Crooked Man

STOP, just STOP

STOP, just Stop.

I’m done swallowing storms

to keep the peace.

 I’m done carrying weight

that was never mine

to lift.

 This is the moment

the world hears my boundary

loud and clear.

 STOP—

before you burn yourself

STOP, just STOP

The noise,

the demands,

the endless reaching

for pieces of me

I no longer offer.

 I need a pause

long enough to hear

my own heartbeat again.

Silence !

Angry Reflective

Angry, reflective—

two flames in the same glass,

one burning hot,

one burning slow.

 I stare at myself

and see the truth

I tried to outrun:

the anger isn’t wild,

it’s wounded.

 And the reflection

isn’t shame,

it’s clarity—

the moment I finally admit

what hurt me

and what I won’t carry anymore.

I sit with the heat

instead of throwing it.

 I let it talk.

I let it show me

every boundary I ignored,

every silence I swallowed,

every time I said “it’s fine”

when it wasn’t.

The anger isn’t the enemy.

It’s the teacher

I breathe through the blaze,

letting the smoke clear

before I speak.

In the quiet,

I see the sha...

DAMN

DAMN—

that’s the only word

big enough

to hold the weight

of what just broke open.

 The truth landed hard,

no warning,

no mercy,

no time to brace.

But here I stand,

breath sharp,

heart steady,

ready to rise

from the impact.

 DAMN—

sometimes that’s all

a soul can manage

when the world shifts

in one heartbeat.

It’s the exhale

after the shock,

the whisper

after the storm,

the word that carries

everything you can’t say yet.

 DAMN—

the word ...

Shadows Hide Under the Sun

Shadows hide under the sun, quiet as secrets that refuse to die.

Even in the brightest heat, they cling to the edges, curling around truth like a warning.

Light doesn’t erase darkness— it only shows where it’s been waiting.

slipping beneath the glow as if warmth alone could make them harmless.

But even noon has corners, and even joy has places it won’t touch.

Still, I walk forward, letting the light fall where it may, unafraid of what follows behind me.

The Words That Could Undo Us

The words you carry are heavier than the night.

I see the storm gathering behind your teeth,

the lightning of a truth you’re afraid to release.

Hold it a moment longer— let the world stay still before your voice reshapes it.

For even silence has its own pulse.

The air between us is thick with meaning, a thread pulled tight but not yet broken.

Some truths are more powerful when they hover unspoken— warm as breath, sharp as longing.

Part not thou lips,

Part not thou lips, for I can hear the truth before it’s spoken.

The breath you hold trembles against the silence, a confession waiting to break its own chains.

Let the moment stay whole— unbroken, unruined, a fragile truth balanced on the edge of your mouth.

Full Circle

It came back

like a storm we swore we’d outgrown,

a shadow stretching

from wounds we never let heal.

The circle tightens—

old words in new mouths,

old fears in new clothes,

old lines redrawn

as if time never learned its lesson.

But every return

reveals the truth  missed before:

a circle can be broken

the moment someone refuses

to walk it again.

 The wheel turns,

slow and grinding,

pulling yesterday’s ghosts

into today’s light.

The pattern repeats—

the same cracks in the foundation,

the same weight on the same shoulders,

the same silence

where justice should speak.

 It comes back around—

the prejudice,

the power games,

the quiet cruelty dressed as order.

History did...

“I’m Forced to Be What They See”

They hand me a mask

and call it my face,

pressing it tight

like I was born wearing it.

They script my lines

before I open my mouth,

then act surprised

when I tear the page in half.

I am not their shorthand,

their shortcut,

their story told in one word.

I am the whole sky —

and they keep trying

to fold me into a box.

They carve a silhouette

and swear it’s my reflection,

never noticing

how the edges don’t fit.

I walk with the  weight

of names I never chose,

shadows I never cast,

stories I never lived.

 Still, I rise in my own outline,

soft where they expect steel,

wild where they expect calm,

true where they expect myth.

I am not the mold

they keep pressing me into.

I am the hand...

What’s the “Tea”?

The truth you sip slow,

the rumor you stir twice,

the heat that fogs the glass

before the words even land.

Some stories don’t spill—

they steam.

 The kind that burns tongues

and exposes intentions.

The kind whispered in corners

but felt in the room.

Say it plain—

truth tastes better

when it’s not watered down.

 What’s the “Tea”?

A quiet pour of honesty,

warm and unhurried.

A confession wrapped in steam,

floating between us

like a secret deciding

whether to be spoken.

Voodoo Palms

Under the voodoo palms,

the air hums with secrets—

old magic curling like smoke

around the roots.

Every breeze is a whisper,

every shadow a warning,

every heartbeat a drum

calling something ancient

back to life.

Voodoo palms don’t just sway—

they watch.

They hold the heat,

the hush,

the half?truths you tried to bury.

Step beneath them

and the night leans in,

asking what you came to conjure

and what you’re ready to lose.