I Wrote This Instead of Screaming

literature

  • The Scrivener’s Tale

    I am but a humble scrivener, of ink and vellum born,I tend the wills of gentlemen – their fortunes and their scorn.The stacks are cold and airless, where the candle’s seldom lit,And ghosts of ink and parchment whisper, “mind the words you’ve writ.”They speak of pale Annabel, a clerk of modest wage,Who vanished from her

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  • My Mother’s War Paint

    You taught me to smile like a switchblade in sheath,Say “bless your heart” through the grit of my teeth.Walk through a fire while lighting a cigarette,Win every fight I haven’t lost yet.You measured my spine ’til it learned to stay straight,Taught me the formula — love into hate.Told me to treat my own kindness like

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  • This Ain’t a Breakdown, It’s a Dress Rehearsal

    Another Saturday night spent baptizing our problems in fluorescent light.The coffee’s a sermon on burning out slow.The jukebox is screaming a hymn for the broke,and we’re just disciples of nowhere to go.And the sugar rush hits like a cheap revelation,we’re praying for something to break the stagnation.Oh, this ain’t a breakdown, it’s just a dress

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  • Some Days I Miss the War

    I used to sleep like a solider,Boots by the bed, eyes on the door.Now I lie still in the quietAnd wonder what I’m waiting for.I don’t miss the fire or the wreckage,Just the way it made me move. When everything was burning,At least I knew what to do.Patched their walls, ignored my stress.Thought my giving

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  • Bad for Business

    They’re editing the dictionary in the dead of night,Crossing out ‘fascist’, underlining ‘polite’.They’re selling cheap comfort in a patriotic red,While they’re building new cages inside of your head. I got my free speech on a corporate leash.A trigger warning disclaimer before I can screech. And they told me my volume was frankly a crime,So I’m

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  • Shutdown Season

    The news keeps loading incessantly,even when I try to disconnect.Deadlines, protests, power plays—I hold them like shifting sandand wonder why my hands feel heavy.They say democracy is delicate,and so am I.My empathy’s overdrawn again,each headline a debt I can’t repay.I used to rage fiercely.Now I refresh quietly.Now I fold laundrywith the volume mutedand call that

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  • Almost Friends

    We were almost something – we were almost friends.

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  • Still I Wake Up

    I know the headlines by heart—doom in bold, blood in italics.The oceans are rising,the rights are receding,and the scroll is endless.They say it’s selfishto want a quiet lifewhile the world is burning.But I’m done performing grief,done screaming my lungs rawfor a system riggedbefore I could read.Tired of giving namesto every kind of broken.But still, I

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  • Only Free if You Agree

    They etched it deep in marble,polished the lie with pride.But freedom’s just a fairytalewhen truth gets crucified.They said the tongue is sovereign,but only if you kneel.They said speak your mind,then taught us how to sealour throats with fear,our mouths with thread—say it wrong,and end up dead.They call it liberty—while torching what we write.Call it harmless—as

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  • Hope is the Most Dangerous Thing I Have

    I have a talent for graves. I can make a peace with any silence. Trace the contours of what’s gonelike I was born knowing loss. I’ve watched the light bleed out. Felt it drain until there was nothing left. And still -the spark. Small. Obnoxious. Persistent. A parasite with perfect timing. It crawls back into

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