Poems

Static & Mirrors Once, the truth arrived in paper, carried crisp from porch to hand,Now it’s a thousand voices screaming, every grain of doubt unmanned.Screens glow hot in empty bedrooms, headlines sharpen, twist, repeat,Facts diluted, fiction weaponized and shot out in a tweet.Old certainties dissolve in pixels, common sense becomes a game,Everyone’s a prophet, peddling […]

Soundproofing Budget Eight hundred dollars in acoustic foam and she defeated it,In a single evening, I repeated it,To the contractor who said that is impossible, she is one woman,I said she is not an ordinary human. She is a force of nature with a throat made of industrial speakers,The foam absorbed maybe ten percent, the

Spider Veins & Sugar Rage She lived in a motel where the mirrors had given up on accuracy some years priorAnd the walls had absorbed enough of her specific frequency to develop aspiration higherShe’d organized her pharmaceuticals by emotional needand labeled them accordinglyAnd the ones on the left shelf were for the reality she found

Smoke SignalShe sent me a message at six that just said thinking about you today,and I put the phone face-down on the counter and walked slowly away,because some messages require a moment of just standing with the weight,before you type back something that sounds casual and calibrated and straight. I’ve been carrying her in the

Soul’s Canvas Unveil the hidden partsYour soul’s abstract mapsExplore the mazeOf your heart’s raw rapsBrush strokes on life’s canvasColors bold and loudIn the silence of creationArt speaks without a sound Let it flow let it showYour inner worlds collideNo need to hidePaint it real paint it wideDepths of passion and painYour journey insaneEach mark leaves

Slow SmokeLit the match.Watched her breathe.Smoke curled uplike a sleevesliding offsunburned skin—that is howthe want gets in. Slow smoke, slow hands,slow wreck of the best-laid plans.She moves through me inch by inch.Every exhalemakes me flinch. Dim room. Low light.Her mouth, a biteshe has not taken yet—patience dressed as a threat. Half smile. Wet lip.Fingertip on

Skin Memory The scar along my forearm is a country I have left,but the skin remembers what the mind has filed as theft,the white ridge catches winter light and every time I see itthe body floods with something older than the word to free it.I did not plan to carry it. The wound was twenty

Sleep is a TrapdoorEvery night I lie down pretendingthe dark is harmless,that the pillow won’t tilt me into that ruined corridor again,the one smeared with echoes that refuse to die. I close my eyes.The floor gives way—that same sickening drop through a hatch I never see,my body yanked downwardlike some marionette jerked by a bitter

(Outro, Deep Male Vocals)Ten sixths, ten shillings sixpence —a price that looks like countingbut counts for nothing whole. The smile that curves wrong.Deception etched in teeth.A dim-sense of something vast and wrong. You’ll never truly know,and that’s the only truth that holds. The counting keeps its rhythm, cold, precise,while something old thing grins behind the

Sitting Shiva The mirrors were covered and the chairs were lowand people came with food and sat for hoursin the house that felt different, in the slowaccumulation of the mourning’s powers.For seven days the family stayed insideand let the community come to them,and everyone who entered brought a wideoffering of memory and requiem. Sitting shiva,