Invisible
I remain. Inside a world that caves in daily, while others wave it off as a phase.
Reaching those within arm’s length is effortless—
but where, truly, are your fingertips?
This road is solitary. Always was. Always will be.
Mirages bloom around me, landscapes that promise nothing
and deliver less.
Reaching those within arm’s length is effortless—
but where, truly, are your fingertips?
This road is solitary. Always was. Always will be.
Mirages bloom around me, landscapes that promise nothing
and deliver less.
I lived. I waited. For something that may never come—not today, not tomorrow.
Spare me your rehearsed wisdom, your sugar-coated faith, your tender lies.
I drift at the core of disillusion.
Here, hell is not symbolism. It is geography.
And who cares? No one.
Insomnia. Anguish. Perdition.
I do not feel pain on the skin—I feel it where language fails.
Everything here is invisible,and no one looks long enough to see.
I fill pages with questions.
They multiply. They mock me.
I look left. I look right.
They are here. They are there. They are nowhere.
If I scream today, who hears?
If I bleed today, who stops it?
If I die today, they will cry.
Because tears replace guilt, never absence.
Everything here is invisible,and no one looks long enough to see.
I fill pages with questions.
They multiply. They mock me.
I look left. I look right.
They are here. They are there. They are nowhere.
If I scream today, who hears?
If I bleed today, who stops it?
If I die today, they will cry.
Because tears replace guilt, never absence.
Love should have come first.
I decay. I scatter. Day after day.
There is a health that preserves the shell—a breathing body, a soul in deep coma.
Half-open doors everywhere.
Locks. Chains. Deadbolts.
This pressure in my chest does not ease.
It never pauses. No one feels it. No one tries.
I decay. I scatter. Day after day.
There is a health that preserves the shell—a breathing body, a soul in deep coma.
Half-open doors everywhere.
Locks. Chains. Deadbolts.
This pressure in my chest does not ease.
It never pauses. No one feels it. No one tries.
Maybe time opens all doors.
Maybe time only tightens the silence.
Maybe time, in a rare act of mercy,
will hand me answers—ugly or kind—and that will suffice.
While others see the world inverted,a negative burned from truth,
I have no strength left to resist.
While they shrug, I kneel. I have already yielded.
Maybe time only tightens the silence.
Maybe time, in a rare act of mercy,
will hand me answers—ugly or kind—and that will suffice.
While others see the world inverted,a negative burned from truth,
I have no strength left to resist.
While they shrug, I kneel. I have already yielded.
This is not drama. Not need. Not defeat.
It is karma. It is fact. A daily war—not the one you witness, but the one that devours quietly.
I need one point. Only one.
But it must be fixed—by anyone, anything, even me—it must glow, cut through the dark, so I can walk toward it without fear.
It is karma. It is fact. A daily war—not the one you witness, but the one that devours quietly.
I need one point. Only one.
But it must be fixed—by anyone, anything, even me—it must glow, cut through the dark, so I can walk toward it without fear.
And I do not mean what you assume.
I say this to myself, aloud.
I do not want rescue from gutters or stretchers.
I do not want comfort when I am broken.
I want something—someone—to restore my axis, my north, my meaning. I cannot.
A giant in chains.
And for now, nothing breaks them..
I say this to myself, aloud.
I do not want rescue from gutters or stretchers.
I do not want comfort when I am broken.
I want something—someone—to restore my axis, my north, my meaning. I cannot.
A giant in chains.
And for now, nothing breaks them..