Kafle

Mayaa

Mayaa (Acoustic)

Emotional Gangster #FAVORITE

You walked in wrapped in perfume smoke,
with stories you rehearsed in gold,
your smile, too polished, too composed,
I almost saw the cracks unfold.
Velvet words on trembling glass,
echo soft, but they never last.
I taste the shine, I taste the lie,
in your reflection, I see why.

You hide in glitter, whisper sin,
your truth dissolved beneath your skin.
But every shimmer that you cast
I see the ghost behind the glass.

Your crystal mask, it shatters slow,
a thousand lies in afterglow.
Transparent heart, so paper-thin,
I breathe, you break, I see within.
Your crystal mask, how fragile grace,
I watch it fall across your face.
You think you shine, but light reveals,
the love you fake, the wounds you steal.

You love the stage, the mirrored eyes,
you choreograph your thin disguise.
But I can hear the hollow hum,
beneath the charm, beneath your tongue.
You wear your guilt like stolen pearls,
you cage your shame in plastic worlds.
But truth is patient, truth is kind—
it waits for glass to realign.

The way you talk, the way you gleam,
like static caught inside a dream.
But darling, I was never blind
I see the fractures you designed.

Your crystal mask, it shatters slow,
a thousand lies in afterglow.
Transparent heart, so paper-thin,
I breathe, you break, I see within.
Your crystal mask, how fragile grace,
I watch it fall across your face.
You think you shine, but light reveals,
the love you fake, the wounds you steal.

I hear the echo of your pride,
like glass collapsing from inside.
The sound is cruel, but almost sweet
a quiet end beneath my feet.
And maybe love was never real,
just shards of what you tried to feel.
I touch the truth, it cuts my palm
but pain can be a kind of calm.

Your crystal mask, it melts away,
no script, no shine, no masquerade.
I see you now, the boy beneath,
no throne, no crown, just shattered teeth.
Your crystal mask, so clear, so thin
I watched it fade, I let you in.
But now the glass is all I see
a mirror cracked, reflecting me.

Crystal boy, crystal lie,
you tried to glow, you tried to hide.
But light forgives what glass denies,
and I…
I see you breaking.
I see you breaking.

Crystal Mask

grave

Death bed

Overcast mind, can’t outrun the weather Stuck in a storm I designed together Everybody think I’m fine on sight Overcast mind, tryna live through night (Overcast mind, overcast mind) Pressure in the air that I can’t define (Overcast mind, overcast mind) But I keep walkin’ like it’s by design

Overcast Mind

Hold You Gently

God Sees Me

Scalpel-etched lamplight on the butchered dawn
Streets cough steam where the wounds are drawn
Organs strewn like verdicts in a gutter of bone
Bond writes calmly with a violence unknown

Ink drips thick through the rancid air
Logic carving through the human despair

Whitechapel screams in the surgeon’s prose
Lacerations bloom where the shadow goes
Eviscerate the night with a methodical hand
Thomas Bond stalks on in a blood-stained land

Thorax opened like a sermon of gore
Viscera missing—he marks which, and more
Rib-frames cracked in a disciplined cut
Pattern of the blade in the alleys of rot

Breath of the corpse fog curls on the street
Bond finds order in the butcher’s deceit

Whitechapel screams in the surgeon’s prose
Lacerations bloom where the shadow goes
Eviscerate the night with a methodical hand
Thomas Bond stalks on in a blood-stained land

Sequential mutilation in anatomical script
Signature frenzy in the tissues ripped
From Buck’s Row alleys to Miller’s grime
Bond hunts motive in the marrow of crime

Blood-ink logic in a lantern glare
Mapping madness with a surgeon’s stare

Whitechapel screams in the surgeon’s prose
Lacerations bloom where the shadow goes
Eviscerate the night with a methodical hand
Thomas Bond stalks on in a blood-stained land

Steel through sinew, pattern revealed
Pathology whispers what slaughter concealed
Reason cuts deeper than the murderer’s art
Bond dissects the night for its cannibal heart

Ink and entrails speak the same tone
Truth coagulates on the cobblestone

Whitechapel screams in the surgeon’s prose
Lacerations bloom where the shadow goes
Eviscerate the night with a methodical hand
Thomas Bond stalks on in a blood-stained land

Whitechapel

Criminal Mind

These are my audible stitches.
The voices.
The nightmares I never spoke.
My mouth was sewn shut.
This is the Unstitching.
A Turning Page, 2026.
Welcome to Grief Haven,
my personal hell by the sea.
Everything I ran from,
made permanent.
A stitched up soul.
A documented psychological loop.
No resolution.
Welcome to the creature show.
FogCore.

Death bed

Ash The Stitched boy

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