A Free Verse Poem — Soul Magazine’s Halloween Writing Challenge — Hey there, you ghoulish automatons of the October assembly line, Slaves to the mask, the garish attire. Halloween, huh? A calendar blip that society exploits to sell you a pocketful of temporary identities. Let’s peel back the orange, shall we? You see, we’re already in costume, Clad in the regalia of…

A Free Verse Poem — Look, society’s been feeding you sweet lies, Manufactured — like those plastic pumpkins you so adore. But let’s rip through that skin — no, not just flesh, but that soul. The unseen one. It’s not just Halloween tricks; we’re talking October. Month of witches. Black magic. Your eyes — icy…

A Free Verse Poem — You’re an iceberg, man, A vast unseen mass beneath the surface, But the surface is all you know. You think that’s you? Dressed in vanity, drizzled in pride, You’re just a storefront, A billboard selling lies to an audience of one. You say you’re free? Freedom is an illusion, a cosmic joke. You’re a puppet, tied to strings of…

A Free Verse Poem — In the veiled silence of midnight’s cloak, when the world sleeps in oblivious peace, a solitary mind awakes, stark and unyielding. The cats, like silent sentinels, await their nocturnal tribute, eyes glinting, reflecting a world unseen, unspoken. This is the hour, the fucking witching hour, where truths, raw and unadorned, crawl…

A Free Verse Poem — In the heart of nowhere, a gas station flickers — a shrine to the mundane, where dreams go to die under the fluorescent glow. There she stands, the priestess of petrol, a prophet in a polyester uniform. …

A Free Verse Poem — In this digital jungle, Children, sapped of spirit, Scroll through life, Eyes glazed, hearts numbed. No chalk dust or paper planes, Just pixels whispering silent cries, A generation learning In the shadow of a future, dimmed. They sit, Heads bowed to screens, Learning not from books, But from the hollow glow Of a world…

A Free Verse Poem — The world’s got its hooks in me, and I — I’m holding onto you like a dying man grasps air. This isn’t what they call romance in storybooks, this is the grit beneath fingernails, the stain on a mechanic’s hands that soap won’t lift. You and I, we’re not delicate…

A Poem —

A Free Verse Poem — the sun grumbles, rubbing its eyes with flares as if hungover from a night of cosmic folly, the world, an unwelcome alarm clock. the wind, restless as a poet’s soul, whispers secrets to trees that never gossip — their leaves, tongues biting in silenced eloquence. shafts of sunlight pencil-sketch the…