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.
|
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