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I carried every story Until they carved themselves into my ribs Some nights, I swear I can hear them Whispering from the bone Asking why we let the world unravel I’ve seen a child fade like a dying candle A mother swallow her hope like poison I’ve held the hands of those Who didn’t have enough sorrow left To cry anymore I’ve watched bodies vanish between headlines Watched grief get washed from screens Like rain from expensive windows And all the while, we built a w

The concrete remembers my weight Even when no one else does I sleep where the streetlights flicker Because darkness costs too much I had a home once With walls that didn’t echo With mornings that tasted like possibility Not recycled air and yesterday’s breath People pass me like I’m a stain on the world Eyes forward Stride wide As if suffering might cling to their shoes If they get too close I count the footsteps more than the hours Because footsteps have faces Ho

This part of our war Before I feared the night Told me the world reads color like prophecy And mine was written wrong La-da-da… relax, dear, don’t make a scene Some shades belong behind the curtain That’s how we keep the order clean My mother washed me until her fingers bled As if scrubbing could change a lineage But skin carries stories deeper than water And some stories they hunt like prey A temple door closed inches from my face The lock clicking like a final verdict My go

They told me quiet was safer But silence felt like dying slow So I wrote my truth in the dark Hoping daylight wouldn’t burn it The walls have ears—everyone knows that The cracks whisper louder than the people I hide my notebook under loose floorboards Where even the dust feels watched Every word I write is a small rebellion Paper trembling like it fears punishment The ink dries slow in this cold room As if it’s afraid to be seen I hear footsteps outside every night

The room is too quiet Even the floorboards forgot how to creak We stopped cooking weeks ago But the smell of empty pots still lingers My brother lies where the sunlight used to fall Skin pale like paper held too long in rain He asks if there’ll be food tomorrow His voice is soft—soft like something fading I touch his forehead with shaking fingers Wishing warmth into him Pretending I don’t feel the bones beneath Pretending I don’t hear him swallow nothing again Mother

Bare walls hum with footsteps no one owns, a low tremor under the boards where he hides his tone. You shrink to the edges, the dog curls tight by your knees, both of you learning how silence can bruise like disease. A cracked frame tilts, catching your breath in the glass— a lesson in walking lightly, hoping storms will pass. You count the locks like prayers, you feel the dark prepare. Rooms with no windows, only echoes of the names he bends, shadows teaching you to me

I rise from the embers you scatter each year Watching footsteps fade in salt and fear Shadows crossing borders drawn in rust Homes made of rain, hope turned to dust You build your walls from trembling hands But every stone remembers where it stands Salt and fear, you carry them like chains Running from the fire you didn’t set, but still remains Salt and fear, I taste it in the air Human hearts undone by lines that never cared Voices lost in paper storms of law Justice sleeps

We grew under ceilings that leaked with lies, Classrooms dim, dust burning our eyes; Hospitals humming in flickering blue, Beds too few for the pain they knew. I speak as one, but we are many— A chorus of futures left empty. The papers folded our names in half, Filed us away like aftermath. These are the kingdoms they built— Brick by brick from our undoing. Every promise they wrote in gold Turned to dust the moment we touched it. We live in the shadows of their comf

I remember you— knees scraped raw on the concrete floor, counting hours by the flicker of a single bulb that never slept. Your hands too small for the iron tools, yet somehow the world kept placing weight in your palms like you were made to hold it. I couldn’t tell you then— you were already breaking in places no one saw. Small bones shouldn’t bear a kingdom’s load, but you did, alone, in that narrow room where childhood never found a door. I hear your name in ev

I stood where the treeline used to breathe, Sap still warm on the broken leaves; Distant saws wept into the air, Their metal grief too sharp to bear. I watched the soil cough up its past, Ring by ring unspooled too fast, And every branch that slumped in rain Carried a memory carved in pain. The wind tried speaking through the gaps, But nothing answered back. And I swear the forest knew our steps, Knew every dream we once had kept; Even as the fires called our claim,

Night folds tight on the room I feared, Walls hum low with the breath I steered; A shadow leans where the doorway bends, Holding truths no daylight mends. I trace the echoes on my skin, Fragile maps of where I’d been, And every tremor I couldn’t flee Still shakes the ground inside of me. If I vanish where the dark held sway, Carry my hope through the fractured day; I was more than the silence kept, More than the tears the night intercepts. Let the wind rewrite my p

Rain hits the pavement like a ticking clock Neon bleeding down the walls like bruises The night holds its breath—waiting to lie again He dropped fast—faster than the sirens could wake Body folding into shadow like it belonged there His dreams spilled out across the cracked cement And the city drank them without a word He told me once he’d climb out of this place Past the corners where boys trade fear for armor But hope burns quick when the darkness taxes you And everyone here

We rose in the shockwave’s breath, born from the roar of shattered sky; dust lifted like a thousand broken prayers spilling into the morning. We remember everything— the walls that trembled before they fell, the hands that reached without finding, the names swallowed by the sirens’ climb. We were once the chalk of playground laughter, soft on the ground beneath children’s steps— but war taught us to carry their silence. Fires crowned the horizon and we became its ch

I slither in the hollows of your pulse, Crowned in chrome, humming hunger; I am the doorway you mistake for mercy. You call me comfort— but I was born from ruptured nights, from alleys that learned your footsteps before you learned your name. Inside your bloodstream’s trembling halls, I sculpt altars out of want; each trembling breath you chase belongs to me. I am the needle in the vein of God, the spark you worship when your hope runs dry; every promise etched in

BEHIND THE WRITING Evil, Incorporated  began as a quiet thought—one that lingered too long to be ignored. It was not born from anger alone, but from a growing unease, the kind that settles in the mind when you spend too much time watching the world move forward while something inside you stays still. It is a reflection of questions many of us carry but rarely speak aloud, shaped by the realities happening around us—realities that do not hide in the shadows, but exist plainly,