I wrote with open veins, Ink beating like a humble heart— But silence grew where voices once had bloomed, And petals fell from poems torn apart. I thank the gentle hands Who left a flower, or a quiet sign, A lifted thumb, a whispered nod— Even if they only stayed a moment, not the whole of every line. Some offered words— Rare as rain in thirsty months, yet sweet, And I held them li...

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In my wardrobe hang ghosts of who I once believed I’d be— Fabric folded around failed promises, Buttons that remember a body I lost, or never had. They whisper every time the door sighs open: Not enough, not yet, not you. To leave them would feel like surrender— so they stay, a fragile monument to a war still raging quietly under skin. Letters form a paper mountain on the counter, th...

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He razes walls where history slept,
The East Wing’s bones were left to dust and wept.
Kennedy’s roses crushed beneath
Melania’s heels—no grief, no wreath.

A ballroom rises, cold, obscene,
For phantom crowds and pomp unseen.
The laws, the courts, the people's voice,
All swept aside to sate his choice.

“Not taxpayer gold!”—the claim is loud,
Yet pillars rise in gilded shroud.
A triumph...

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In the morning we stumble and wake with dismay, As the clocks shift their hands in a cruel, cruel way. It was Willet, the Briton, who long ago made the plea, To exploit all the daylight and save energy. Through winter we shiver, while summer is bright, The hoped-for savings vanished out of sight. Germany first tried it when the war drums were loud, The night was made longer to aid all t...

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Inspired by Joan Baez’s incisive “Little Green Worm,” which anatomises a single conscience consumed by moral decay, The Symphony of the Worms extends her vision to the collective: the network of complicity, the chorus of ambition and fear that sustains corruption. Where Baez’s worm feasts on empathy and reason in one mind, this poem tracks the worms as they orchestrate an entire ...

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40 Years of Golden Glory
Four fearless, fabulous women. Forty years of laughter, sass, and unfiltered truths. From Sophia’s merciless zingers to Dorothy’s razor-sharp wit, Blanche’s endless flirtations, and Rose’s gloriously naive tales, The Golden Girls taught us how to live boldly, love recklessly, and laugh endlessly. Forty years later, they’re still golden — and still untouchable.
 

In ...

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In fair Bellaro’s echoed past they dwell,
Where hatred’s roots in noble gardens swell;
Two ancient halls — proud Veyne and Lirien named —
By honour bound, yet evermore ashamed.

From Veyne came Corin, fierce in armour bright,
A restless heart, half tempest, half of light;
And Isola of Lirien, tender flame,
Whose beauty whispered love through walls of shame.

They met where moonlight touc...

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I am told this is progress —
a cleaner world, a smarter future,
a moral upgrade disguised as policy.
But my breath smells of taxes,
my wallet feels the weight of their virtue.

They said choice,
but meant compliance.
They said green,
but painted my bills red.

They ration the air with graphs and slogans,
count our carbon like sins on a ledger,
and still ask why the people grow tired.

...

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The Committee stands firm in the glare of the day, When the boast of a man fills the chambers with bray. He counts his “wars” as if peace were a game, But his record of rage remains his lasting acclaim. For the medal of mercy, his name brings dismay— A prize far beyond his reach and his say. In Caracas, a voice rises from danger and dread, Through the terror of night, where the brave ra...

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You call yourself a peacemaker, yet you fan the war,
Jerusalem moved—still bleeding at its core.
You erase the Palestinians, leave them out of the deal,
And hand the claimed Golan, provoking, never to heal.

At home you divide; not a bridge do you build,
Your rallies spit venom, your words never stilled.
You send in your soldiers wherever protests arise,
And flaunt your own hatred, no mask...

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After the death of Vyacheslav Leontyev (4 October 2025), the 87-year-old former head of the Pravda publishing house — found beneath his seventh-floor window — this sonnet stands as a sober reflection on Russia’s ongoing method of silencing dissent. In a nation where critics do not only vanish but “fall,” Gravity Is Loyal tries to capture the bureaucratic coldness with which inconve...

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A costly watch or one of modest price Will mark the hour with equal, steady hand. The finest purse or worn-out leather slice Conceals the same spare coins that life has planned. A towering house or cottage set apart May hide the sting of silence deep inside. A Bentley’s seat or humbler motor cart Delivers you alike to where you ride. Possessions gild the eye yet fail the heart, They...

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A teacher walked from side to side, a glass of water held with pride. No “full or empty?” came today, she asked instead in a lighter way: “How heavy is this glass I keep?” The students guessed, their guesses deep. “Two hundred grammes, perhaps five more, a weight we all have felt before.” She smiled and said, “That’s not the key. The measure lies in time, you see. A minute here, it f...

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They asked me once, “Where do you belong?”
I smiled, for the question felt so wrong.
Not French, not Japanese, not Peruvian,
My borders are none—my passport: Human.

No lines on maps can cage my mind,
No flag can chain the heart of humankind.
In every land, I find my kin,
And all the world resides within.

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In a world obsessed with labels, appearances, and divisions, this poem wants to remind us that what truly matters lies beneath the surface. Eggs, bones, and blood reveal nothing of faith, skin colour, or desire—they speak only of our shared humanity. A call to see beyond the visible and embrace the unity that connects us all.

 

No yolk reveals the colour of its shell,
Nor bone decl...

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Does the self truly exist? The answer, surprisingly, is no. There is no hidden core, no solid essence beneath our feet. The self is not a stone, not a table, not a fixed thing in the world. Yet it is very real. Like colour, which exists only as patterns of electromagnetic radiation but appears vividly to our eyes, the self is a construct—an emergent pattern of thoughts, signals, and rela...

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In a world where outrage is currency and every scroll feeds fury, social media has turned human anger into a spectacle, amplifying hate, death threats, and violence while the algorithms profit. Words have become weapons, screens have become battlefields, and reason is drowned in clicks and chaos. It’s time to wake up, reflect, and reclaim our humanity.

Hate drips from glowing gl...

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Humans are deuterostomes, which means that when they develop in the womb the anus forms before any other opening. Which basically means at one point we all were nothing but an a*shole (sit venia verbo!). And, unfortunately, some people never develop beyond this stage. Before the mouth, before the eyes can see, The deuterostome path the womb has shown. The anus opens first, the primal k...

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Today, September 16, 2025, marks three years since the tragic death of Jina Mahsa Amini, a young Iranian woman whose life was cut short under the custody of the Gasht-e Ershad—the so-called “Guidance Patrol.” Arrested for allegedly violating religious dress codes, she became a symbol of resistance against the distorted interpretations of law and faith used to suppress freedom. Her name endures as ...

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The Dakota spoke with wisdom plain: “Dismount when life has fled the mane. No whip, no threat, no tightened rein, Will bring a lifeless beast again.” But modern minds will not let go, They build committees, stage a show. They buy new whips, exchange the seat, Declare the corpse still strong and fleet. They travel far, compare the way That others make dead horses stay. They shift th...

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An Undignified Freedom A bird bends low beneath the bars, its feathers marred by silent scars. Alone it chirrs, though hunger bites, its song a shield against the nights. Within the cage it tirils on, through pain and loss it keeps its song. Dreams clipped, horizons barred from view, yet voices rise, resilient, true. Like those who live in oppressed lands, where chains unseen...

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So many fads return with fleeting face,
Old garments dressed as if they were the new;
Yet nobler cloth lies folded out of place,
While cheap display parades in gaudy hue.

I long for fashions time forgot to prize—
For morals once well worn, for minds that care,
For respect, a jewel before our eyes,
For intellect, now hidden, yet still rare.

The world adores its passing, shallow vain,
A...

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Everyone wants to grow old, but no one wants to be old.

 

All long to see the years in gentle rise,
Yet none would dwell where age has made its home;
The mirror bends the truth of weary eyes,
And hearts protest a fate they call their own.

The body, once a vessel tuned to speed,
Now trembles under weight of time’s command;
Each step recalls a fire that once would lead,
Now falters li...

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North Korea remains one of the world’s most isolated and repressive states. For nearly eight decades, its people have lived under extreme surveillance, forced conformity, and brutal punishment, with little access to information, freedom of movement, or independent thought. The Inminban system monitors neighborhoods and even families, ensuring that fear and control permeate every aspect...

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Saudade is a feeling that resists translation. Words like homesickness or wanderlust
capture fragments of it, but never the whole. This poem reaches towards the untranslatable:
the unique fusion of longing and loss, of sorrow and tenderness, of absence and living
memory. A sentiment so layered and elusive that it can only ever be approached, never
fully contained.

It is the echo of a song
...

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The pulse once strong now beats so frail, Beneath the chest, a hollow tale. Where laughter lived, the silence stays, A weight descends and clouds all days. The eyes that sought a guiding flame, Now find the void, no warmth to claim. Each breath a shard, each beat a thief, That drags the soul through endless grief. The world moves on, yet joy has fled, The sky turns grey, the heart f...

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Health – The First Foundation Without good health, the spirit dies, No vision stands, no dream can rise. What worth has freedom, wealth, or fame, When strength is lost and body’s lame? The sweetest song is lost to pain, The fairest field brings naught but strain. A feast of gold lies wholly bare, When strength is gone, no savour’s there. Health is the root from which we live, The s...

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On August 15, 2025, Putin and Trump are going to meet in Alaska, a stage for reflexive control, the concept devised by Wladimir Lefebvre. The KGB-trained Russian leader will manipulate Trump, shaping his desires to serve Moscow’s goals, all in full view of the world.

A dead man’s work now joins the meeting’s glare,
Lefebvre’s design, a trap disguised as care.
The KGB had honed this patient ar...

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1. Fabricate the Enemy
Invent a foe to rally hate and rage,
declare dissent the traitor’s chosen role.
Divide the crowd, let fury set the stage,
proclaim yourself the nation’s heart and soul.
From “enemy press” to migrants as a curse,
Trump writes the script and plays it verse by verse.

2. Poison the Well of Truth
Confuse the crowd with lies in constant stream,
till fact and fiction blu...

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Upon a throne of faux gold spray, He rules the kingdom of “Me First Day.” With subjects glued to cable* cheer, And mirrors jeering, NOT the greatest here. He longs for crowns and velvet halls, For royal waves from gilded walls. Yet all his touch turns not to gold, But rust and debts he leaves untold. Already Trumpvicted, the Convicted-in-Chief, His crown now reduced to a paper-thin ...

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This poem is supposed to draw a stark contrast between William Blake’s visionary ideal of Jerusalem as a symbol of peace and spiritual renewal, and the harsh realities of today’s Jerusalem, Israeli policies, and the ongoing suffering of Palestinians in Gaza. It confronts the devastation wrought by political decisions and military actions, refusing to cloak these tragedies with ancient m...

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She doesn’t cry—her throat forgot the sound. No food. No water. Just a mother’s stare. Her child’s bones knock like glass beneath her skin. They wait for death. No doctor’s hands, no light. A school is shelled. The chalkboard bursts in blood. The maths is simple: one bomb kills a class. The lies are printed fresh on every screen— "We target threats." But infants make no war. A surgeo...

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The sky bleeds fire in waves of red and gold, A burning veil that melts the twilight air. The winds speak tongues no mortal dare behold, And echo screams too deep for souls to bear. My feet are chained upon this trembling plank, While friends walk on, untouched by dread or flame. The world tilts back, the seas and heavens sank— And nothing, nothing, ever feels the same. What is this ...

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If you would lead, then lead not for your glory, Not for the flags that flutter with your face. But hold your silence when the crowd roars warlike, And speak for peace – though it may bring disgrace. If you can hear your critics without fury, And learn from truth, though whispered in dissent; If you can hold your power with no trembling, Yet know it’s not your gift, but something lent. ...

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This poem wants to commemorate the first atomic bomb dropped on humans by humans—the devastating attack on Hiroshima on August 6, 1945, exactly 80 years ago yesterday. It reflects on the immense human loss and suffering caused that day. Despite this dark history, nuclear threats remain today, with leaders like Putin, regimes such as Iran, and countries including North Korea and Pakistan continuing...

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Prologue They met in ways that broke them first, Each life a thud, a hunger, thirst. Not born to lead, nor raised to shine, But time had worn them past their line. What castaways might find anew— You'll see, if you read all way through. The Mule (Once a Builder) He once laid brick with steady pride, Now drags his boots from site to site. His back's a map of breaks and bends, He buri...

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This poem tells the haunting story of how silence and fear empower despots and tyrants to build fragile thrones, sacrificing freedom for control. Through the mysterious figure of a quiet piper, it envisions the subtle yet unstoppable dismantling of tyranny—without violence or fanfare—and the hope for a world where new maps guide future generations beyond borders and oppression.

They laughed w...

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7 Delay will steal your precious hours, And leave you with a heavier load. Each moment lost will dim your powers, And slow your footsteps on the road. Begin before your will grows thin— The race is only lost within. 8 The world may shout what must be done, But rules alone can't make life true. What works for most won’t fit just one, So write the script that speaks for you. There is...

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1 No moment ever stays the same, Each phase of life will shift and pass. Seek meaning, not in fleeting fame, But in the trials we must surpass. Take from each day the truth it lends— For all begins and all soon ends. 2 The past is gone, its weight is spent, Tomorrow’s path is still unclear. Your only stage is this present— The time to act is always here. Let old regrets be laid to ...

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Melania Trump's receipt of the EB-1 "Einstein visa"—a U.S. immigration path meant for individuals with extraordinary ability—sparked widespread controversy, as critics questioned how a former model with no scientific, academic, or artistic acclaim qualified while countless highly accomplished immigrants are rejected. The case underscores how privilege, connections, and whiteness can warp...

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They come with little in their hands, from burned-out homes and broken lands. Their hopes are packed in bags of thread, their pasts erased, their futures bled. The children walk through desert air, their fathers drown in deep despair. No one who leaves a home intact will ever choose a life like that. But those who watch them at the gate are tired too, and bear their weight. They se...

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No silver thread, no voice to name the way— Just walls and warnings passed from tongue to tongue. His first breath rose from two-thirds drawn from hell, A fire dimmed by lessons never asked. They caged him in with rules and screaming brats, While puppets smiled through teeth of plastic gloss. The parents barked like kings who'd lost their crowns; He bore their bile and learned to taste ...

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A Tribute to Ozzy Osbourne He walked where angels fear to tread, With eyes alight and painted dread. A crown of chaos on his brow, He ruled the stage — he rules it now. With Sabbath’s chords he shook the sky, The riffs would scream, the doves would cry. Through “Paranoid” and “War Pigs” loud, He gave his soul to please the crowd. He bit the night and drank the flame, Unchained an...

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A restless hush pervades the quiet shore, Though waves repeat what they have said before. No peace arrives to fill the aching frame, Each sunset looks the same, a muted flame. The night drips dry upon a thirsty tongue, While sleepless hours claw where thoughts are hung. Old songs return and circle, tight and thin, Their looping lines grown sharp beneath the skin. The hours stretch, u...

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This poem is meant to be a stark warning to the Nobel Committee: awarding Donald Trump the Peace Prize would not only mock the values it stands for, but stain its legacy with hypocrisy, division, and deception.

Oh Nobel minds, in hallowed seat,
Let not your purpose taste defeat.
The world looks on with wary eyes—
Will justice bend or truth arise?

They whisper Trump deserves the crow...

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This poem honours the 90th birthday of the 14th Dalai Lama, Tenzin Gyatso, tracing his remarkable journey from his birth name, Lhamo Thondup, through the ancient Tibetan traditions that identified him as the reincarnation of the 13th Dalai Lama. It highlights the sacred role of the Nechung Oracle, the visions at Lhamo Latso lake, and the spiritual significance behind his religious name. De...

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A figure slumped beside the road, a heap of ash and thread. No face, no shape, just heavy cloth, and eyes that looked half-dead. “Who are you?” asked the wrinkled one, with voice both calm and kind. “I’m Sadness,” said the shape, half-formed, “the one all try to bind.” “They turn from me,” the figure said, “as if I bring disease. They smile too wide, deny the weight, pretending th...

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What if I spoke instead of staying still, And let my truth cut clean through comfort's shell? What if I bowed no more to someone’s will, And walked away from praise that served me well? What if I paused, and chose to hear within, And let the quiet shape a deeper me? What if the fault was not my shame or sin, But fear that kept my heart from setting free? What if the wound became a do...

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On June 25, 2025, during President Donald Trump’s visit to the Royal Palace in The Hague, an unexpected moment of levity stole the spotlight. After King Willem-Alexander politely asked Trump whether he had slept well the previous night, Queen Máxima playfully mimicked the President’s response— imitating his tone and mannerisms with theatrical flair. The moment, caught on camera, quickly went viral...

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Today’s NATO summit revealed a disturbing spectacle of sycophancy and shame, as Mark Rutte led the pack of European leaders groveling before Donald Trump. The excessive flattery lavished on the so-called US president exposed a deep crisis of courage and integrity within Europe’s leadership. Instead of standing firm on values and principles, many bowed and smiled, sacrificing dignity for h...

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