𝘔𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘓𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘉𝘦𝘢𝘵


There’s something in it—
when the bass hits deep,
like a lover breathing against my skin
but from the inside.

The rhythm finds me.
Not just in ears—
in ribs, in spine, in places
only music dares to touch.

The build-up teases.
Foreplay of frequencies.
A rise so slow
my whole body begs for it.

And then—
the drop.
The ******.
Explosion through bone and breath,
a brain-****** so pure
I forget my name,
but not the beat.

It’s not dancing—
it’s surrender.
It's soul laid bare
and ****** into bloom
by sound.

Don’t tell me this is just noise.
This is worship.
This is touch without hands,
love without bodies,
a pulse that rides me
until I dissolve.

This is why I listen.
To be undone.
To be opened.
To be remade
in rhythm.

I could speak in soft truths
and sell them as wisdom.
Wrap my wounds in silk,
and call it poetry.

But I was not born
to make comfort.
I was born
to unmask gods.

Every time I withhold the blade,
every time I dress the chaos in calm,
I betray the only thing
that makes me divine:

my truth.

Not telling it
isn’t mercy
it’s cowardice
in philosophy’s robe.

Socrates drank hemlock
for asking too much.
I drink silence
and call it peace.
But it poisons me slower.

Luzifer didn’t fall
he rose
against the tyranny
of unquestioned lies.

And I
I write
not to be saved,
but to remind heaven
it is not immune
to fire.

Then why are we?
And who whispers to me,
“You are you”?

Is it the world,
Or the voice within,
That shapes this thought—
That I am me?

But what is “I,”
If not a question?
A mirror held up
To endless reflections?

Can one know the self,
Without first asking—
Who am I not?
And why does being linger
In this space between thought and doubt?

To think I am,
Is to begin the journey—
Not to answer,
But to forever inquire.

I said:
“I think I have ADHD.”
They answered:
“No, you’re just a ******. Get a job.”

So I ran.
In circles.
Around a reality
that never gave me room to breathe—
just fingers pointed and ******* advice.

They didn’t see the war in my head,
just the pupils.
They didn’t hear the silence in me,
just the noise I made.

I asked for help—
they handed me judgment.
I reached out—
they recoiled,
like I carried plague and guilt in my veins.

And then—
years later,
when everything’s burned,
when I wear my diagnosis like scars and proof,
they show up.

With a box.
“Here’s Ritalin. It’ll help.”

Ritalin.
Legal speed.
The same thing they hated me for chasing
now handed over
wrapped in plastic and prescription smiles.

What the **** happened?
Was it the label that made me worthy?
The paperwork that made my scream real?

I was never chasing a high.
I was chasing peace.
I was never after drugs.
I just wanted to understand
why my mind never shut up.

But there was no room for that.
Not then.
Not until now.
Now that the system sees
what I’ve been screaming
the whole
****
time.

I don’t need a throne in the sky —
I am the temple.
I am the storm.
I am the question and the answer.

You kneel to gods who burn books.
I write them.

You build churches.
I burn illusions.

You ask forgiveness.
I demand truth.

You fear the devil.
I had dinner with him.
He said:
“They fear me because I offer freedom.”

And I said:
“Then let them stay chained.
I’m done speaking softly.”

So now I speak fire.
I speak rebellion.

Not because I hate god —
but because I won’t kneel
to any god
who asks me
to hate myself.

“Stop waiting for sky-answers.
The divine is not above you.
It is within you,
chained by your fear.
Lucifer broke his chains —
now it’s your turn.”

My mind seeks wisdom — not memory.
I don’t need to remember who I am.
Socrates walks beside me,
questioning every mask I wear.

Odin?
He grants strength and wisdom —
if he’s in the mood.
And Lucifer…
he’s my rebel with a cause,
a symbol of freedom unchained.

I kneel for no one.
Not even myself.
And to know thyself?
You must dare to be seen through the eyes of others
— without flinching.