bracket,
the slider basket’s six and that’s a hell of a racket,
I order both because the math still works in favor,
of eating everything at half-off, the night savior,
the bartender refills without being asked to do it,
I am a loyal customer and he knew it.
The happy hour ends at seven but I’m still here at eight,
the prices went back up but the evening’s going great,
I’m on my third basket of something with the sauce,
talking to a guy who works in something that’s the boss,
of a company that does a thing I didn’t catch the name,
but we’ve agreed on everything, which seems like the same,
as friendship for the purpose of a Tuesday-evening run,
we’ll never see each other when this evening’s done.
Happy hour hero, five to seven every night,
happy hour hero, everything’s a little right,
the wings are half the price and the draft’s as cold as snow,
happy hour hero is the only way to go,
happy hour hero, tab that grows and grows,
happy hour hero, everybody knows,
the five o’clock salvation and the cheap and cheerful truth,
happy hour hero since I was in my youth.
The tab arrives at nine and I assess it with respect,
it’s triple what I planned but I triple-check,
and confirm that yes it is and tip accordingly well,
because the bartender kept me from the worst of hell,
the drive home is a little warmer than it was at five,
and everything the evening gave me kept me feeling alive,
I’ll be back at that corner booth by Thursday at the least,
happy hour hero rising from the east.
Happy hour hero, five to seven every night,
happy hour hero, everything’s a little right,
the wings are half the price and the draft’s as cold as snow,
happy hour hero is the only way to go,
happy hour hero, tab that grows and grows,
happy hour hero, everybody knows,
the five o’clock salvation and the cheap and cheerful truth,
happy hour hero since I was in my youth.
Hellish Bells At Twelve – Song [Wraith▾
Verse 1All the good songs died out around ten, and the Bluetooth speaker gave up at eleven-oh-two,You were half-asleep in a house full of leftovers and empty bottles, scrolling past other people’s perfect nights like they were taunting you,Then the tower across town cleared its throat in iron and threw a note through your window that dropped your stomach clean through,One low bell like a punch, two more like verdicts, and suddenly every bad promise you ever made lined up in front of you.
Verse 2Streetlights blinked in time with the swing, dogs went silent like they knew who pulled that rope in the stone,You could feel it in your fillings, in the old scars on your knuckles, in every voicemail you never returned, rattling your bones,That wasn’t some polite church chime marking midnight; that was metal laughing at the lies you tell yourself when you’re alone,Hellish bells counting years and excuses and all the times you almost changed and then slid right back into your usual tone.
ChorusHellish bells at twelve o’clock,Ringing out your could-have-beens in rust and smoke,Every toll a roll call of the hearts you broke,Every echo dragging old ghosts out of their cloak,You can blame the metal, blame the night, blame the way that tower leans,But those bells just sing the truth out loud; the rest of it is whatever you’ve been.
Verse 3Out past the church, at the graveyard fence, frost cracked on stone like it heard its name called twice,Inside your chest something flinched, some stubborn part picturing your own slab, wondering if your cheap grin would look that nice,You stood at the window half daring the bell to ring again, half hoping it would shut up and let you go back to your comfortable vice,Then in the last fading hum you heard one thin note bent upward, like somebody somewhere chose to live different for once and the metal had to adjust the price.
BridgeNobody’s gonna write this in the program, nobody’s painting demons on that tower wall,They’ll blame bad acoustics, say the crack in the bell makes it sound wrong every fall,But you know what you felt when that third note hit and everything inside you stalled,It wasn’t heaven, wasn’t hell, just a deadline tolling out, asking if this is really how you want your story called.
ChorusHellish bells at twelve o’clock,Ringing out your could-have-beens in rust and smoke,Every toll a roll call of the hearts you broke,Every echo dragging old ghosts out of their cloak,You can blame the metal, blame the night, blame the way that tower leans,But those bells just sing the truth out loud; the rest of it is whatever you’ve been.
OutroWhen the last note dies and the silence rushes back in like water over stone,You’re still standing in your dim little room, holding a phone full of half-drafted confessions and people you don’t call on,Hellish bells already cooling in the tower, waiting for another year of bad deals to pile on,And you either go back to sleep, or you start changing something,While the bell in the dark files your choice away and sharpens its song.
House Where the Clocks Are Wrong▾
It’s the hour between the clicks, when the clock hands stutter and the wallpaper curls at the seams,
Where every minute lasts a year and the house smells of rot and winter-burned skin,
Night slips in sideways, dragging its nails across the windowpane,
You hold your breath in the hallway, certain something watches,
The old boards never creak right, they pulse, slow and sick, under your bare feet,
You remember laughter that never fit here,
Not in this house, not in this night,
Not with those faces, not with those hands,
Something cold whispers under the bed—your name in a broken accent,
You try to recall the taste of sunlight, but it slips through your teeth,
You only ever remember the crawling, the locked doors,
The place under the stairs where you used to hide,
The way the house pressed its thumb to your throat when you lied,
Eyes in the vent, watching, always just out of sight,
The scratch on the glass that grew every year,
A question you never dared to ask,
A shape in the mirror behind your own,
A voice in your head that isn’t yours,
You press your ear to the floor and hear breathing in the pipes,
A child’s voice, soft and mean,
It says you made it up, you always make it up,
None of this happened, not the bruises, not the bite marks,
Not the thing that crawled from the closet the year you turned nine and learned to stay silent,
Not the shadow that wears your father’s belt and your mother’s lipstick,
Not the hands that grew out of the walls, cold and real,
That touched you once, and once is all it takes.
You pace the hallway, counting the faded flowers on the runner,
Trying to find the pattern you missed as a kid,
Trying to convince yourself the locks are just locks,
The voices just dreams, the stains just old water,
But something keeps knocking behind the drywall—
And every knock is a heartbeat you lost in that long winter,
Every knock is another story that never happened,
That’s what they told you, what you told yourself,
No monsters in this house, no blood on the sheets,
No night that lasted forever, no cold hands,
No silence thick as concrete,
No words you swallowed like broken glass,
No need to scream, no need to run,
It never happened,
It never happened,
Except you never sleep here,
Except the walls remember everything you won’t,
Except every mirror in this house shows your mouth open,
Like you’re still begging to wake up.
Every clock is lying, every shadow’s wrong,
Floorboards moan your secrets, night just drags along,
You walk in circles, eyes on the door,
Swear you heard breathing from under the floor.
There’s laughter in the corners, thick as winter rain,
A memory in the mirror, all teeth and stain,
Old wallpaper curling, names you never spoke,
Something in the silence wants you broke.
You say it never happened,
You swear you made it up,
But the house knows every hour
You hid and never loved,
It’s a secret with no ending,
A bruise you never show—
You say it never happened,
But the house will always know.
Knocking in the drywall, voices in the vents,
Your name in a whisper, thick with old regrets,
Locks on every memory, ghosts behind each door,
You forget what you remember, but you come back for more.
You say it never happened,
You swear you made it up,
But the house knows every hour
You hid and never loved,
It’s a secret with no ending,
A bruise you never show—
You say it never happened,
But the house will always know.
Night crawls the hallway,
Hands out of sight,
You close your eyes and pray
You’ll make it through the night.
You say it never happened,
You swear you made it up,
But the house knows every hour
You hid and never loved,
It’s a secret with no ending,
A bruise you never show—
You say it never happened,
But the house will always know.
Give me the next horror. Or tell me where you want the pain to go.
You wanted a nightmare with a pulse and teeth. You got it—long, sharp, nothing soft, nothing wasted.
Title keeps its mask on—no fluff, no sugar, no closure, and no Hallmark shit.
Poem first. Then the song.
Buckle in.
Crimson in the Clover
Rabbit tracks in the mud, tangled with broken glass and cigarette butts,
Children’s voices echo in the weeds behind the old trailer park,
A flash of white fur at the edge of the vacant lot, red eyes glinting,
Every nightmare you ever had about bunnies chewing through your nerves and gnawing the edge of your sleep,
A whimper, a giggle, then something else—teeth on bone,
The fence line shakes, the grass parts, claws slick with last night’s rain,
Somebody’s little brother went missing at dusk,
Mother screams into the field, her voice ragged as rust,
But the dirt keeps secrets, and so do the soft, hollow tunnels where they pull you under by the ankles.
Don’t talk about Easter, don’t say cute,
You’ve never seen these fuckers drag a dog under the porch and strip it in the dark,
You don’t remember what the missing cats smelled like after a week,
You try not to look at the twitch in the grass, or the way your own heartbeat skips,
Kids dare each other to spend a night outside,
Try it once, nobody tries again,
You hear something crunching just outside your tent,
A shape that sits up on its haunches,
Ears black with dried blood, nose twitching for your fear,
It waits for your breath to hitch,
It waits for the shiver, the scent, the hope that you’ll call out for help—
But you know better than to beg in this town,
You learned that here.
Midnight and every shadow flickers with the memory of a pet that never came home,
A brother that vanished, a sister that screamed,
An uncle’s shotgun left by the back door,
Nobody talks about it,
Nobody ever buries what the earth refuses to swallow,
Just more holes in the yard, more hollow places in the family tree.
You wake up in the weeds, knees scraped,
Blood under your fingernails, your socks gone, your mouth dry,
You tell your mother it was nothing, but you watch her check your skin for bite marks,
She’s seen them before—knows when to keep quiet,
Knows which wounds heal and which ones only fester,
Every burrow in this yard is a mouth waiting to swallow the smallest piece of you.
At dawn, the dew is slick with fur,
You pretend it’s grass, pretend it’s just the season,
But you walk quick past every shadow,
You run when you hear the soft, rhythmic thump,
Every hop in this place is a countdown,
Every childhood memory is teeth in the dark.
Nobody leaves this town without scars,
And nobody, not once, ever brings home a rabbit’s foot for luck.
Midnight in the trailer park, dirt full of holes,
White fur in the moonlight, crimson on the knolls,
Kids dare each other, but the dares turn cold,
Something hungry’s watching,
And it never grows old.
Mama screams at the field, shotgun on the stoop,
Cats go missing, dogs too, bones in a loop,
Whispers in the weeds, something under the floor,
You pray in your blanket,
But you don’t pray anymore.
Crimson in the clover,
Nightmare on the lawn,
Every hop gets closer,
By the time you blink, you’re gone.
Digging under fences,
Dragging you inside,
There’s a heartbeat in the burrow—
Hop-hop-homicide.
Blood on your pillow, fur in the dew,
You lie to your mother,
But the bites bleed through,
Everyone’s got scars here,
No one asks why,
And nobody brings home rabbit’s feet—
You just learn to hide.
Crimson in the clover,
Nightmare on the lawn,
Every hop gets closer,
By the time you blink, you’re gone.
Digging under fences,
Dragging you inside,
There’s a heartbeat in the burrow—
Hop-hop-homicide.
You hear the thumping in the dark,
A twitch, a shiver, a hungry spark,
Don’t close your eyes, don’t make a sound,
If you’re lucky,
They’ll leave you above ground.
Crimson in the clover,
Nightmare on the lawn,
Every hop gets closer,
By the time you blink, you’re gone.
Digging under fences,
Dragging you inside,
There’s a heartbeat in the burrow—
Hop-hop-homicide.
Here’s your long, sharp nightmare.
Every line its own wound. No limp fragments, no closure, no mercy.
Title is not the prompt.
Poem first. Song follows.
Let’s fucking drag them into the dark and show them what gets exposed when it rains.
I Miss My Dinosaur▾
[No lyrics stored on-chain]
Description: Feb 5 is my birthday, so this is dedicated to meeeeeeeeee…….
I Miss My Dinosaur
Little Light▾
[No lyrics stored on-chain]
Description: This song is a soft little lullaby for a life that never got the chance to take its first breath, written for every unborn angel and for the heart that still carries them. It leans more toward love than sorrow, holding space for the way hope and grief can live in the same chest, and for the way a tiny soul can leave a lasting warmth even after the body lets go.
Every purchase and stream of this track helps support someone quietly facing the aftermath of illness and loss, someone who has earned a bit of light in a very heavy chapter.
My Safeword is Get The Fk Out▾
You show up with that grin, thinking charm replaces honesty, hand on my hip before you even shut the door, Talking big about consent, dropping buzzwords you scraped from a thread while your eyes stare at the floor, You say you are chill, you say you respect lines, then your hands wander where my words never sent them, Laugh when I tense up, call it cute, call it shy, like I’m a straight edge and your job is to bend them.
You tell stories about exes who were crazy, boundaries that killed the mood, how you hate people who overthink, Meanwhile your fingers trace routes they have no right to travel, and every nerve in my spine starts to shrink, You call yourself a dom under your breath like that grants you a license to ignore the set of my jaw, You treat my “no” as foreplay, my silence as kink, and somehow still talk about ethics like it’s law.
Let me teach you something your podcasts never covered, a rule that matters more than any trick in bed, If I say stop, that is not your cue for romance, that is not a challenge, that is the wall between me and you, get it through your head, This is not a workshop, this is my body, and you are one sentence away from leaving instead.
My safe word is “get the fuck out,” not some cute little phrase that keeps the scene hot and sweet, Once those four words land, this night is over, your shoes go on, your ego joins you in the street, I am not here to educate you on basics you should have learned before you touched skin, My safe word is “get the fuck out,” and if you hear it, walk through that doorway and never come back in.
You roll your eyes when I slow your hands, say “relax, I am not like those creeps, I know what I am doing, just trust .. me,” You say you need to feel free, hate rules, hate labels, hate how everyone talks about trauma and fucked up stuff, I hear that and see a giant red sign that reads “walks away when called out, blames everyone else for the mess,” So when you push past my “no” and laugh it off, my patience packs its bags and I care less.
I like rough, I like wild, I like teeth on my neck and nails on my back from someone who hears every word, I like filthy talk from a mouth that listened, not from a walking script that never learned, If you can’t tell the difference, then frankly, what you think you know is just absurd.
My safe word is “get the fuck out,” not some cute little phrase that keeps the scene hot and sweet, Once those four words land, this night is over, your shoes go on, your ego joins you in the street, I am not here to educate you on basics you should have learned before you touched skin, My safe word is “get the fuck out,” and if you hear it, walk through that doorway and never come back in.
One day you might meet someone who hands you a list, who lays out rules, who teaches with patience and care, Maybe that person feels safe guiding you step by step, holding your hand while you learn how to share, That is not my job tonight in this room with my heart already worn thin from old smoke hanging in the air, My only job is keeping this body safe, this mind intact, this space clean of you….
Break
La la la, you thought rough meant ignore, you thought kink meant free pass on harm, Dum dum dum, here comes the line, here comes the exit alarm, When I say “get the fuck out,” that is not a joke, that is the end, fuck your charm
Final Chorus
My safe word is “get the fuck out,” engraved on the welcome mat under all the flirting and the heat, Hidden in each warning I gave when you brushed past boundaries like they were optional, like they made the night complete, You want access to my body, learn the language of my no, my maybe, my yes, my I want more, My safe word is “get the fuck out,” and if you ever hear it, let that sentence follow you out the door
I am not sentimental about shutting doors on hands that never learned how to stop, My safe word is “get the fuck out,” and that line sits ready every time you forget who’s on top.
My safe word is “get the fuck out,” engraved on the welcome mat under all the flirting and the heat, Hidden in each warning I gave when you brushed past boundaries like they were optional, like they made the night complete, You want access to my body, learn the language of my no, my maybe, my yes, my I want more, My safe word is “get the fuck out,” and if you ever hear it, let that sentence follow you out the door
Seven Hours Of Sunday▾
Calendar blocked out from six to ten to two to six again with fifteen minutes penciled in for something like a life
They call it dedication, call it discipline, call it what the winners do when lesser men are sleeping off their Saturday
He calls it staying ahead of the version of himself that’s starving in the basement of every yesterday
His desk is a religion and the deadline is his altar and the overtime is incense burning sweet
The emails get an answer in four minutes flat at midnight and he tells himself the hunger is the heartbeat of the fleet
His father worked himself into an early grave and called it love and called it legacy and called it being there
He swore he’d do it differently — he’s doing it identically — he just dressed it up in metrics and declared it self-aware
And the grind don’t lie but the grind don’t tell the whole truth either
It’ll take the years you give it and it will not give them back
And the man who built the empire from the sweat of every waking moment
Wakes up one day rich and punctual and completely off the track
Seven hours of Sunday, that’s all he ever offered anything that wasn’t work or war
Seven hours of Sunday split between the laundry and the emails and the conference call at four
Seven hours of Sunday for the kids, the wife, the garden, for the person that he swore he’d still become
Seven hours of Sunday and he spent them all preparing for the Monday and he called that discipline
He called that
Getting it done
She stopped asking him to come to bed at a reasonable hour sometime around the third or fourth year of the climb
He said just let me finish this and finish became a word that didn’t mean what finish means — it just meant one more time
The children learned to read his moods by reading posture — laptop open means don’t bother, door ajar means maybe, door shut means goodbye
He was present in the house the way a photograph is present — you can see him, you can reference him, but he’s captured in another time
There’s a man inside the machine who still remembers how to waste an afternoon without an outcome or a purpose or a plan
Who used to sit in parking lots with coffee going cold just watching nothing like a person and not like a program in a man
He visits him sometimes at two a.m. when everything is finished and the inbox finally hits a temporary zero
Looks at him a second, closes down the laptop, sets the six a.m., and quietly abandons him again like every other hero
Because the work is safe, the work is clean, the work will never leave you or misunderstand or need you in a way you can’t deliver
The work is just the work and it will take you and it’ll use you and it’ll hollow out the marrow of your liver
And everyone will say he was so driven, he was so committed, he was everything a man is meant to be
And nobody will mention that the cost of being everything to everyone at work was being nothing, being nobody, being free of being free
Seven hours of Sunday, that’s all he ever offered anything that wasn’t work or war
Seven hours of Sunday split between the laundry and the emails and the conference call at four
Seven hours of Sunday for the kids, the wife, the garden, for the person that he swore he’d still become
Seven hours of Sunday and he spent them all preparing for the Monday and he called that discipline
He called that
Getting it done
Here’s what they don’t carve into the plaques at the retirement party or the tombstone or the quarterly review:
That the virtue became the vice the moment that it crowded out the breathing room of being someone who is simply passing through
That diligence without a life to fill it is just fear in a tie and a good shoes and a handshake firm enough to crush the question
That the man who never stopped was never running toward — he was always, always, always just outrunning the suggestion
That he
Might not be
Enough
If still
[Outro — exhausted, honest]
Seven hours of Sunday
He’s gonna do it different
Seven hours of Sunday
Starting next week
Seven hours of Sunday
When the project’s finished
Seven hours of Sunday
When the climb is complete
Seven hours of Sunday
God he means it this time
Seven hours
Seven
He just needs
Five more minutes
Then he’s
Done
Slow Burn (uncensored)▾
[No lyrics stored on-chain]
Description: If you win the auction, and want the higher res version, contact me on Twitter.
Ten Minutes After▾
Ten minutes ago you had a goodbye text typed out, thumb hanging over send like a trigger you knew too well, Every line sounded final and childish and honest as hell, screaming out the secrets you promised not to tell, Screen went black, showed your face, eyes wrecked, jaw tight, and something in you muttered “not like this, not now,” You locked the phone, dropped it on the counter, grabbed a glass of water and wiped the sweat from your brow.
Ten minutes after 11, nothing looks different but you’re still here, that’s the whole wild thing, No angel, no message, just lungs that refused to clock out while your thoughts kept pulling the string, La la la, la la la, dum dum dum, your busted little heart still beating under your skin, Ten minutes after 11, no miracle, no credits, just a quiet fuck you to the urge to give in.
Ten minutes ago the sink full of dishes felt like proof you’d never be anything but tired and late and wrong, Now you’re rolling your sleeves up, running hot water, humming some dumb hook just to help the time move along, You’re not hopeful, not cured, not fixed, just a little less close to the edge than you were before, And sometimes that tiny shift, that single step back from the drop, is the whole damn war.
No choir, no spotlight, just you in socks on cold tile, humming nonsense to drown out the pull, La la la, la lalala, dum dum dum, ugly and off key and somehow full, If anybody asks where the real work lives, it’s in these stupid quiet minutes when you stay, When you whisper “not tonight, not like this,” and drag yourself one breath further away.
Final Chorus
Ten minutes after 11, nothing changed on paper, but you didn’t walk, you didn’t hit send, you didn’t break, That’s the kind of tiny, filthy miracle they never write on greeting cards, the kind only you can make, La la la, la la la, dum dum dum, heart still drumming in a body that refused to be done, Ten minutes after 11, still here, still pissed, still breathing – that’s the win, you stubborn one.
The First Time (Pop Ballad)▾
We danced on the precipice, with fate so intertwined,
The first time the silence spoke, it cut me deep inside,
A void where laughter used to be, now there’s nowhere to hide.
Every corner of this room echoes your last plea,
The first time I felt the pain was all that’s left of me.
Tell me about the first time you felt the cold of goodbye,
When the warmth of your love turned to tears in my eye.
The first time I realized, there’s no turning back the clock,
In the shadows of our past, I’m left to slowly rot.
The first time memories haunted, every night a cruel game,
Pictures and moments of us, now only a bitter flame.
I hear your whispers in the wind, your laugh in the pouring rain,
The first time I felt the fear, was it all just in vain?
Tell me about the first time you felt the cold of goodbye,
When the warmth of your love turned to tears in my eye.
The first time I realized, there’s no turning back the clock,
In the shadows of our past, I’m left to slowly rot.
In every bitter note, in every mournful sigh,
The first time I faced the truth was when you said goodbye.
And now I’m drowning in the depths of what we used to be,
The first time I felt the loss, was the last time I saw you leave.
The first time I woke up alone, with sheets still cold and damp,
The first time I saw your empty chair, was like a burning lamp.
The first time I reached for your hand, and found nothing but air,
The first time I knew I was lost, was the first time you weren’t there.
Tell me about the first time you felt the cold of goodbye,
When the warmth of your love turned to tears in my eye.
The first time I realized, there’s no turning back the clock,
In the shadows of our past, I’m left to slowly rot.
The first time, the last time, all the times in between,
I’ll never forget the day you left, the day my world turned mean.
But even in the darkness, I’ll find a way to rise,
Because the first time I fell, was also the first time I learned to fly.
Song 2: “Cat’s Out of the Bag”
Cat’s Out of the Bag
The First Time I Attended a Funeral (Acoustic Ballad)▾
Black dresses swayed like shadows, whispers filled the air,
Roses, crimson tears, upon a coffin bare.
Faces etched with sorrow, lips held words unspoken,
Grief’s heavy cloak descended, spirits bent and broken.
The weight of death, a leaden shroud upon the ground,
Where life’s frail thread was severed, with nary a sound.
Memories danced like fireflies, a bittersweet ballet,
A final farewell whispered, as the sun began to set.
The first time I attended a funeral, I felt the world grow still,
The silence deafening, the air so thick, it made my senses thrill.
I saw the fragility of life, a fleeting, precious flame,
And learned that even in the darkest night, love’s embers still remain.
Tears streamed down weathered faces, like rivers in the rain,
Each drop a proof to a love that wouldn’t wane.
The eulogy, a weave of memories, both grand and small,
A life well-lived, a story etched upon each heart and wall.
The first time I attended a funeral, I felt the world grow still,
The silence deafening, the air so thick, it made my senses thrill.
I saw the fragility of life, a fleeting, precious flame,
And learned that even in the darkest night, love’s embers still remain.
But amidst the grief, a flicker of hope began to bloom,
A promise whispered on the wind, dispelling all the gloom.
For even though the body rests, the spirit soars above,
And the love we shared remains, an everlasting dove.
The first time I attended a funeral, I felt the world grow still,
The silence deafening, the air so thick, it made my senses thrill.
I saw the fragility of life, a fleeting, precious flame,
And learned that even in the darkest night, love’s embers still remain.
And as I walked away that day, with a heart both heavy and light,
I knew that life and death are woven, in an intricate, eternal flight.
The First Time I Broke a Heart (Acoustic Ballad)▾
The air hangs heavy, words unspoken
In the silence, promises broken
Your trembling hands, a tear-stained face
Reflect the wreckage of this sacred space
Regret lingers on the tongue, bittersweet
A goodbye, once loved, now retreat
Your pain, in your eyes, a mirrored feat
My heart, once yours, now obsolete
I held your hand, a whispered plea
But the future I saw, it didn’t include me
My selfish reasons, a bitter pill
Leaving you shattered, against my will
Regret lingers on the tongue, bittersweet
A goodbye, once loved, now retreat
Your pain, in your eyes, a mirrored feat
My heart, once yours, now obsolete
Can time erase the memory of your tears?
Can forgiveness mend the shattered years?
I carry the weight of what I’ve done
The first time I broke a heart, the battle I’ve won
Regret lingers on the tongue, bittersweet
A goodbye, once loved, now retreat
Your pain, in your eyes, a mirrored feat
My heart, once yours, now obsolete
The echo of your voice, a haunting sound
A constant reminder of love I’ve found
And lost, in the blink of an eye
The first time I broke a heart, I also broke mine
The First Time I Drove Alone (Pop-Punk)▾
Sixteen years old, license in hand,
Heart full of freedom, I felt grand.
Keys in ignition, anticipation,
A new chapter, liberation.
First time driving on my own,
The world felt vast, unknown.
No parents nagging, no rules to bind,
Just the open road and a peace of mind.
Hit the gas, felt the engine roar,
Adrenaline pumping, I craved more.
Weaving through traffic, feeling alive,
No longer confined by a five-mile drive.
First time driving on my own,
The world felt vast, unknown.
No parents nagging, no rules to bind,
Just the open road and a peace of mind.
But the freedom was short-lived, a fleeting dream,
A misplaced turn, a panicked scream.
Brakes too late, a metal crash,
My first taste of reality, a painful lash.
First time driving on my own,
The world felt vast, unknown.
No parents nagging, no rules to bind,
Just the open road and a peace of mind.
Scratched bumper, a lesson learned,
The world’s a playground, but risks are returned.
First drive, a memory etched in time,
A bittersweet reminder of freedom, mine.
The First Time I Felt Peace with Myself▾
Pantoum
In quiet solitude, I found my release,
Past regrets and fears began to cease,
Reflections in the water, a gentle peace,
As self-acceptance finally increased.
The First Time I Lied (Acoustic Ballad)▾
The words left my lips, smooth and slick,
A lie to escape, a quick trick.
Truth twisted, a minor sin,
My conscience began to spin.
Shadows of guilt started to stick,
A tangled web, I felt it click.
The lie slipped out, easy and fast,
But the cost it brought would never last.
The first time I lied, a bitter taste,
A stain on my soul, a soul misplaced.
The weight of deception, hard to bear,
A burden I carry, a heavy despair.
The truth, once hidden, now must be shown,
To mend the trust that has been flown.
Confession, a bitter pill to swallow,
But honesty’s path, I must follow.
The first lie, a seed of doubt,
A poison that spreads, a bitter shout.
But forgiveness, a chance to redeem,
To mend the broken, to heal the seam.
The first time I lied, a bitter taste,
A stain on my soul, a soul misplaced.
The weight of deception, hard to bear,
A burden I carry, a heavy despair.
The first lie, a lesson learned,
To speak the truth, my heart yearns.
For honesty’s path, I will strive,
To live with integrity, to truly thrive.
The First Time I Made a Public Speech▾
Upon the precipice of fate we stand,
Words poised delicely, awaiting command;
In the hush of anticipion, a silent band.
A fabric of emotions woven tight,
Threads of courage interlaced with fright;
A symphony of thoughts taking flight.
The stage aglow, a beacon in the night,
As shadows dance in the flickering light;
An epic tale about to take its height.
Will the words unite or cause a fight,
In the minds of those in their sight;
Transcending boundaries, soaring to new height.
Each syllable a star in the poetic night,
Guiding us through darkness, shining bright;
A maze of language, a mystical rite.
The artist’s brush strokes on this canvas white,
Creing worlds with each stroke so right;
An immortal creion, out of ordinary sight.
So let the verses cascade, taking flight,
Merging worlds of reality and dreams so tight;
In this grand fabric of poetic might.
The First Time I Tried Yoga
In a room filled with energy and zeal,
Echoes of determinion peal,
As we seek comfort, a soulful meal.
Limbs entwined in a dance surreal,
Muscles reaching, an inner seal
To unlock the secrets our bodies conceal.
Breh intertwined with emotions we feel,
A harmony of effort, a passione wheel
Turning towards bliss, a mystical keel.
The mind wanders, seeking to reveal
The depths of the heart, a hidden deal
With fears and doubts that try to congeal.
But we defy them all, with a zeal so real,
Embracing the challenge, forging steel
From the fire that burns, an ordeal we heal.
In each movement, a story we seal,
Of resilience and grace, an artful spiel
Against the darkness, our spirits ideal.
The First Time I Wrote a Poem
The First Time I tended a Wedding▾
Qurain
Dresses, vows, love’s perfect scene,
I choked on cake, turned green.
Romance thick, the air sweet,
Stuck the singles’ table, retre.
The First Time We Parted (Acoustic Pop Ballad)▾
Empty streets, a city asleep
No one else around, just memories we keep
The air hangs thick, with unspoken words
Each echoing goodbye, like a flock of startled birds
The streetlights flicker, casting long shadows
Ghosts of laughter dance, in the empty meadows
A gentle breeze whispers, through the barren trees
Carrying your scent, a bittersweet release
When you left, the silence spoke so loud
All my fears, under grey clouds shroud
Each step you took, away from our crowd
Echoes in my heart, heavy and bowed
I trace the lines, of your name in the dust
A fleeting reminder, of the love we couldn’t trust
But even in the absence, your presence remains
A lingering melody, in the echoing refrains
When you left, the silence spoke so loud
All my fears, under grey clouds shroud
Each step you took, away from our crowd
Echoes in my heart, heavy and bowed
Will time heal the wounds, of this painful goodbye?
Or will I forever chase, a love that learned to fly?
But amidst the sorrow, a flicker of hope ignites
Knowing that somewhere, under the same moonlit night,
You too, are remembering, the first time we parted.
When you left, the silence spoke so loud
All my fears, under grey clouds shroud
Each step you took, away from our crowd
Echoes in my heart, heavy and bowed
And though we’re apart, under different skies
The memory of your touch, forever in my eyes
The first time we parted, a bittersweet start
To a love that lives on, even though we’re miles apart.
The Haunted Clock▾
In a parlor richly kept, stands a clock where shadows crept, Telling time with eerie chime, haunted by the curse of time.
Once a timepiece grand and bright, now a source of endless fright, the clock ticks with ghostly light.
Hands that move with ghostly grace, shifting time in haunted space, Whispers rise with every chime, pulling hearts into the grime.
Figures move in spectral ways, haunting in the midnight’s blaze, Beware the clock that seems so still, For in its face the shadows grow, A timepiece grand now cursed with fright, the clock returns to its ghostly sight, of the clock that haunts the day.
A tale of time betrayed and lost, of spirits trapped at such a cost, In the parlor richly kept, the haunted clock’s secret is kept.
The Witching Hour▾
The clock strikes twelve, the world stands still,
A shiver runs up your spine, against your will.
The shadows twist and the whispers grow,
Welcome to the night where the cursed things show.
The house on the hill, the eyes that see,
It knows your name, it wants you to bleed.
Step into the dark, there’s no way out,
The witching hour, it’s time to shout.
Welcome to the hour, the hour of the dead,
When the ghosts all rise, and fill your head.
Feel the cold, hear the screams,
The witching hour’s coming to steal your dreams.
In the basement, the candles flicker,
The air grows thick, the darkness thicker.
The walls breathe, they move with you,
The clock ticks down, it’s coming for you.
The figure in the mirror, a face you know,
But it’s not your own, it’s twisting slow.
The hands reach out, cold as ice,
One last breath, it’s time to sacrifice.
Welcome to the hour, the hour of the dead,
When the ghosts all rise, and fill your head.
Feel the cold, hear the screams,
The witching hour’s coming to steal your dreams.
Footsteps echo in the silence,
A voice calls out, but it’s not defiance.
Only terror, only fear,
The witching hour draws near.
All the faces in the hall,
They watch you, but can’t you call?
No escape, no way to run,
The hour has come, the end’s begun.
The moon’s full, the sky’s alive,
The dead don’t rest, they come to survive.
The door slams shut, the locks won’t hold,
The hour is here, it’s growing bold.
In the graveyard, you hear the cries,
Of the souls that never saw their goodbyes.
It’s too late now, you’ve sealed your fate,
The witching hour, it won’t wait.
Welcome to the hour, the hour of the dead,
When the ghosts all rise, and fill your head.
Feel the cold, hear the screams,
The witching hour’s coming to steal your dreams.
In the witching hour, the dead awake,
In their grasp, you’re theirs to take.
Don’t look behind, don’t dare to scream,
The witching hour is the end of your dreams.
Twelve Minutes After▾
We’re all gonna make it They keep saying that Twelve minutes after eleven The room says “not yet” Rent wants an answer The clock draws a line Are we all gonna make it Or is that just a lie? We’re not gonna make it out alive.
Tonight the mirror is just glass and a list of losses I haven’t sorted out, A cold witness that never lies, floorboards breathing like a tired animal moving about, I carry groceries and news I cannot sweeten, I carry shaking hands and a calendar with circles that look like a noose, I carry old promises that fit like shoes with nails through the soles, walking without an excuse, People ask for light and I bring presence, people ask for certainty and I bring water, a blanket, a ride at dawn, I bring the small loyal things because the big words feel fake when the time is drawn, The dark learns my habits, not cruel, just hungry, while the minute hand walks past the shrine of matched numbers, Into that honest stretch where the slogans don’t work and the lucky one slumbers.
We’re all gonna make it That’s the chant they spin Twelve minutes after eleven The luck runs thin The hallway breathes colder The drip does not care Are we all gonna make it I wouldn’t swear We’re not gonna make it here.
I have told a voice on the phone that I am here while meaning I am scared, I have stood in a parking lot with a paper wristband that cut like thread, breathing air I haven’t shared, I have done math in my head that feels like cutting wire with teeth, smiled for someone who needed that shape more than I did, I learned that courage is not the shout in the song but the click of the seatbelt when the fear is hid, Driving the same road again and again, showing up even when my hands are a field of static, I do not promise forever, I promise coffee that stays warm, a chair that holds, nothing cinematic, Just the patience to sit through the noise of machines without faking a hope.
The dread waits at the foot of the bed and calls itself certainty, I turn its pockets inside out and find receipts and lint, no guarantee, At twelve minutes after eleven the favors come due and the stories lose their paint, The mouth in the plaster asks for sugar and I keep my pockets closed like a saint, If there is a hand that saves it will be callused and warm and plain, It will not arrive with a magic word, it will arrive with a knock you recognize in the rain.
We’re all gonna make it Maybe not all Twelve minutes after eleven I watch the wall Today wants its pound of flesh The numbers go flat Are we all gonna make it I live without that We’re not gonna make it.
If you need me I will be here with keys loud and eyes open, counting out dreams like spare change, If you ask for a map I will offer the road and my shoulder and the name of the hill, however strange, Twelve minutes after eleven the wish runs out, and the night begins, Walk anyway, keep moving, even if we’re paying for our sins. Are we all gonna make it? We’re not gonna make it, are we? When the lights go out I can still feel the teeth, I keep breathing anyway while the night files me down to a key, A smaller key that still fits the door underneath.
Waiting Out the Storm (Motley Crue Style)▾
She said wait and I’ve been waiting like a promise
She said wait and I’ve been holding every warmest
Thought I’ve got about the thing that’s coming next
About the night ahead written in the text
Of everything she does and everything she’s said
The waiting is alive inside my head
Waiting out the storm, waiting out the heat
Waiting out the wanting, keeping every beat
Waiting out the storm, holding every wire
Waiting, baby, feeding the fire
The nights are long when you’re waiting on a woman
Who knows exactly what she’s doing to a man
She stretches out the tension like a guitar string
She plays it knowing exactly what it brings
A man half out of his mind with wanting her
Shaking in the night like a satellite blur
Waiting out the storm, waiting out the heat
Waiting out the wanting, keeping every beat
Waiting out the storm, holding every wire
Waiting, baby, feeding the fire
But I’ll wait, I’ll wait, because she’s worth the price
I’ll wait all night and I’ll wait twice
Because what comes at the end of all this waiting
Is a thing worth every hour of anticipating
I know it in my blood, I know it to the bone
Waiting on her beats anything I’ve known
Waiting out the storm, waiting out the heat
Waiting out the wanting, keeping every beat
Waiting out the storm, holding every wire
Waiting, baby, feeding the fire
Walking to the Finish Line▾
Walking to the Finish Line
Verse 1Sun… on… my… face… just… drifting… slow…Hands… in… my… pockets… with… nowhere… to… go…Clouds… rolling… lazy… across… a… wide… blue… sky…Not… chasing… nothing… I’m… just… letting… it… slide…
Verse 2Shoes… kicked… up… feet… on… the… dash…No… need… for… hurry… I’m… not… burning… cash…Laugh… at… the… worries… blowing… right… on… by…Friends… call… me… crazy… but… you… know… I… don’t… mind…
ChorusWalking… to… the… finish… line…No… rush… just… taking… my… sweet… old… time…Whistling… at… the… world… passing… by…Yeah… I’m… walking… to… the… finish… line…
Verse 3Grass… in… my… teeth… and… the… taste… is… green…Life… like… a… picture… on… a… movie… screen…Waves… from… the… strangers… smile… as… they… ride…I… might… get… there… late… but… I’ll… still… arrive…
BridgeLet… the… road… wind… let… the… clock… tick… slow…Let… the… traffic… jam… while… I… take… it… real… low…Every… mile… a… story… every… step… a… rhyme…I’m… good… with… the… journey… don’t… care… for… the… time…
ChorusWalking… to… the… finish… line…No… rush… just… taking… my… sweet… old… time…Whistling… at… the… world… passing… by…Yeah… I’m… walking… to… the… finish… line…
OutroShoelaces… dragging… sun… sinking… down…Taking… it… easy… all… over… this… town…No… medal… no… ribbon… just… breathing… fine…I’m… walking… to… the… finish… line…Yeah… just… walking… to… the… finish… line…
Wet Between Worlds▾
I woke soaked in sweat and cum, hips still twitching from the ghost of her grip
She only visits in the blackout hours—skin made of heat, voice like sin
She rides like a secret you never confess, mouth dripping promises and smoke
Her eyes change colors depending on how bad I want her
She never speaks, just moans words I don’t know in languages I feel in my cock
She’s not a dream—she’s a hunger that fucks me in code
I’m wet between worlds, half-asleep, fully wrecked
Her shadow mounts me like a fever, slides across me like silk with teeth
Every orgasm is an exorcism, and I pray for it nightly
Sheets ripped, thighs sore, thighs bitten, my name smeared in her thighs
I’ve woken with claw marks and my lip split, tongue tasting ash and nectar
No real woman can compete—she fucks me like the night owns her soul
I tried to stay awake once—she still came, just harder, pissed I resisted
Choked me with hair that smelled like rain and funeral roses
And when I came, she said nothing—just vanished, leaving steam in her shape
Some men dream of peace, but I beg the dark to bring her back
If I die mid-thrust, let the coroner know I went happy, hard, and possessed
Since no heaven could mch her hell, and I wouldn’t trade it for waking
017 is next—ballad time. You know the drill. Say continue and I’ll bleed it slow, beautiful, and brutal.
You Are Allowed To Want Stupid Happy Things▾
You Are Allowed To Want Stupid Happy Things
You say it half joking, half bitter
“I am built for the fight
” That you only trust songs that sound like an argument with God and movies that end in night
You talk like wanting simple joy is some kind of betrayal of the shit you have seen
Like craving a cheesy picnic disrespects every scared kid that crawled through mean.
But then you light up when someone’s dog waddles past in a tiny raincoat
when kids laugh too hard at a stupid balloon
You keep rewatching that one movie where nothing terrible happens
just friends making pancakes under the moon
You hide your crush on dumb pop songs under playlists labeled ironic
deny how hard your heart leans toward soft
Pretend you are above all that happy crap while secretly saving videos of old couples dancing slow in lofts.
You survived by expecting the worst
by assuming every good thing had a trapdoor and a bill
So now when something gentle appears
your first instinct is to side-eye it, push it away
call it still
But the part of you that still wants birthday candles and forehead kisses keeps fighting against the will.
You are allowed to want stupid happy things
like matching mugs in a kitchen that feels safe
Like inside jokes that last for years
like someone texting home safe every single day
Like sunsets that make you pull over just to stare
like soft sheets
like dumb little hearts drawn on your takeout case
You are allowed to want stupid happy things and still be the beast who lived through hell with that same face.
You imagine telling someone “I want flowers sometimes
not as an apology for pain
just because they are pretty and smell like stay
” Then you cringe at yourself, call it corny
call it needy
sip your drink and throw the fantasy away
You picture a Sunday morning with no emergencies
just coffee, cartoons
warm bodies and nobody raising their voice
It feels so far from your normal that you treat it like sci-fi
not like an actual possible choice.
Listen, wanting gentleness does not erase your edge
does not turn you into a soft-focus greeting card on a shelf
It means the part of you that still believes in comfort survived the onslaught
refused to evacuate your self, That is not weakness
that is rebellion in its quiet way.
You are allowed to want stupid happy things
like someone who remembers your favorite candy without a note
Like dance parties in the kitchen at midnight
socks sliding on cheap linoleum while soup burns on the stove
Like road trips with too much junk food and playlists that swing from metal to old love songs in one throat
You are allowed to want stupid happy things without cross-examining every hope you float.
One day you might actually get some of it
not all at once
not in a perfect montage with all the strings
Just in bits, a friend who always turns up
a lover who listens, a day off with small bright rings
You will sit there in the middle of it
waiting for the punchline
for the floor to give way under the swing
Then realize sometimes a good moment is just a good moment
not a setup, not a sting.
You are allowed to want stupid happy things
and you do not have to earn them by bleeding first in some costly test
You can be haunted and hopeful
fucked up and still craving the kind of soft that lets your shoulders rest
You are not betraying your scars when you reach for joy
you are honoring the part of you that never fully left the nest
You are allowed to want stupid happy things
and one of these days you are going to let some of them sit in your chest.
Next time you catch yourself trash talking your own hope for something small and bright
Whisper this to whatever cynical ghost lives in your ribs
“I lived through enough horror
I am allowed my silly dreams
they can fucking stay in my head.”