Blackrose

14/09/2026

14/09/2026

31/08/2026

The devil never came with horns,
or fire beneath his feet.
He came wrapped inside white paper,
small enough for me to keep.

He waited quietly in my pocket,
knowing exactly when I would break,
whispering, “You have survived enough
come on, just one more mistake.”

So I struck the match.
And watched my weakness burn.

That first breath felt like silence
after a lifetime filled with noise.
For a moment, I controlled it
then addiction stole the choice.

Smoke became my secret language,
every inhale hiding pain.
I fed the devil with my lungs
just to feel myself again.

Ash fell between my fingers
like pieces of wasted years,
each cigarette a little grave
for thoughts I couldn’t face or hear.

I smoked when I was lonely.
I smoked when I was strong.
I smoked when nothing hurt me,
because by then the habit belonged.

Morning coffee knew my weakness.
Midnight knew it too.
Stress would put one in my hand
before I even knew.

And the cruelest part?

The devil never forced me.
He simply learned my sadness,
memorised every crack,
then waited for the difficult days
when he knew I would come back.

Just one.

The oldest lie
I still sometimes believe.

Because one becomes another
when your weakness knows your name,
and something that once calmed you
slowly teaches you its chains.

I have watched the smoke disappear
and wished my troubles did the same.
But pain does not leave through your lungs
it waits beneath the flame.

Perhaps that is why ash feels honest.
It never pretends to stay.
Everything I burn eventually
turns grey
and falls away.

So maybe one day
I will hold that cigarette
and finally understand:

the fire was never healing me.
I was only burning
to feel warm.
And when that day comes,
I will let the devil keep his matches.

I will keep my breath.
I will keep my years.
I will keep the parts of me
I haven’t turned to ash yet.

Because smoking may have learned
my weakest weakness

but weakness
doesn’t have to be
where my story ends.

Copyright ©️2026 by Blackrose/ D.J

28/08/2026

Sixteen Years and Counting

We met too young to understand
what time would teach us, hand in hand.
Sixteen years of growing through,
and somehow life kept leading me to you.

Not perfect love from storybooks,
but love that’s found in quiet looks.
In friendship, laughter, harder days,
in learning all each other’s ways.

I’m the laughter, loud and bright,
the “let’s just go” from day to night.
You are the calm when I run wild,
the steady heart, the patient smile.

When pain is heavy, strength runs thin,
you never ask me to give in.
You know I fight, you know I try,
you simply stay there by my side.

You make my breakfast every day,
a little “I love you” without words to say.
You let me sleep when I need rest,
never questioning if I’ve done my best.

You give me freedom, never chains,
you know my laughter and my pains.
No jealousy, no need to prove
just trust, respect and room to move.

And life has taken me far enough
to learn the difference between love and love
that only hurts, controls and takes
and the kind that heals instead of breaks.

I nearly lost what mattered most,
chasing answers I already held close.
But sometimes we must lose our view
to see what has been true.

And what was true was always you.

My greatest friendship, safest place,
the quiet peace within your face.
I push myself, it’s what I do,
but part of my strength comes home to you.

We’ve learned that love is not a spark
that disappears when life gets dark.
It’s knowing every scar and fear
and still saying, “I’m right here.”

So I don’t need another start,
another face, another heart.
After sixteen years, I finally see
you never took my freedom,
you gave me somewhere safe to be free.

And when our hair has turned to grey,
when sixteen years feels far away,
I hope I’m still beside my friend,
still choosing you until the end.

Because of everything life put us through,
I learned myself by loving you.

And if another life begins
when all of this one finally ends,
among a million souls I’d roam

I’d know you by the peace.
I’d know you by the laughter.
I’d know you by the feeling
that somehow I’d come home.

Sixteen years and counting, my wife.
And I’d still choose you.
Every time.

25/07/2026

Posh VS hustlers

They spent so long pretending to be posh
that they forgot who they really were.

Everything had to look expensive.
The perfect clothes.
The perfect house.
The perfect friends.
The perfect photographs.
The perfect life.

They surrounded themselves with people
who judged value by labels,
not by loyalty.

Behind the polished smiles
were unpaid bills,
growing debts,
and a life built to impress strangers
instead of bringing peace.

They traded authenticity
for appearances,
and slowly lost
their own identity.

The hustlers they once walked beside
the ones who loved them
before the image,
before the pretending,
before the need to fit into a world
that was never truly theirs
were left behind.

Not because those friends changed,
but because they refused
to play the same game.

There is nothing wrong
with dreaming of a better life.

But there is a difference
between building success
and performing it.

Real wealth
doesn’t need an audience.
Real class
doesn’t need to announce itself.
And a rich soul
will always be worth more
than a life financed by debt
just to convince the world
you belong.

In the end,
the hardest person to fool
is the one staring back
from the mirror.

Because no matter
how convincing the performance becomes,
your true self
never forgets
who you really are.

Copyright ©️2026 by Blackrose/ D.J

18/06/2026

The shift

Sometimes I feel the world shifts quietly.

Not the loud changes,
not the storms that everyone can see,
but the small things.

The little details that once sat in familiar places,
the patterns I learned without trying,
the routines that became part of the landscape of my days.

A thing moved.
A word missing.
A silence where there used to be sound.

And perhaps to others,
it means nothing.

But I notice.

I notice because I have spent time
learning the shape of things,
the rhythm of people,
the order of moments.

And when something changes,
I feel the disturbance before I understand it.

Then comes the question that follows me like a shadow:

Is this my intuition speaking,
or is it fear wearing its clothes?

Am I seeing what is there,
or searching for something that isn’t?

Because sometimes a feeling arrives
long before the truth does.

And sometimes knowing people well enough
becomes its own burden.

You recognize the pauses.
You recognize the missing pieces.
You recognize the effort made to show you one thing
while another remains carefully hidden.

What you want me to see,
you place in plain sight.

What you don’t,
you tuck behind closed doors.

And I wonder,
if one day I will ever hear the truth spoken freely,
without being dragged into the light.

But I know something about people.

Confession is heavy.

Much heavier than denial.

Much heavier than pretending nothing changed.

So often the easier road
is not honesty,
but distance from it.

And that is where I become quiet.

Not because I have nothing to say,
but because I have too much.

I stop asking questions
whose answers are already echoing inside me.

I stop searching every corner
for proof of what my heart suspects.

Instead,
I build.

My own path.

My own Monopoly board,
where every property I acquire
is a lesson paid for dearly.

My own Jenga tower,
carefully stacked from trust,
hope,
patience,
and belief.

Knowing full well that one day
a single movement
can make everything tremble.

Yet I keep building.

Not because I believe nothing will fall,
but because I have learned
that falling is part of the game.

The truth is,
I do not want control.

Control is not trust.

Control is fear trying to disguise itself as safety.

So I let things be.

I let people choose.

I let actions speak
when words refuse to.

I let time reveal
what explanations never could.

And if something is meant to stay,
it will remain standing without my hands holding it up.

And if it is meant to leave,
no amount of holding on
will make it stay.

Still,
there are nights when I stare into the silence
and wonder whether I was right all along.

Whether those tiny shifts
were whispers of a truth
I was never meant to hear.

But life has taught me this:

Not every unanswered question
needs to be chased.

Not every hidden thing
needs to be uncovered.

Sometimes the greatest act of courage
is not finding the answer.

It is accepting that the answer,
whatever it may be,
will eventually find its way to you.

And until then,
I will keep walking.

Not with certainty.

Not without pain.

But with enough faith
to know that what is real
does not require constant investigation.

What is real survives the light.

And what survives the light
was never afraid of being seen.

Copyright ©️2026 by Blackrose/ D.J

11/06/2026

08/06/2026

This poem is still blooming,
One petal at a time.
The answer isn’t ready yet,
But neither is the rhyme ☺️

🖤 Blackrose
D.J

04/06/2026

A reminder that dreams are built quietly one page, one decision, one day at a time.

The coffee grows cold.
The candle burns low.
The world keeps moving.

But if you keep showing up for yourself, keep believing when nobody else can see the vision, and keep taking one step forward, incredible things happen.

Strength isn’t always loud.

Sometimes it looks like an ordinary desk, a notebook full of plans, and a woman who refuses to give up.

02/06/2026

There are places we leave behind that never truly leave us. Sometimes they return in quiet moments in a familiar scent carried by the wind, an old song, or a memory we thought had long faded…