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This is the crooked little workshop behind the art —
a place for unfinished poems, scattered thoughts,
ink-stained pages, visual art, lyrics, stories, fragments,
and all the strange things still becoming themselves.
Some works found here may one day grow into
finished collections of their own.
Others may remain scraps, sketches, or
wandering little creatures left exactly as they are.
This is where the roots show.
The drafts.
The late-night ideas.
The beautiful mess before the pieces
find where they belong.
So come wander through the malice.
The Malice World
Motherhood
There was a time my heartbeat was the only one I knew, and even keeping that alive felt impossible to do. The world was sharp with winter then, uncertain, hard, and wild, until it placed into my arms, Jacob, my firstborn child. You arrived unplanned to everyone, including your dad and me, and suddenly your fragile heart depended on our plea. We could not always pay the bills, or fill the kitchen shelves, but somehow love still built a home from broken parts of ourselves. The
Malice Blūm
May 233 min read
Echoes Beyond the Veil: A Cosmic Elegy
We orbit wide and free, beneath the gaze of distant stars, One drifts 'round horizon’s edge, ensnared by collapsing scars. Their Eden blooms with light, where joy and river-song unite, Unknowing that their skies conceal a darker kind of night. Beneath soft moons, their laughter rings as dreams are carved and sown, But all their paths wind inward to a gravity unknown. We sing through interstellar seas, in choir with nebulae, Deaf to our call, they thrive instead where silence
Malice Blūm
May 212 min read
She Is The Oak
It— did begin with star-bright eyes, born in this world so fair, with faith as pure as dawn’s first light, no dread might linger there. “Sweet mother,” cried its gentle voice, "Dear father,” came its plea, it dreamt of arms that held it close, and hearts beat ever free. But hands that should have gently held, did strike with cold disdain, and lips that ought to bless its brow, did bring instead, but pain. Where children’s dreams should sprout and bloom, dark shadows crept uns
Malice Blūm
May 202 min read
Mother Of Ash And Bloom
Dona walked through halls where light once kissed the stone, A castle proud, now fallen and alone. Each room recalls what she allowed to decay, Skies once bright now churn in ashen gray. She thought desire could guard what once was hers, Yet all she built now smolders and blurs. She kissed the venom, She drank the storm, Pretended the chaos could keep her warm, While Solan held his vigil, constant yet unseen—
Malice Blūm
May 192 min read
Ink Of You
Our eyes ignite, flint struck in night, a spark climbs up, a wicked light. Your lips find mine, the world turns small, a bloom of heat, a shadowed thrall. Your hands, like silk, glide over me, unwrapping secrets none can see. Each kiss a pulse, each whispered breath, a vow that quivers close to death. You taste the hollow—slow, divine— then graze my collar, leave your sign. I shiver, half-desire, half-glow, a molten candle bending low. Fabric falls on steps we tread, soft cas
Malice Blūm
May 181 min read
Persephone
They crowned her queen of ash and grief, with nettles in her hair, and whispered, “See the dark you cast— it’s you who put it there.” They fed her light in measured sips, and named her shadow’s source; they built a cage of borrowed blame and called it love’s remorse. She learned to bloom without the sun, to smile through shallow breath; they taught her beauty’s price was pain, and silence sounded best. Then from below, a murmur came, a voice both fierce and kind; she thought
Malice Blūm
May 172 min read
The Gears Are Ours
I don't think men are doing enough to clear their gender’s name of the stain that is misogyny and worse. I don't think women are mad enough to grind the gilded gears of society to a halt. Because, in the end, those gears are ours. As long as the gears keep turning, new life flows. Refuse to grind and everything stops. No sons. No daughters. No empire grows. _______________ This is not a poem about hating men or blaming women. It is about the way systems survive by teaching or
Malice Blūm
May 141 min read
Prompts 1
A series of poems I wrote from prompts one day while I was sick in bed. What I Let Drown I knew if I didn’t let you go I would drown too. So I loosened my grip, finger by finger, watched you drift deeper beneath the trembling water. Your hair spread out like ink in the calm, your lips parted as if they had one last thing to say. I almost followed. Almost dove in with you. Almost let the dark close over my head like a lid. But life kept calling me in ugly human ways— heart rac
Malice Blūm
May 102 min read
On My Terms
I don't want to die. But my body keeps trying— why? I should be running through fields, not dreading what the end yields. Why does my blood pulse with mutiny? Oxygen kept from cells— hypoxia. I have held this body gently— nourished it with food. Hydrated it with liquids. Filled it with forgiveness. Dragged it kicking and screaming through years it swore it would not survive. So why then must my body turn against me like an animal trapped— chewing through itself to escape? I'v
Malice Blūm
May 52 min read
No King
America has no king, no crown upon the greedy mind; no single voice whose power grows through fear to rule mankind. Yet power hums beneath the ground, its echoes haunt the clay; for what was built on others’ bones still breathes beneath the day. The treaties turned from word to ash, their pledges swept away; The Trail still winds through history's grief, where countless lives gave way. The children sent to schools reformed, young buried 'neath the frames, and from the bones o
Malice Blūm
May 45 min read
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