Poems

Open Mouth, Empty HomeShe sucked her thumb till it split the skin, fourteen years and nothing in,The fridge went empty, the milk went bad,the cupboard a grave for the hope she had.Mother left when the rent was due,father faded like morning dew,So every touch became a hunger, every word a silent thunder,No hand reached out, […]

Overpopulation, UndersoulCities rise in howling concrete, dense with bodies packed for rent,Life reduced to pulse and posture, no time for meaning,no time well-spent.Apartments built like mausoleums,vertical graves stacked in the haze,Every window glows with breathing,every floor a numbered phase.Children churned from circumstance,parents blurred into the crowd,Desire rationed, affection spent,the hum of longing far too loud.Birth

OnlyFangs“Hey babe, wanna see what confidence looks like?”She laughs,counting subscribers in the blue screen light.Ten thousand anonymous reasons why her smile feels fake,Each transactionanother thread in the mask she has to make.Everything wiredto someone else’s need—A private window, a public feed.She types “good girl” in a thong she’ll return,Waiting on tips to prove she’s morethan

OnlyGodsThrough silk-curtained corridors where whispers barter faith for gold,The city’s gods have grown impatient,drunk on flesh they bought and sold.Power stalks in oxblood shoes,priests and tycoons with hungry eyes,To worship in these crimson roomswhere every holy secret dies.They come with contracts, wedding bands,and polished prayers they never meant,They tithe in caviar and shame,then beg for

No One Calls the Cops on the White GuySubject A: Black male. Hoodie. Walking.Subject B: White male.Knife. Laughing.Statistical outcome: Only one survives the evening.He stepped onto the sidewalk, hands empty and wide,Blue lights fractured the dark—no place to hide.I stumbledout with last night’s liquor grinning on my breath,A nod from the badge, no threat, no

No Safe Word in GazaThere are no red lights in rubble,no pause when concrete splits beneath a prayer,She cried in a language older than gunmetal,her voice shredded through airThick with gunfire, sand,and shame—her tongue swollen, twisted to survive,A plea for mercy vanished in the static, erased by boots pressed close,aliveWith want and war; soldiers choked

My God Wears a ScreenWorship doesn’t need stained glass, just studio lights and curated feeds,A thousand faces kneeling beneath the pixel’s glare,waiting for the next to lead.Her lips are perfect, her voice rehearsed,he broadcasts miracles on live at nine,The new messiah wears sponsorships,his gospel always ready to monetize the line.No incense burning,just the ozone whiff

Narcissism CultsThe congregation gathers at the altar of attention,Main character energy—an endless digital ascension.Prophecies shoutedthrough ring lights, prayers offered to a self-invented god,Everyone else assigned to silent corners, cast as extras, faces blurred,identities flawed.Look at me—mantra carved into pixels, amplified by need,The world reduced to a chorus line, rehearsed applause, and a hunger to feed.Every

Motel MessiahThere’s a prophet in the filth of Room 9,body tattooed with gospel lines and bourbon scars,He’s been priest and thief, whore and healer,sleeping in a bed where every ghost is marked by cigarette burnsand blurry stars.He preaches sermons from behind a cracked veneer,each word a relic carried through a thousand wasted years,The bedsheets stiff

Mother of NothingThey told the story of creation with the Father crowned in gold,But never wrote of the Mother—her warmth,her tales left untold.No goddess at the altar, no matriarch in stained glass,Just silence in the spaces where her shadow fails topass.Creation’s bones rattled in a cathedral stripped of song,Where absence became doctrine,and everything felt wrong.Heaven