Poems

The walls breathe in, the air grows thin,A carousel of loss and sin.No stars above to light the track,Just hollow whispers pulling back.

The walls close in, there’s nowhere to hideThe voices in my head won’t be deniedI’m tethered to this cursed placeWith every shadow that shows its faceFootsteps echo, I’m pulled withinThe screams are sharp, the madness beginsI try to scream, but no sound comesStruggling against what I’ve become108Crimson moon, burn it downLost inside this wicked townThe

The feast lasts until sweat cools and pulses slow and hands stop shaking,Bodies resting against one another in a tangle that feels earned.

The wallpaper peeled like a memory trying to shed its skinDust held her perfume like a secret that wouldn’t dieAnd the light hit the mirror just wrong—just enough to reflect her goodbyeThere were claw marks in the drywall where the laughter used to liveNotes she’d scribbled in sharpie on the pantry door: “Don’t forget to

The chains grow tighter, the walls cave in,A battle fought through dust and sin.But in the ruin, the embers glow,A strength I find, a truth I know.

These four walls are tighter every dayI can’t breathe, I can’t find a wayEvery inch of space is goneI’m fucking drowning, holding onI feel the pressure crushing my chestThe air is thick, can’t catch my breathThere’s nowhere to run, no room to hideI’m trapped in this fucking prison insideThe walls are closing in, I can’t

The Walls Are Thin, the Headphones ThickThere’s a weight in these nights, you know, pressing hard on the ribcage,A house that never sleeps, only shudders, listening to the sound of its own heart failing—Where every word from the next room is a fistful of gravel in the mouth,Every sigh a curse on the other side

The Smiling Dealer—unshaken, adored—Writes in the margins, then cashes the ward.Forgotten titles echo in corridors slick,Each bottle a headstone, each click a trick.Healing’s a handshake, comfort is cost—Salvion, a script for those already lost.He carves out the living with God in his eyes,Prescription the weapon, each warning a lie.He’s not the doctor remembered in prayer—But

He checked into his own life at the usual hotel,same hallway, same fluorescent buzz, the same recycled smell,but somewhere past the tenth year or the fifteenth he forgotto check back out. The lobby closed. He is still on his cot.The walls have memorized the shape of how he tends to lean,the mattress holds his silhouette

The Hter’s GambleHeart of darkness dreams fade fears arise Hter’s gamble with fate shadows defies souls crySteps through shadows cards of despair fate slides Hter’s courage denies hearts lieContest of shadows where dreams and hearts bide whispers of deceit shadows hideDarkness consumes Hter’s game where souls cannot escape dreams collideHter’s gamble shadows hold cards of