Tag: broken
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THE WRATH OF THE BROKEN
I carried the wrath of the broken.
Or maybe—
It carried me.
Are we broken for the better,
Or just addicted to the dark?
A rose in the mud.
Wrong side of midnight.
Nothing grows here—
It survives.
Shadows of old friends
Linger longer than they should.
Laughter echoes—
Warped now,
Still sharp enough to cut.
There is a stillness
Between breaths.
Not peace—
Just pause.
We reach for it anyway,
Mistaking silence
For healing.
Trapped in the quiet unravelling,
We miss the tremors
Of collapse.
No impact.
No warning.
Just the slow, sinking truth—
We were never fighting anything else.
We became
The enemy
We swore we’d never face.
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ON MY LAST BREATH
On my last breath,
I begged the night for a saviour—
but the darkness stayed quiet.
No one came.
The cold laid the truth bare:
in the chaos, in the ruins,
no one is coming
to pull you from your wreckage.
Your salvation is yours.
You save yourself—
or don’t rise.
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LOOK / SEARCH / YEARN
LOOK FOR
A horizon
that doesn’t fade
when you reach it.
A purpose
that survives the quiet.
A reason
not to burn it all down.
Something that holds
when you lean—
And doesn’t give.
SEARCH FOR
A place
where you don’t perform.
A landing
that doesn’t collapse.
A room inside you
that doesn’t echo.
A truth
that survives the storm—
Not gentle,
but still yours.
YEARN FOR
A home
that doesn’t bruise.
Warmth
that doesn’t leave.
Something
that doesn’t shrink you
or ask you to betray yourself.
Yearn for the self
that stops asking.
The one that stands—
Unflinching,
unchosen by fear.
The one that takes the throne
without apology—
After everything
it bled to keep.
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UNEARTHED
Deep with rage
the soul rots between the bones.
Voices fade.
Words disappear.
Sleep comes—
never gently.
Standing alone in the forest,
the ground underneath
swallowing me whole.
I escape morning
After night
has unearthed my bones. -
REVIVAL
Regrowth is not gentle.
I died at midnight—
A slow bleed,
crying spells,
fractures beneath the surface.
Learning to grow
in the soil of last year’s failures—
they are lessons,
not a death sentence.
I shed the stories that kept me small,
shut the doors that fed the dark.
I make peace with sunlight,
and the quiet pull of moonlit nights.
I embrace the changes—
soft,
loud,
necessary.
I hold the tender moments.
I love—despite the madness.
Revival. -
Nothing Leaves Clean
Fallen tears,
coffee stains.
Sunlight
cracks through the window—
soft,
but unforgiving.
Heaven is a state of mind.
Hell lives in the heart.
And letting go
never leaves clean.
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Let Them Fall
Let them be who they pretend to be,
and let them fall.
Leave them to their misery,
their hollow claims and borrowed skin.
Negativity, truth, and karma
will swallow them whole.
For they are their own demon,
their own slow demise.
True colours fracture through the mask,
the costume stained beyond repair.
They hate the mirror of their own heart,
so they hide inside a stranger’s face.
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