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[msnera]

I want art to hurt again. I want to bleed a little every time I turn the page.

[msnera]

I don’t believe in “accessible art” when what they mean is “art that doesn’t make us feel stupid.” Feeling stupid is the first step to thinking deeply.

m.snera

[msnera]

The man in my head doesn’t sleep

There’s a man in the walls of my skull.

Some nights, I hear him pacing.

Other nights, I hear him sharpening something.

I pour salt along the edges of my thoughts.

He laughs.

He says salt won’t stop the sea.

I dream of wolves that speak in my mother’s voice.

They tell me to eat the moon

before it eats me.

I wake up with dirt under my nails.

Was I digging him up

or burying him again?

Once, I saw him sitting in my ribcage,

polishing a crown of rust.

I asked him whose it was.

He smiled like he had swallowed the answer whole.

Sometimes I think I’ve drowned him—

but then the tide in my chest rises without warning,

and I remember that drowning things

can still breathe in the dark.

I’m not sure if killing him is possible.

Maybe the only way is to starve him of my belief.

Maybe the only way is to feed the wolf instead.

[msnera]

The words I love most are the ones that bruise when I touch them.

m.snera

[msnera]

I measure time not in hours or days, but in the unfinished books stacked beside my bed, their bookmarks frozen mid-breath.

[msnera]

Some ghosts you keep around, only to remind yourself you survived them.

m.snera

[msnera]

Some voices sound like love until you hear the chains in their echo.

m.snera

[msnera]

The Sky’s Mouth

The sky opened its mouth today

& swallowed my shadow whole

mother, my ribs are empty halls

the wind walks through without knocking

I am trying to keep my pulse quiet

so the world made of paper

doesn’t hear it beating

[msnera]

There’s a small graveyard in my mind where I bury the versions of me that obeyed too quickly.

m.snera

[msnera]

Scrolling through quick bites of ‘poetry’? Time to stop.

Let’s bring back the poems that make us think, bleed, and grow

We are drowning in the shallow end and calling it the ocean. Poetry has been stripped of its marrow, sold in glitter-wrapped portions small enough to digest without chewing.

The art of thinking has been replaced by the art of scrolling fingers flicking past words meant to pierce, now pausing only for words that pat our heads and tell us we’re clever for understanding them.

It is not that the age has forgotten beauty; it’s that beauty now has to audition for attention, competing against algorithms and dopamine hits. The classics rot in dusty corners while the market floods with bite-sized affirmations bound in pastel covers, marketed as “poetry” for the attention-impaired.

A coherent sentence is treated like a revelation, yet coherence without depth is just a polished surface hiding an empty core.

We have mistaken ease for accessibility. We have mistaken applause for merit.

We have mistaken the fear of feeling stupid for the wisdom of embracing simplicity. And so, we reward mediocrity not because it deserves it, but because it never asks us to sweat for it.

So wake up. Hunt for words that cut through the static. Find the sentences that demand to be read twice, thrice, until they live inside you. And when you find them pay for them. Make the poets rich again, not with likes, but with loyalty.

But art was never meant to be comfortable. It should unsettle. It should demand. It should bruise the ego and seduce the mind. The pen should be both sword and sanctuary, the page both confidant and adversary. Writers should bleed, and readers should ache, and in that ache, the bridge between them should stand unshakable.

[msnera]

The Four Seasons of Seeing

I. Peace

The days then were painted in soft gold, and even the air seemed to hum. I would watch the dust in the library sunlight, each particle moving like it knew its place in some secret choreography. Rain was not weather it was music against the glass. Even the stones in the road seemed to lean toward me, their cracks sprouting flowers that whispered in a language I somehow understood.

Beauty wasn’t something I looked for; it was the water I breathed in without knowing.

II. Chaos

Then the glass inside me shattered. The same sunlight now cut sharp, thin lines across my skin. The flowers in the pavement lost their tongues, and the rain began to speak only in static. The streets warped under my feet, bending and twisting like they were trying to shake me off. The moon above no longer glowed—it stared, unblinking, as though I were a stranger trespassing in my own life.

III. Numbness

I tried to eat the world back into colour. Bowls of my favourite meals, cups of tea steeped until the water turned black. But the flavours slid off my tongue, dissolving before I could name them. The sunsets came and went, spilling paint across the horizon, but it all ran together into the same grey.

Beauty was still there, I could feel it watching. me but I no longer had the shape to hold it.

IV. Return

It began again, quietly. A glint in the puddle on the cobblestones. The way the wind moved the curtains just enough to let in a slice of sky.

The rain tapping its fingertips against my window in something almost like a melody.

I don’t think beauty ever left it simply waited for me to look up. Now, the key rests in my palm again, still warm from the lock. I turn it slowly, and the world breathes.

[msnera]

[msnera]

[msnera]

[msnera]

I tried to eat the world back into colour, but it dissolved before I could name it.

m.snera ( from four seasons of seeing)

[msnera]

Some days feel like they belong to someone ,

I used to be.

m.snera

[msnera]

There is an ache .

for something I’ve never held a name I can’t pronounce, but whisper in sleep. It’s not a person, but a place where my soul once rested.

m.snera