A poem scraped from the edge. About falling, freedom, and the scars we wear like medals.

A goddess once worshiped for wisdom shows up barefoot, high, and half-naked, here to remind you truth isn’t polite, it’s primal.

He’s not saving souls, just lighting blunts and keeping the rhythm alive in a godless world.

He was the patron saint of broken hearts and bong rips, showing up stoned with a lighter, a limp prayer, and nothing left to lose.

A raw, defiant, dread. Stubborn pride collide.

A poem soaked in smoke, heartbreak, and divine indifference.

Where gods crawl through sand and stardust, and the universe runs on scrolls.

A poem had to come out, it did today. I feel fucking good.