Burning down the Wickerman
Burning down the Wickerman
holds like setting fire
to myself, I built to survive.
Every dry limb,
a lie carried,
every hollow rib, the fear I fed,
the woven smile,
a mask worn .
Flames whisper
as they rise,
a language I remember,
a truth I feared.
The last ember falls,
the night is quiet.
And in silence,
I realize the thing I burned
was already dead.
|
These are my damn words
These are my damn words
not softened,
not sanded down,
not dressed up
to make anyone comfortable.
They rise raw,
refuses to whisper,
refuses to apologize
for being loud.
If they burn,
let them burn.
These are my damn words
the ones held back
for years,
the ones that trembled
in my throat,
waiting for permission
They come slow,
they come honest,
Saying them
isn’t rebellion.
These are my damn words.
|
The Eruption
There’s a riot breaking... fists, fire,
A storm of everything
Walls shake,
Truth cracks,
the quiet splinters like glass.
The uprising
of souls
tired of being contained.
The chaos is destruction.
It’s release.
Inside a city built from memory,
shadow,
and grit.
The streets crack open
from rage,
from the weight
of unspoken stories
pushing to the surface.
The breaking
is chaotic transformation
rebuilding from the inside.
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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 shape of my own truth,
sharp but sacred,
painful but necessary.
Some storms
d... |
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... |
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