Babylon Born

And not a soul lifted a finger against the injustices of this town. You won’t find me walking in the crowds but you’ll feel my presence like a shadow coming to steal your crown.

But of course it’s Her way of life
She just crossed the state line for that f’n knife
Collecting Aflac like they were only worth a dime
Blowing your candles out — it happened three times
Best mom in the world what a joke
With that line even the devil was provoked
Motive was always — her image in others minds
Happy Birthday b*tch, here’s your mother f’n rhyme

…to keep someone confused, emotionally off balance, and easier to control.
…to keep accountability out of reach while maintaining power over the narrative.
…to keep a person chasing clarity that was intentionally withheld.
…to keep emotional leverage without having to communicate honestly.
…to keep someone attached through uncertainty and self-doubt.
…to keep distance without taking responsibility for the damage caused.

If you can’t see the levels of hypocrisy woven through every single word you speak — then the world itself will bear witness to the “Vampire” you have become.

I have met so many “healers” who claim to be in “service” to others, yet only used it as a mask to conceal their true nature — charlatans draped in false light. They plagiarize the work of artists, steal the faces and photographs of others, and fabricate identities designed to seduce trust and manufacture false intimacy.

You were tested! To see the maturity of your spirit. And when you rushed at the opportunity to fill the role of a “teacher” I knew then that your ego had already seized the throne. Your projections were so unbelievably transparent all I could respond with was, “thank you for the clarity”. Because clarity was certainly what you provided. The unmistakable revelation of who you truly are.

And when gifts begin arriving from your romantic partners, understand this well: I was never trying to know you more deeply. I was trying to warn you. A betrayal I know dearly has taught me to recognize the serpents that coil quietly within one’s own bedchamber.

If and when I ever see you again, I will rebuke you as one who chose performance over truth, and illusion over integrity.

Correct the wise and they will become wiser still; correct a fool and they will hate you.

New nodes being published daily. If you want to see how this story plays into it all. Visit the link in bio —subscribe and be witness.

Fit for…. and

Every word carries a story. The story of Sons and Daughters, of Husbands and Wives, of Dreams and Shattered Hearts. It’s said that our souls choose the experiences we must encounter in this life, it’s the education we need to become whole. Yet, I still mourn.

**kthissh*t

The Obeahman’s Wanga
Is she a queen writing poetry for ears of the dead?
A womb withering — laying lonely in bed?
A moment lost, surrendered to the ego’s discernment —
Oh what an illusion, he whispers, you definitely earned it.
Rise, oh goddess. Urich has returned.
Head to the crossroads — hear what Inti observed.
Mayahuel’s blooming sacrifice
bleeds the pups from the ground.
A two-tailed Tolok beckons,
symbols spinning all around.
The Wanga is fixed.
The shadow is caught.
In the death of the bloom,
new luck is bought.
A poem for a poet,
a mother-to-be —
come quick, come hurry,
the world wants to see.

The Mystery of the Man Eater

Olyyo Aner, she stilled the beating heart;
I leaned in close and breathed the toxic smoke,
Apollo’s vision forced the tongue to start,
as darkened words the prophet then awoke —
where Hero stood in Sestos by the sea,
she raised her torch to light the lover’s way,
nor knew the altar winds were set to blow —
how death would come to be —
for scribes to press their passion into clay,
the embers slowly fading from their glow.

A single stanza Keatsian Ode in strict iambic pentameter with one trimeter line.

Oh Opuntia - would a wolf plant you at the cities edge?
Your womb “teeming” from divinities bed?
Adopted not in Locrus’s head!
For a daughter born to the barrenless?
Rather you be carried off with love instead!

The prickly pear takes its name from Opus, the ancient Greek city founded through divine encounter — a king without an heir, a wife carried off by Zeus, and a lineage born from love and loss.

All of it lives in the question the poem cannot stop asking — whether to be returned to barrenness is fate, or whether to be carried off with love is the truer, more difficult grace.