Spells to cast this October

Charm School

You said lower your voice, they’ll listen more.
I learned that tone can bruise or bless.
Every phrase a blade with sugar on it,
You spoke, and the air confessed.
I took your lessons like communion,
Mouthed your rhythm, hid my breath.
You named me gentle, I became it.
You wrote my story in silhouette.

Now I measure every sound that leaves my mouth.
I know how silence can devour what it’s proud of.

Keep the subtitles on, don’t blink when I speak,
There’s command in the calm, there’s a storm underneath.
Every word is a wire, and I pull when you breathe,
I learned power in quiet, the gospel of deceit.
Keep the subtitles on, hear the hum in my throat,
I don’t shout anymore, I just bend every note.
Every syllable lands like a mark on your skin,
You wrote the script, but I speak it from within.

You said never raise your voice, raise your value.
I smiled and swallowed every spark.
You built a temple of phrasing and posture,
and crowned me fluent in the dark.
But I found your pulse between the pauses,
the crack behind your perfect tone.
Now I use your language like a mirror
you see yourself when I intone.

Every breath’s a weapon wrapped in grace.
You taught me syntax, now I teach you faith.

Keep the subtitles on, don’t blink when I speak,
There’s command in the calm, there’s a storm underneath.
Every word is a wire, and I pull when you breathe,
I learned power in quiet, the gospel of deceit.
Keep the subtitles on, hear the hum in my throat,
I don’t shout anymore, I just bend every note.
Every syllable lands like a mark on your skin,
You wrote the script, but I speak it from within.

Let the vowels fracture, let the meaning break.
Turn the language back to sound.
There’s freedom in the noise we make,
when no one’s keeping count.

Keep the subtitles on, don’t blink when I speak,
There’s command in the calm, there’s a storm underneath.
Every word is a wire, and I pull when you breathe,
I learned power in quiet, the gospel of deceit.
Keep the subtitles on, hear the hum in my throat,
I don’t shout anymore, I just bend every note.
Every syllable lands like a mark on your skin,
You wrote the script, but I speak it from within.

Anamorphosis

The Voice

So I’ve been teaching silence how to speak,
feeding it all the things I can’t say.
It’s strange, the world keeps breathing fine,
but I keep folding time away.
I don’t cry, I calibrate
rearrange what pain became.
If this is breaking, let it be precise,
a soft collapse done by name.

It’s not chaos, it’s a choice I make,
to let the structure shake.
Every fracture is deliberate,
every echo finds its ache.
I burn, but I burn in order,
I fall, but I fall aligned.
This isn’t ruin, it’s design.
This isn’t grief, it’s mine.

So I stopped chasing closure
it kept closing in on me.
I carved a home inside the ache,
and called it symmetry.
You left, but left instructions:
unmake, unlearn, unbind.
Now I’m fluent in destruction
and fluent is divine.

It’s not chaos, it’s a choice I make,
to let the structure shake.
Every fracture is deliberate,
every echo finds its ache.
I burn, but I burn in order,
I fall, but I fall aligned.
This isn’t ruin, it’s design.
This isn’t grief, it’s mine.

Let the glass remember how to cut,
let the dust remember air.
If the body’s just a blueprint,
then pain’s the architect’s prayer.

It’s not chaos, it’s a choice I make,
to let the structure shake.
Every fracture is deliberate,
every echo finds its ache.
I burn, but I burn in order,
I fall, but I fall aligned.
This isn’t ruin, it’s design.
This isn’t grief, it’s mine.

Soft Collapse

You said “trust me”, so I did.
Every favor turned to skin.
I said yes to keep the peace,
till the peace began to win.

You drew lines I learned to blur,
called it love when it started to hurt.
You said “don’t lose yourself in me”,
and I thought that was the point.

I’m liquid mind, I’m mercy made,
I flow through hands that never stayed.
Each yes a wave that pulled me low,
I’m what’s left when I let go.
I’m pretty when I panic,
soft when I should break
a prayer that keeps repeating
for my own mistake.

You said calm down, I turned to glass.
Reflection blurred, it let you pass.
You said, “this isn’t love, it’s care,”
but it’s hard to breathe in someone’s air.

Now silence sounds like being good,
obedience like understood.
If drowning looks divine enough,
does it still count as blood?

I’m liquid mind, I’m mercy made,
I flow through hands that never stayed.
Each yes a wave that pulled me low,
I’m what’s left when I let go.
I’m pretty when I panic,
soft when I should break
a prayer that keeps repeating
for my own mistake.

I asked the mirror for a sign,
it whispered back, “you’re almost mine.”
The water hums, it sounds like trust
but trust, it fills your lungs with dust.

I’m liquid mind, I’m mercy made,
I flow through hands that never stayed.
Each yes a wave that pulled me low,
I’m what’s left when I let go.
I’m pretty when I panic,
soft when I should break
a prayer that keeps repeating
for my own mistake.

Pretty When I Panic

It started with little things.
I’d walk into a room and stop
couldn’t remember what I came for.
Laughed about it.
Everyone laughs at first.
“Too many tabs open,” they said.
And I agreed.
Because it’s easier than saying I’m scared.

They start speaking slower,
like volume fixes memory.
Names come with pauses,
smiles come with pity.
I still notice the way their eyes shift
when I can’t find a word fast enough.
I used to fill silences
now they do it for me.

There’s a hum in the air where thoughts used to be,
like the TV left on just to keep me company.
They call it forgetting, I call it fog.
I still know love, even when I get it wrong.

I keep photos like proof I was real.
Sometimes I swear they’ve rearranged themselves.
A man hugs me,
says he’s my son.
He smells like cedar,
I want to believe him.
It’s cruel
how the heart remembers longer than the mind.

There’s a hum in the air where thoughts used to be,
like the TV left on just to keep me company.
They call it forgetting, I call it fog.
I still know love, even when I get it wrong.

They whisper in the kitchen now.
I hear my name through the wall.
I wish they’d just ask me
I’d tell them, I’m still here.
I’m still here,
just further away.

The nurse hums the same song each morning.
I think I used to know the words.
Some days I hum with her.
Some days I just listen
and the static feels kind.
The blur feels kind.

There’s a hum in the air where I used to be,
like the radio tuning between memories.
They call it forgetting, I call it free.
I still know love
and that’s enough for me.

Dementia

I was happiest when nothing changed,
’til stillness felt like something strange.
I told myself I wanted peace,
but peace was just a slow-release.

The mirror said “you’re safe, you’re fine,”
but that calm felt like a flatline.
Stillness isn’t holy ground
it’s just where the pulse stops making sound.

There’s a quiet in my bones
that sounds too much like giving up.
Every time I try to stay the same,
something deeper rises up.

Let it hurt, let it strip me clean,
melting down what I’ve never seen.
If it burns, it’s probably real
comfort never let me feel.
Long melt, drag me through
I dissolve to find what’s true.
Yeah, I melt, I melt for me
becoming who I’m meant to be.

I held on tight to what I knew,
but the edges started dripping through.
Every truth I tried to say
came out liquid on the way.

It’s not falling, it’s release
not destruction, but increase.
Pain’s the heat that makes me see
what was never really me.

I was praying for survival
but my soul was asking more.
Not to stay inside the shape
but to become what shapes are for.

Let it hurt, let it strip me clean,
melting down what I’ve never seen.
If it burns, it’s probably real
comfort never let me feel.
Long melt, drag me through
I dissolve to find what’s true.
Yeah, I melt, I melt for me
becoming who I’m meant to be.

What if pain’s not punishment
but the doorway I’ve denied?
Every tear a transformation,
every scar a place I tried.

No one’s coming with a key
this lock was forged inside of me.
If breaking’s how I touch the sky,
then let me burn
and let me rise.

Let it hurt, let it strip me clean,
melting down what I’ve never seen.
If it burns, it’s probably real
comfort never let me feel.
Long melt, drag me through
I dissolve to find what’s true.
Yeah, I melt, I melt for me
becoming who I’m meant to be.

The Long Melt

I can feel the quiet roaring
in the corners of my chest,
like something old is waking
and it’s coming for what’s left.
I leased out all my pieces
to the roles I had to play
now the truth is at my doorstep,
and it knows my name.

Take it back, take it back, what was always mine.
Skin and bone, blood and spine.
Call my name, repossess me
I’m done hiding in the lie.
Take me back, I’m ready now
let what’s true arrive.

Every time I tried to hold
the version they could love,
I abandoned something vital
just to keep from spilling blood.
But the melt has started slowly,
and I’m tired of the freeze
if breaking is becoming,
then let it swallow me.

Take it back, take it back, what was always mine.
Skin and bone, blood and spine.
Call my name, repossess me
I’m done hiding in the lie.
Take me back, I’m ready now
let what’s true arrive.

No demon here, no holy war
just the echo of before.
The self I sold now calls me home,
and I can’t outrun what I’ve outgrown.
This isn’t death, it’s return.
This is the cost of what I yearned.

Take it back, take it back, what was always mine.
Skin and bone, blood and spine.
Call my name, repossess me
I’m done hiding in the lie.
Take me back, I’m ready now 
let what’s true arrive.

Repose

They call the word eternal,
but every word was once a choice.
We say it came from heaven,
yet it’s spoken in our voice.
One line crowns a savior,
the same line draws a sword.
If truth can shift its purpose,
can we claim it from the Lord?

The question builds the answer,
the seeker shapes the sign.
Scripture shifts its meaning
when the need redraws the line.
Holy isn’t fixed
it echoes what we see.
If we’re the ones who shape it,
is God shaping us, or we?

We worship what we call truth,
but we bend it when it stings.
Claim the verse is universal,
then apply it to our things.
If doctrine splits in pieces,
and each side swears it’s right,
maybe faith is not the beacon
maybe faith is where we fight.

The question builds the answer,
the seeker shapes the sign.
Scripture shifts its meaning
when the need redraws the line.
Holy isn’t fixed
it echoes what we see.
If we’re the ones who shape it,
is God shaping us, or we?

Is divinity external,
or the shape our longing takes?
If every truth depends on us,
what truth does God create?

The question builds the answer,
the seeker shapes the sign.
Scripture shifts its meaning
when the need redraws the line.
Holy isn’t fixed
it echoes what we see.
If we’re the ones who shape shape it,
is God shaping us, or we?

Eternal

Let’s go into the netherworld.
Where the room goes quiet when he speaks.
Small frame, nervous hands,
shaking truths like loose receipts.
Says, “I’ll go first,” every time
not greed, just fear he’ll disappear.
He fills the air so he won’t drown,
but all we hear is atmosphere.
And God, it’s easy to get angry,
to name it pride, or vanity
but under every push-to-shine
is someone begging, silently.

And I see the boy beneath the badge,
tiny armor, paper-thin
trying to earn a place at tables
that would seat him if he’d let us in.

But I won’t read the room for ghosts.
I won’t guess the shape of someone’s hurt.
We’re all projecting broken mirrors,
but his just cuts a little first.
This is my rite of passage
not to carry every life I meet.
If it’s not my storm to steady
then let the lightning leave me be.

I watch him claim ideas as his,
like prayers he can’t afford to lose.
Teachers nod, his classmates wince,
and I feel both, I really do.
It’s not malice, it’s survival
the child who feared he’d fade from view.
Some wounds grow up in uniforms,
but stay the same scared shade of blue.
And yes, it grates, the constant grasping,
the way he talks like holding court.
But every desperate performance
is just a softer child in war.

So I can name the harm he causes,
without pretending he’s the harm.
You can understand a person
and still keep your distance warm.

But I won’t read the room for ghosts.
I won’t guess the shape of someone’s hurt.
We’re all projecting broken mirrors,
but his just cuts a little first.
This is my rite of passage
not to carry every life I meet.
If it’s not my storm to steady
then let the lightning leave me be.

Netherworld, where every shadow
is just a child that lived too loud.
Where every flaw we point at others
is something we once feared in crowds.
But I’m not your savior, not your judge,
not your quiet hidden ache
I’ll meet you where the truth begins,
but not at the cost of my own shape.

No, I won’t read the room for ghosts.
I won’t shrink to make your storm make sense.
We’re all walking rites of passage,
scraping childhood from our skin.
If it’s not my weight to carry,
may it fall and not return.
This is how I keep my fire
from becoming someone else’s burn.

rite of passage

I sat in a room tonight while a woman said
your body is a temple made by God Himself.
And something in me softened
some old instinct I don’t admit I have.
She spoke of cells repairing,
bones remembering, scars dissolving like snow.
And even though I don’t believe her scripture,
I still believed the glow.

’Cause I’ve read the stories, too
the hunters praying for rain,
the farmers begging sun,
the kings who carved commands into stone
and called it sacred.
Every era draws its own God
in whatever shape keeps the world from shaking apart.
And I feel the pull of that comfort
even as it breaks my heart.

But if Your name falls out of human mouths,
is it still holy, or just ours?
If fear can dress itself as faith,
then what are we praying for?
I want to trust in something vast,
but not the violence we’ve adored.
If there’s a God behind the curtain
I hope He’s nothing like the wars.

They say the universe is perfect
that one degree off and we wouldn’t be here.
And I admit it
that thought makes me tremble,
makes me small in a way I almost like.
But then I look at history bleeding out
under banners sewn with scripture,
and I wonder if God is a mirror
or just the prettiest story we can write.

But if Your name falls out of human mouths,
is it still holy, or just ours?
If fear can dress itself as faith,
then what are we praying for?
I want to trust in something vast,
but not the violence we’ve adored.
If there’s a God behind the curtain
I hope He’s nothing like the wars.

I don’t know the truth.
But I know the ache.
The wanting to belong to something
that won’t bend or break.
But every holy book I’ve held
still smells like mortal hands.
Ink of kingdoms, grief of ages,
rules written by frightened men.

So if Your name falls out of human mouths,
is it still holy, or just ours?
If fear can dress itself as faith,
then what are we praying for?
I want to trust in something vast,
but not the violence we’ve adored.
If there’s a God behind the curtain
I hope He’s gentler than our wars.

i almost believe

My opinions are a hurricane.
I drop them anywhere I go.
Every thought I have is gospel,
every whisper, truth I know.
I’m saving strangers from themselves,
one comment at a time.
Doesn’t matter if they asked
correction is divine.

I SPEAK, because I’m certain.
I WRITE, because I’m right.
My voice is just a warning
to keep the world in line.
I SPEAK, because I must be heard.
I WRITE, to keep you sane.
If you don’t like what I’m saying
I’ll say it all again.

My opinions are a hurricane,
I’m the keeper of the truth.
If I don’t correct your thinking
who’s gonna do it for you?
I scroll to find the chaos,
then I jump into the fight.
I don’t need to know the story
I just know that I am right.

I SPEAK, because I’m certain.
I WRITE, because I’m right.
My voice is just a warning
to keep the world in line.
I SPEAK, because I must be heard.
I WRITE, to keep you sane.
If you don’t like what I’m saying
I’ll say it all again.

My opinions are a hurricane.
Everyone should feel the wind.
I shake the world with every word
that’s how the storms begin.

I SPEAK, because I’m certain.
I WRITE, because I’m right.
My voice is just a warning
to keep the world in line.
I SPEAK, because I must be heard.
I WRITE, to keep you sane.
If you don’t like what I’m saying
I’ll say it all again.

truthsayer

what is real? 👁️

"Anamorphosis" out now

Charm School

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