You don’t have to rise like the sun each day—
some mornings, it's enough just to open your eyes,
to sit with the silence,
to feel your heartbeat and whisper, “I’m still here.”

You are not the storm that passed,
nor the ruins it left behind.
You are the seed under the soil,
waiting for the right rain,
the quiet miracle of a soul not giving up.

Let no one shame the pace of your healing.
Let no voice drown out the hush of your trying.
Because surviving is not small.
And breathing, on hard days,
is a kind of bravery the world forgets to praise.

So rest, dreamer.
You don’t need to shine tonight.
You just need to stay—
soft, alive,
and wildly worthy of tomorrow.

people have their god
               and
people have their no god
               but
neither has solid proof
                nor
the definitive answer
               only
what they truly believe in
                and
they’re so sure of themselves
               that
they’ll defend and protect their beliefs
                  if
any differences are shouted at them
                 and
they’ll hold and cradle their beliefs
               tightly
like a security blanket
                 and
they’ll preach their beliefs
                  to
any pair of ears they come across
                  it’s
the never-ending game
           straddling
the on-going centuries
                  if
you have god, go with god
                and
                  if
you have nothing, go with nothing
                 just
leave me the hell out of it:
your beliefs
      my beliefs
          his beliefs
             her beliefs
               their beliefs
                 were never a certainty.

i follow pain everywhere she wants to take me
she reveals a cosmos in a tear,
the layers of time kept together by the vitality of light.
silences rest in between our dreams
the clouds are enough for the wind
branches enough for the birds
love is holding its antonyms with gentleness
i follow pain into the camera obscura of hope
wars are trapped in the flash of words without flesh.
the lament in the loops of time, so much

Of late:
this "silence" conceptual haunts,
an irregular daily daunt,
coming evenly but oddly timed throughout the 24 hrs.,
writing Psalms and Sonnets demands sacrifice, sweat,
tears, no blood as of yet,
   but who's to say, that it will
not be eventually requisitioned

in my life,
there are long intervals of intramural silences,
when afforded,
the art of contemplation assumes templar control, and my senses
to overdrive go

somber somnolent,
ironic that,
in the periods of deep surficial calm, creation is raging
in the fibered tissue of my neuronic cells, and though,
outwardly still, my heart chest pounding me to emit the
inner contents and context
of the 4 W's  of every moment of my existence

(who, what, when and why)

the quietude of silence
is never whole, notions fly in, runabout, then depart, without a word of farewell, leaving not a trace behind, and the potential poems shrivel into stillborn drivel, leaving only an undisputed but an undistinguished stain, a fact that they was, were, conceived, but the mind's  body was not fertilized sufficiently to see them nurtured to expulsive birth fruition, a less than subtle reminder that even and every state of being is regenerative even unto the very last breath,
when it is no longer...

There were nights I folded into myself
A silence not of peace, but pause,
Where memory clung like sweat to old Regrets,
And the dark was just thick enough to Speak.
A younger version of me still walks there,
Half-shouting at ghosts,
Half-sure he knows better.

The road I paved was not always stone…
Sometimes glass,
Sometimes the brittle hush of unspoken Apologies.
My hands, calloused from more than labor,
Have carried the sharp edges of Consequence,
Have held a child’s future like a fragile flame
And nearly dropped it once or twice.

Fatherhood did not come with a compass.
It came like weather,
Sudden and vast;
With no promise of shelter, only sky.
And still, I stepped out.
Still, I walked.

There were questions I answered with my Absence,
Lessons I taught by stumbling.
And yet each tear I have dried
Has felt like redemption.
Each scraped knee, a liturgy
In the cathedral of trying again.

You learn that love,
Real love,
Isn’t found in the perfection of the path
But in turning back for the small hand that Trusts you still.

Now, she laughs.
And in her laughter is a map
Of every right thing I did
Despite myself.

And I know,
No matter how far I wandered from grace,
It was worth it.
Not for a second chance,
But for the first time I truly listened
To what love sounds like
When it calls you “Dad.”

Bad day
Bad week
Bad month
Bad year
Bad…life?

Suffocating silence

Lonely
I am alone

They are there-
But they don’t even know

The weight of the world on my shoulders

Is it just me?

It can’t just be me…

I miss watching your words,
always carefully chosen,
light up my screen.

I miss your laugh,
the way it was slightly different,
when you were talking to me.

I miss your face,
always carefully controlled,
even when I knew you were itching to smile.

I miss you.

I long for sleep but it’s not a fan of me,
I never drift too deep, and it doesn’t come easily.
And though my bed is far from cold,
my restless head is searching for gold;
wish I could accept silver gracefully.

Oh tired eyes; you’ve gotten so heavy
and the sired lies is the shoe maker levy.
I hope for a solar storm to embrace me
to keep me warm and displace me.

The midnight sky threw on it’s best set of stars,
and yet here am I looking for Jupiter and Mars.
I start watching two satellites dance,
like in the past with you and I in some type of trance,
always in each others orbit but too fast, too far.

Oh tired eyes; you’ve gotten so heavy
and the sired lies is the shoe maker levy.
I hope for a solar storm to embrace me
to keep me warm and displace me.
Oh tired eyes; you’ve gotten so heavy
it’s no surprise when comes the shoemaker levy.
I hope for a solar storm to embrace me
none left to mourn, or to replace me.

The moon gave me such a passionate kiss
that turned from open handed to a closed fist.
Still I gave it my gratitude that the very least it wasn’t rude,
it always kept on shining even in the mist.

The midnight sky threw on it’s best set of stars,
left me reading between the lines and trapped between the bars.
Take oath with a cosmic creed, a praise I’d give anything to sing,
I’ll follow if you would lead me to Saturn’s ring.

Oh tired eyes; you’ve gotten so heavy
and the sired lies is the shoe maker levy.
I hope for a solar storm to embrace me
to keep me warm and displace me.
Waiting for gravity to come  hold me down
don’t be mad at me if I can’t stay around.
The perfect home the shoe maker levy found,
thank god it wasn’t on our ground or within our town.
Sometimes I travel just like sound,
but to the sky I’m bound.

I hope for a solar storm to embrace me
none left to mourn, or to replace me.

Llueven calladas aguas en vellones
blancos las nubes mudas; pasa el día,
mas no sin majestad, en sombra fría,
y mira el sol, que esconde, en los balcones.
No admiten el invierno corazones
asistidos de ardiente valentía:
que influye la española monarquía
fuerza igualmente en toros y rejones.
El blasón de Jarama, humedecida,
y ardiendo, la ancha frente en torva saña,
en sangre vierte la purpúrea vida.
Y lisonjera al grande rey de España,
la tempestad, en nieve obscurecida,
aplaudió al brazo, al fresno y a la caña.

At night when I close my eyes                                                             ­               there are no songs, no lullaby's                                                        ­                    I transport myself and my mind                                                                         to a peaceful place and time                                                             ­                   to sooth myself to fall asleep                                                           ­                in hopes of having beautiful dreams                                                                  I imagine that I can fly                                                              ­                    envision it in my third eye                                                              ­                      I see the tree tops from the sky                                                              ­           The highest heights I can fly                                                              ­          when I spread my bird-like wings                                                            ­           I can see the world, everything                                                       ­                    flowers, leaves and greenery                                                         ­              I feel alive I feel at peace                                                            ­            as sleep washes over me

"A perfect picture lies in a broken frame"
if this is so then,
why does everyone run after it ?

Our soul is like a building
to make the outside so flawlessly beautiful,
or in one word, perfect
the very foundation breaks

What is the point of making
what the world sees perfect
just to completely break
what belongs to you ?

I've heard that drugs send you to early tombs
So I sit and get high on sharpie fumes
I burnt myself on purpose but hey
No ones going to see it anyway
The light has three modes and the sounds only one
I lay in my bed instead of having fun
Is this what you wanted?
(Now you got it)
For me to hide and forget
Be forgotten, body rotten, reliving regret.

I know how life is
People always let you down
Yet , the world still turns

I hate you but
I love you
So
Now what?
Stasis.
Confusion.

Oh I don’t know.

You are terrible
But I love you so terribly
Oh heartbreak
this is so so heartbreakingly
Confusing.

My hue molds to yours
Blend blend blend
To the backdrop I will match
Colors I merely lend

I wished I met a boy in the city
Where I could share my problems
And still be called legit.

i finally saw two magpies
for the first time
                   since february
(they were resting on
                         a signpost
then, it was valentine's day)

i wrote 'happy valentine's j x'
     & imagined you florid
(it was calflove&sweet
       & it only grew stronger)

letters, dried flowers, poems
          i wrote for You
(We were kizmit,to be,
           i always wanted You)

i gave you everything i had
   ,all but kissing sense,
(i wish i did, your lips
    were all love ever meant)

i finally saw two magpies
  You have a love, i don't
but i have finally seen joy
        & You will see me float

my goals :)
-take breaks when needed
-spill EVERYTHING out on paper
And read it before hitting “send”
-post AT LEAST 1 a day (if I’m not taking a break)
- take care of myself
- write something happy at least 2 times a month

I like to be soft,

but hard enough to resist --


the worldly hardness.

love me in the crowded room
where no one is watching
watch me dance among the stars
and bellow at the wind

let me sing my worries
and whisper my joys

love me like you love the falling leaves
with your hands tucked in your pockets
before jumping in with everything

love me like you aren’t afraid
in a crowded room
for someone to see you

got a couple of tickets for
the theatre if you’d
like to go? yes I would, actually.
goodbye

you wake each day with eyes like rain,
that torch the dry cinders in mine
like a chilled flame or
tender moonlit streams
in the quiet middle of the night

burn me through
flesh, then bone
as i stare at your promise, veiled in blue
pull the curtain shut
blink just once.
i will become ash at the mercy of you

We talk about the
past like it's a
movie we
watched together.
You liked the
cinematography.
I didn't care for the
cruelty of the
protagonist.

We disagree on the
theme, and every
scene holds different
aspects of
symbolism for us.
I'm not sure I want
there to be a sequel,
despite the good
acting.

Your smile brightens the room,  
like morning light spilling  
through open windows,  
chasing shadows into corners.  

It weaves warmth  
into the fabric of the day,  
each laugh a gentle ripple,  
softening edges of worry.  

In that glow,  
the world feels smaller,  
and hope sways  
like a flower dancing in the breeze.

Osiem metrów wysokości.
Pośrodku szczelina.
Rzeźba dziecka z betonu
obok kontury ciała i pustka
po bezbronnej istocie,
której już nie ma.

Szorstka struktura szarości
rani delikatną skórę.
Głód. Choroby. Samotność.
Świat zapomina o tych,
co nie krzyczą głośno—
o tym co najbardziej boli:
o miażdżonej niewinności,
i olbrzymach pilnujących
orszak przestraszonych wielkich oczu
w małych, wychudzonych ciałach.

Pamięć nie jest wygodna.
Ona fizycznie boli.
Uparte rany nie goją się.
Było.
Jest.
Wije się w sąsiednich otchłaniach Tartaru.

Aksjomat przyjęty przez aklamację:
„Tak ma być!”

Cisza.

Na scenę wychodzi syn ocalałego.
Łamiącym się głosem szepcze:
Tata przeszedł piekło, ale kochał nas.
Przeżył, napisał pamiętniki.
Dał świadectwo.
Rozumiał ten wykolejony świat.


BROKEN HEARTS

Eight meters high.
A crevice in the center.

A concrete sculpture of a child
and the deep void.
Once there was another child,
now gone without a trace…

The rough grey texture
hurts fragile skin.
Hunger. Disease. Loneliness.

The world forgets
those who do not scream
and what hurts the most:
crushed innocence
guarded by the giants
watching the procession
of terrified wide eyes
in small, gaunt bodies.

Memory is not a peaceful place,
it brings physical pain.
It gnaws from underneath.

Stubborn,
festering wounds,
they refuse to heal.

It was.
It is.
It will happen again
by axiom,
accepted without question.

That is how it must be.

Like a venomous snake
slithering near the lands of Tartarus.
Endless sacrifice, leaden silence.

And then, the son of the survivor takes the stage.
He speaks in a whisper:

My Father went through hell, but he loved us.
He wrote it down—
a testimony of a derailed world.

He knew what it meant to be human
when it hurt.

He survived to love and to be loved.

…  my heart is made of birds
           chirping for me …………   it’s about time,
for the raven to leave,

sunrise is made of cotton leaves …..
                               singing in the dew shower,
                                                        It’s about time
For the raven to leave,

…. a full forest singing just for me,
                                                     IT’ S ABOUT TIME
For the R-A-V-E-N to go