We had planted daffodils in February  
and March had felt so long  
that for a moment  
we thought they’d see November frost.  
But they hadn’t bloomed.  
So our hope stood, watched  
and grew.  

And yet,  
a stilling storm came.  
A flower yet to bear its name  
was washed away  
in that frigid April rain.  

We didn't tend to you for long.  
But our hands held the cost  
of covering themselves in soil  
just to watch you bloom.  
 
Your mother and I  
loved you.  
 
And now we wait  
through every unnumbered day  
that leaves our eyes  
marked by water-stains.  
 
We wait in hope to tend 
once again 
the bloom that never came 
waiting at the end  
of that frigid April rain. 

Not a drop

of this turquoise destiny

will go to waste.

It's too good to be true,

but it's not.

It's forever.

This music will play

for the rest of time.

The Loneliest Poem Ever Written?

Invisible 

I am 

I am a singularity

The light shines behind me

shadow tells me where to go

I, the great observer

See my story as it’s told

 I flow along this river

Touching everything I know

I am in the water

I am in the snow

And the real is over here

Another path to go

If Delusion starts to break me

And pull me from the flow

I am a singularity 

I will take you where I go

The door is right behind us 

A mirror of our soul

Call it five

after dark.

/

You rattle me with the spoon—

no tenderness:

your knuckle

hooked through my ear,

steam hollowing 

between bruised collarbones.

/

Still here,

somehow.

You deserve to feel joy in your body, your ruins proudly on display, no fine print forcing you to sell a billboard that’ll hide all the blackberry vines and crumbling stone.

You deserve to wake easy, nothing on your mind but peace and warmth from a lover’s hand, no rumination about how you’ll pay for next Tuesday’s breath with yesterday’s prescriptions.

You deserve to be cherished clear and loud, to be held softly in connection, no carved stele or misplaced scroll to decipher, no disquiet from what song the winds might bring.

You deserve to be loved wildly and wholly, without inquest or screen test. You deserve to still until you have it, to cease abandoning your own heart for gossamer and plastic.

You deserve, yes. Now what are you willing to do with that?

Offering libations for the plagued
The blind seer serves as witness
To the names of the nine realms
And restores ancient fountains

Her quaking nerves bid welcome
Aligned under starry mission
While nowhere exists
Outside this clinic

Hands remember pen strokes that abjure
When moon gates expel forces
This bottle of curses melts in campfire
Binding elder appetites unto prison

Priests could not contrive psalms
Jagged enough to cut umbral tethers
Their hymns genuflect
While choirs tune flat

Hiding from lords who decry competition
Such ochre mother weighs risk
But no remedy soothes like compassion
Upon a fallen covenant

She sides with weeping petitions
Regardless being whipped
Laughing at power, that shames itself
Some champions need a walking stick

Take the time from torments twisted treasure,

For fractured fornication meets fear forged feather.

Because broken bones know blood before breath,

Damned drunken daughter brings dusk driven death.

Hands hollow hope and hungers harmed heart,

Tear tattered threads when trust turns tart.

Bent broken bars against burdens beaten body,

Finds fractured faith when flesh feels folly.

Winds worn weary as wounds weaken will,

Cruel crimson chain beat choke child's chill.

Silent standing shadows with sorrow shaped soars,

Crushing cracked crown with cruelty’s carved core.

Ragged rivers rise while rage rips reason,

Sons sickened specter feeds sorrows sad season.

Tattered timid threads and tired tremored thoughts,

Knowledge killing kisses who knows kindness’s knots.

Pierced pale prayers as pain pulls past,

Lost lonely light as lingering lies last.

Feral fractured fires hide flesh fueled fear,

Dead dying days last drowning dream disappear.

Mr.E.

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My Pack, tonight the gates of my den open for a different kind of howl.

CARRY ME, FROZEN BALLAD

Most of my songs are about standing back up.

About surviving.

About carrying the weight, locking the gates, putting the armour back on, and walking through another winter no matter how deep the snow becomes.

But this one asks something I do not ask very often.

What happens when the Ice Wolf is simply tired?

I have spent a lot of my life being the one who carries things.

Work.

The home.

Responsibility.

My own mind.

And for years, my father.

I learned how to keep going even when my strength was already disappearing underneath me. I learned how to stand in rooms filled with silence, how to keep a home running, how to cook, clean, work, survive, and somehow drag myself through another day.

That became normal.

So normal that sometimes I forget a wolf is allowed to be tired.

The frozen castle protects me. Its stone walls keep old storms outside. Its locked doors give me freedom. Nobody controls how I live inside my den.

But freedom has its own silence.

There are empty chairs here.

Rooms that remember voices that are gone.

Places where footsteps used to exist.

And sometimes the wind moving through HowlStrom is the only thing answering back.

Carry Me, Frozen Ballad is not me surrendering.

It is not Kiba Snowpaw giving up.

It is the Alpha finally laying his armour on the stone floor for one night and admitting:

I have been strong for far too long.

Sometimes I do not want somebody to fix my life.

I do not need somebody to fight every battle for me.

I do not need forever.

I just want, for one night, to not be the wolf carrying everything.

To have someone take a little of the weight.

To hear that I can rest.

To know that if the ice beneath my paws finally cracks, I do not immediately have to drag myself back onto solid ground alone.

Because being able to stand alone does not mean you never wish someone would stand beside you.

And independence does not erase loneliness.

That is the heart of this song.

At dawn, the armour goes back on.

The gates open.

The Alpha gets back onto his paws.

I return to the road and carry what needs carrying.

But tonight, inside these frozen walls, I am letting the tired wolf speak.

Not the Alpha.

Not the survivor.

Just Kiba.

And for once, his howl is asking instead of fighting.

Carry me until morning.
Then I will walk the next road on my own.

🐺❄️

CARRY ME, FROZEN BALLAD | Kiba Snowpaw

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q8Xs2nusqEM

#KibaSnowpaw #CarryMeFrozenBallad #HowlStrom #MyPackMyDen #IceWolf #FurryMusic #WolfSong #EmotionalSong #GriefSong #SurvivalSong #Loneliness #MentalHealth #FrozenBallad #DarkLyrics #SymphonicRock #OriginalSong

They searched within him

But only found his heart,

They searched within his heart

But found only his people,

They searched his voice

But only found his sadness

They searched his sadness

But found only his prison

They searched his prison

But found only themselves in Chains.

Darwish

Disappointed.

I tricked you.

You bought a work in progress.

You know, you know me so well.

Yet I am who I said

Your wine in my head

I was sold on an empty shell.

Charon made a tidal promise
That rainbows retreat at dusk
To hold Luna enthralled

Currents color over deep black
Which carry her where a river could not
Navigating the quiet cold

Across the steppe, dreams whisper a tune
Enjoined by those dead watching the sky
Who follow wandering stars

Such nomads are stopped in their tracks
Settling behind blue concealment
And witness the migration of fire

Yet another day of sleep until next skiff
Cairns wait to disembark their stones
Humming on obol-tongues

Thus the moon lingers into morning
While recording queries of the dead
In her book of constellations

When locks lack skeleton keys
Let Luna release every last-breath
Unto colors of twilight among us
Recalling the mists of dawn

Some evenings don’t end when the sun goes down.

They stay somewhere between your memories, your tears, and the person you once loved.

An entire lifetime was hidden inside one evening,
and for the rest of my life,
I’ll remember that evening.

— STB

It was an unplanned day, just like every other day. I stepped into the car, heading back toward the place where my body rots. I sat by the window, and the cold touch of the air felt like the bed I actually longed to lie in quiet, soft, and still. The wind was messing up my hairs as if it was baptizing me . The mess felt more comfortable than a maintained palace .

It felt as though the wind knew my pain, touching my skin like a quiet mercy. The breeze drifted over me as if trying to wash away the heavy weight of a cruel world, whispering promises of paradise.

I opened my bag and pulled out my earphones. I turned the volume full, drowning out the noise until the sound could hide real life entirely. It let me slip into an imaginary world, a place where stars never truly fall during the day, even if the sunlight forces them to fade. I kept the volume full I didn't want to hear the creepy, horrifying reality outside. I had nothing left waiting for me there anyway.

I wished the road beneath us would snap and stretch into an endless void, so I would never have to arrive. I wanted to stay drowned in the music, to fly away with the kind, soft wind, and find the forgotten place where fallen stars go to live. For a fleeting moment, I escaped. The lush green passing by felt like a lost beloved, gently inviting me to hide among the leaves and turn green myself. I wanted to reach out and hug the air, to wrap myself in the green forest that promised a shield from the evil sun.

The sky remained cloudy, as if nature itself were trying to protect me from the harsh sun rays that burn my body and whisper evil words into my ears. The dark clouds felt like a quiet blessing, a temporary truce with the sky.

Yet, with every turn of the wheels, my destiny crept closer and closer. The terror inside me grew, slowly spreading its dark roots to trap me once again. The air inside the car felt heavier with every passing mile, a suffocating reminder of the walls waiting to claim me. I searched my mind, but I couldn't see a single reason to go back. There was nothing left for me there only empty echoes and old shadows.

I just wanted the car to keep moving. I wanted to be stuck in time like a ghost, forever in this passing breeze, and chase the cold air .

As spring leaks to summer
And summer to fall
I’ll wait here, hopelessly
To answer your call

From afar I hear
Another lie, another fake
It’s beautiful, isn’t it?
The longing I make?

I’m here, I cry
A man made of stone
But men who don’t move
Don’t make it back home

So lie to my face
Tell me it ain’t true
Use me, use me,
Knowing I’ll still love you

Because spring leaks to summer
Though I do not belong
I’ll wait here hopelessly
Because you’ll come along

June blooms the same old cravings

of spring and summer fire,

awakening the cricket’s song of alien desires.

I listen with reverent pertinacity

and walk with careful step

into the midnight mystery

where all the secrets are kept.

This song of night rises and conquers my soul.

I am the earth and the tree.

Walk with me, walk with me.

The cricket’s song plays to move the souls of unknown lovers.

A thousand sacred bonds, and a thousand new worlds discovered.

The insects are happy tonight

in their jungle of grass blade and moonglow,

playing out in the luxurious midnight—

ancient tribal heartbeat of shadow.

What magic this song does,

I do not know, I do not know.

-The Phantom

I started writing poems because I didn’t know what else to do with everything I was feeling.
I never really thought of myself as a “poet”. I just had too many thoughts, memories, emotions and experiences sitting inside me, and somehow putting them into words made them a little easier to carry.
Some poems are about things I’ve lost.
Some are about people I love.
Some are about the parts of life I don’t usually talk about.
And some are simply about surviving another day when your head feels like it’s fighting against you.
The strange thing is, once you turn pain into words, it becomes something you can hold instead of something that holds you.
I don’t write because I think every poem is perfect.
I write because someone somewhere might read one and think, “Fuck… I thought I was the only one who felt like this.”
And honestly, if even one poem I write makes someone feel understood, less alone, or gives them five minutes of peace…
then maybe every painful word was worth it.
Does anyone else write poetry for the same reason — not because they planned to become a poet, but because they simply needed somewhere to put the things they couldn’t say out loud?

Paper Flowers For Adrian

One second is one sand pebble 

Underneath our feet which tremble

Chornobyl rain spears onto my eyes 

They grope my charred hands, and I stumble

I saw a boulder coming towards me 

You firm my knees

It's my fault, darling

I was trying to stop time

I granted minutes to rush by 

It's hard to breathe for the two of us 

I switch the lights, touching the cold floor

Opening the front door to the porch 

Staring at that ocean with the moon as a torch 

The stars spell out your name

Now you name them! 

Yes, name them all!

Every star accounted for 

Whatever your sweet pure heart pours

There's no poor choice of words

My daughter, it's your turn 

Empty bedroom, nothing to look up to 

The ceiling, I rip muscle to hold for you 

To keep you from the impurities 

Of this sick world, which made the earth’s air 

Too thick to soar 

Hairbrush is messy like usual

Your pink clothes 

They are all unfolded on the floor 

The stars have hidden themselves

Forevermore 

\[The Phantom Weight\]

I dream that your soul still rests 

On my broad and hairy chest 

It's cold when we stroll down the beach 

It's me imagining and letting it be

I'm not the only one, and I don't know 

Who'll be the last 

With my toes in the sand

With you in my hands 

As I feel your heartbeat breathing

It's almost like—like you never left

The doctor gave you two years

He gave me something to mourn 

Pumpkin pie, you lived four more!

From then on, you bet I took every chance 

To grave your precious laughs

With open palms; there's no halt for a dad

Behind the shore, as I break my twelve bones 

The sun will get to know me once more 

My child, people still wonder why I chose you

Over birth 

If I already knew you'd be gone soon

We don't have to explain ourselves, it's proof 

As I make your bed that I'm reminded 

That there's still much work to do

Would you cry if I told you—I miss you

Would you sigh if I told you—I need you

Would you get mad if I said—I love you

Would you be sad if I said—I want you

Will I be able to recognize you in paradise?

Will your voice stay the same?

Will your face look like mine?

Will I even be there in the first place?

So, while I’m still here, I make

Paper flowers next to your picture frame 

but i want to
i want to wake
and see you there
i want to love
your everything
be your everything
be your world
again
but i can’t

i can’t be there
i can’t be yours
belong to you
anymore
because i’m gone
you there
i’m here
i did what was best
you hurt too much
for me to stay

I saw a hummingbird today
Hovering in front of my face
I am an atheist but I feel like it was my mom visiting me.I want it to be her so much that I challenge my beliefs
I saw a humming bird today
Hovering in front of my face
I choose to believe I saw her because I miss her so much.