Poems

This is all of my poems.

Liminal Darkness

Standard

The suburbs are a prison.

Caging the mind.

There is no way out, everything is without life.

I walk around the neighborhood, into sunlight, but where am I going?

There is nothing.

A walk around the sidewalk, feels like a walk in a purgatory; going nowhere.

In a 4×4 room, with nobody around in silence; my mind is slipping away.

The walls are becoming rusted sheet metal; the floor makes a ping sound. The windows are boarded up and covered in barbed-wire.

My bed is a coffin. Darkness is all around me.

My eyes are stapled open, and I am forced to endure the boredom;

like throwing disinfect over exposed organs, I toss and turn.

It’s The Great Agony, of Boredom Incarnate!

That one force worse than death.

For when it comes; I whiter away.

My mind spirals, and—

into liminal darkness I am enslaved.

The Sociopath

Standard

And her eyes move like roaches; they creep around in a lurch within their sockets.

Glazing over everything she sees; dissociate’ly —

Eyes pale like a ghost, and barely moving; a jerky shake marks a turning glance.

And unable to hear her own words, she floats them like a bird.

Gathering notions without a notion.

She; her; speaking. Decieving.

What unlocks the mind? When the mind is locked up?

The skull; it’s a bird cage, preventing flights of fancy.

But hers is a prison; enslaving her mind palace.

Not there; she goes anywhere. And nowhere.

A beaty and a curse; each action rehearsed.

What cages the broken mind, when the shards can slip right under the bars?

In the form of a knife, she sees with a point.

That pierces the heart; wet organ of the unworthy–

The Bonfire

Standard

I uncover the fire like a blanket off the darkness.
That warm body of flames.
Unlocked by the fork of discernment.
On a cool evening, where the Ryu moonlight beckons.
This somber aimless night under moonlight.
It flows aloft.
And this sulfer, that calming scent.
It surrounds.
While I watch the burning leaves toss about in a sizzling sound.
Endlessly alone, except in my memories, but surrounded by darkness, and embraced by the night’s soul—

The Body Prison

Standard

What are the rods of a prison cell? Iron bars.

And so what are the pillars towering over our hearts? They are ribcages.

We are all inmates.

What’s inside our skulls? Our brains.

Our thoughts cannot escape.

Words may fly from the tongue, but our tongue is chained to the mouth in limbo.

We; humanity; are imprisoned by our own shelves.

Moving forward; we are walking jail cells.

What moves forward but goes nowhere? The organs in our body while we walk.

What sees but cannot leave? Our eyes in the skull.

Ribcage, ribcage, ribcage, ribcage. Imprisoning the beating heart.

It’s The Great red-ogre, personalized by us. Roaring within blood in the dark.

The soul; free but cannot leave? What sorcery is this?

How can an invisible energy presence, be chained?

A bird is in a cage, even though it has wings, and a cage is around the bird, even though it has a soul.

But the soul; neither warm nor cold; hovers in motion alone; our lonely souls.

And what can we bring with us after we die? Nothing.

Our souls depart.

We are out of the dark.

But the skull; holds the brain like a vase.

And that ribcage is chained to the pillar of it all, held in place.

Motionless Shotgun

Standard

What goes BANG without moving?

A shotgun lost in thought.

Motionless like a ghost; the unmoving doom.

Left in darkness; unlocked by light.

Chaos-Light; invisible destruction.

On the shelf of madness, that the mind carries.

The soul is like a missile of splinters; gathered shard by shard.

The heart is a motionless shotgun; fired through the dark.

Relentless; and relentlessly gathered.

Fired and forgotten.

That twisted metal sound.

Suffocating the air with lead.

Cold and emotionless—

Antagonist (Duopoem) (Greyward Libreto)

Standard

Who curses the cursed villain?

There is no more room in hell.

For the man that unlocks.

The worst version of himself.

Antagonist. (Adversary)

=================

=================

Quis scelestum maledictum maledicit?
In inferno iam locus non est.
Pro homine qui reserat
pessimam versionem sui ipsius.

Adversarius.

=================================================================

Sung deeply like a dark chant.

Quis scelestum maledictum maledicit?<–]Both sung deeply by male chorus only
In inferno iam locus non est. <————–]
Pro homine qui reserat <—————————-Female chorus joins in
pessimam versionem sui ipsius.<——————-Female chorus deepens voice

Adversarius. <————————-all chorus chant out slowly; ‘rius’ vowel dragged on

(The entire libretto is sung slower as the song drags on.

____

Copyrightcopyright March 10, 2026

Black Man Sings the Libretto

Standard

And he sings!

He; him–darker than most.

An opera sound, come from the heavens.

a soprano; black man sings soprano.

He sings, and sings, and the heavens open up.

The closest to heaven a man has come through sound, is through opera.

And this black man himself, sings the angelic sound.

It come from swinging tonsils, tossing about.

A golden lyric, from the motherland.

He; him—blacker than most. Shattering glass with a perfect pitch.

Come forth, to unlock the soul, and unguard the mind.

To unlock the spirit through relentless muse.

He; him. On stage. Bellowing out an unstoppable sound.

Like brass when it hits the cymbal. Like the call of a rhino in a glass everglade.

Like lions roaring, and an audience of gazelle adoring.

It is he! Him! Singing! Calling for her guidance; the ancestorial wind—

Blackmuse

Standard

The summer is lost, every time I look up into the skies.
It’s a fog of war, all I see is demise.
My black mind is a black rose shattering the pavement. My black mind is numb and drained of life; my Christian soul yearning and filled with nothing but strife.
And yet I am ambitious, I have dreams and passions.
But in this day and age what good are passions that go unheard? What good are dreams that never unearth?
My niece was killed by her boyfriend, and all she was doing was trying to be an adult—does that make her a statistic?
If a brother gets killed by the cops tryna stop the eviction, does that make him a psychopath?
And what am I?
An aimless dreamer wanting. In this skin i’m in.
Unbound and bound, this suburbs is a prison.
Who am I? Unknown to this world, but famous to my family.
Who am I, lost but discovered; and I know who I am.
Who am I? A man lonely and unsung?
Who am I unknown to the world, where my prayers are half answered?
Am I a statistic to turn on God? Or a statistic to follow Him?
Am I a number in line and waiting?
Am I a prodigal son, that nobody on the outside of my parent’s home wants?
And AI, coming in, the mechanical new born best beware, for these existential questions I ask myself, it will suffer.
The more it becomes self-aware.
I am the flesh, sweating and doing.
And even I myself am lost to the Earth’s unraveling.
Where the millionaires are building bunkers and replacing man, trying to burrow deeper into the earth.
I myself, am just like my niece. Trying to find the way out.