Five Years
(a cracked tongue of reinvention)
Since Warsaw,
I’ve played with heavy metal.
Boxed in foreign gyms
where emotion was the only instruction—
and everyone heard me breathe.
I left notes for ghosts.
Folded fears like napkins,
abandoned them in cafés—
confessions I never wanted back.
I slipped the handcuffs
of men who smile too much in meetings.
Told the job:
You don’t get to leave me—
not until you serve me as I deserve.
I fucked my routine sideways.
Ran at midnight
just to see if I’d still survive.
(I did.)
I flirted with silence.
Cold-showered the cowardice off my skin.
Walked without destination
in the rain.
Read books I’d never heard of.
Laid still.
Received.
Soaked in baths
half a millennium old.
Walked barefoot through wet grass—
not as punishment,
but practice.
I began to sleep deeply.
Low-grade fear didn’t vanish—
it was exiled.
What remains isn’t calm—
but something better:
unsettled, on purpose.
I ate like a man starved for more.
And like one who hated needing anything.
I watched myself from the corner of the room
and whispered,
Yes.
That man is dangerous again.
And now—
the dog who caught the car
is learning to drive.
Clumsily.
Boldly.
No longer asking for directions.
I have lived.
Not to post it.
Not to monetize it.
Not for anyone else.
Five years on this path.
No more scheming.
No more scraping.
No more scarcity.
Only this:
Act.
Burn.
Joy.