No Entry 

In the gray hush before dawn, 

I wake already drowning. 

already exhausted,

as if I spent the night

dragging a mountain

through my dreams.

The air is thick like soup,

sometimes I have to remember 

to breathe.

My limbs are borrowed 

from a stranger—

heavy, disobedient, 

aching with the effort

of simply existing. 

I stare at the c...

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Fire in My Blood

In the quiet architecture 

of our nights,

your intelligence unfolds 

like a rare manuscript—

pages I trace with reverent fingers.

Each thought a spark 

that ignites 

the air between us.

I love how you stand alone, 

rooted and wild,

independent as the sea 

that refuses the shore.

Yet you choose 

to pull me close,

your stre...

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Seasick Yet Still Docked

He sleeps beneath a fractured sky,

wrapped in a coat that remembers

better winters than this.

Cardboard beneath him,

concrete against his bones,

the city humming past

like it no longer knows his name.

Once,

he wore a uniform

pressed sharp as duty.

Boots polished.

Back straight.

Heart still naive enough

to believe survival...

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Raw Thoughts

The world wakes each morning

to the sound of another headline breaking—

not news anymore,

just ritual.

Smoke curling above cities

children can no longer name,

maps redrawn by missiles,

truth buried beneath the rubble.

Somewhere, hands are shaking in boardrooms,

signing contracts in ink

that looks too much like blood.

And somewhere els...

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Sing Me To Sleep 

When the quiet finally comes for me

I hope it doesn’t have to shout.

I hope it finds me sitting still,

breathing slow,

no fists clenched around old hours.

I hope I’ve learned by then

that most wars 

were never wars at all

just frightened people

protecting their wounds

with sharp words and stubborn silence.

I want to meet my ending

withou...

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The Thirsty Earth 

We live below the earth now.

Not buried, not yet,

but pressed into his ribs

like damp breath in a coffin.

Mud is our inheritance.

It grips the ankles,

sucks at the knees,

chews the leather 

from our boots

and the warmth 

from our bones.

We smell of iron 

and rot 

and men

who have forgotten 

what clean meant.

Rats ...

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Don’t Interrupt the Sorrow 

No one talks about the sound 
a room makes after someone leaves it forever.

Not silence 
something heavier.

Like air that forgot how to move.

Years pass.

Furniture changes.

Walls are painted over.

But absence is a loyal tenant.

It remembers where everything was.

A name is spoken less often,

then carefully,

then only in certain room...

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