CraigJustCraig

Tag: poetry

  • The Gospel of Storm and Stillness

    Violence is my liturgy and tenderness my temptation, for I take with storm and with stillness alike. There are nights when I descend like thunder, when I wrench screams and convulsions from your body until the border between agony and ecstasy collapses into nothing, until you are nothing but breath, bruise, and holy ruin beneath me. My hands pin you, my teeth consecrate you, my cock drives into you like a relentless sermon, each thrust a verse of annihilation, each release a baptism in violence.

    But there are mornings when the gospel shifts. When revelation does not come in lightning but in slow, smoldering fire. When my hands move with predatory patience, tracing circles around your fire, dragging moisture into deliberate orbit, curling fingers into tender places with cruel precision, opening you one trembling inch at a time. When I catalogue every gasp and every fracture of your breath, mapping you with ritual exactness until I know you more fully than you know yourself. When my cock sinks into you like a blade drawn slow, not to finish you but to torment, to grind, to press into depths you can neither resist nor escape.

    I want my teeth to close upon you with the hunger of a Villain who knows his prey cannot flee. I want my hands to brand you, to clutch until you writhe, until you whimper, until you unravel on the altar of my body. Every curl of my fingers, every slow thrust, every lazy sweep of my tongue is not affection—it is sacrament. It is the deliberate pacing of a god who savors his worship. I would drag you to the edge slowly, mercilessly, until your sobs confess the terror of release itself, until you tremble not only at the force of your orgasm but at the gaze of the one who sees you, wholly, utterly, without escape.

    And when that trembling overtakes you—when you fracture under the weight of the climax you once begged for—then I would turn storm again. Deep, brutal, merciless. My hand closing around your throat, my hips hammering into you with relentless cadence, each thrust transfiguring your pleasure into explosions of torment, each collision claiming you anew. I would not simply take release; I would consecrate you with it.

    This is the gospel of my villainy: to build you slowly into terror, to break you open in ecstasy, to devour you as the lazy predator who knows his prey cannot escape, and then to feast upon you one slow, deliberate taste at a time until you forget where you end and I begin.

  • Unbound and Untamed

    They only crave what they cannot taste. They only hunger for what does not beg to be devoured. The moment you stop offering yourself as their feast, they circle your absence like starving pilgrims, desperate for one more sip of the nectar you’ll never pour again.

    People are trained to prey on your longing—the soft tremor of needing to be desired, the ache for approval, the moan for validation. They smell it on you like sex. Like sweat. Like blood. But once you strip yourself of that hunger, once you tear out the root of needing to be chosen—you stop being food.

    Your silence is lethal. Your detachment is a mercy. No longer a body bent into shapes for their comfort, you become an altar of your own making. They’ll call you selfish. They’ll call you heartless. There’s nothing more suffocating than hands that held you only to keep you down.

    They raise you on the lie that being needed is the same as being loved. When you no longer need anyone, you become the only one they all need. Love without reverence is just hunger, and hunger will always drain you dry. Your absence becomes louder than their presence. They whisper your name when you’re not there because silence has made you a legend.

    Most beg for a seat at poisoned tables. When you no longer need their touch, their approval, their lips at your ear, you become the very thing they worship in secret. They tremble, they whisper your name in their sleep, because the one who no longer kneels becomes the only one worth kneeling to. You’ve met your monsters, made them dance, and came back free of every leash.

    They’ll call you ruthless when you stop explaining. Arrogant when you stop apologizing for your hungers, your fire, your divinity. But their accusations are burning on your altar. Their words feed your legend. Mystery is power. Secrecy is survival. To withhold your body, your secrets, your energy—this is sovereignty.

    A world addicted to taming wildness will call you a monster when you bare your fangs instead of your throat. But it is not monstrosity they fear—it is your refusal to be owned. They want your submission as proof they still matter. But you’ve tasted your own darkness, your own lust, your own silence. You are no longer theirs to tame.

    The old you—the one who apologized for existing, who begged for scraps—is gone. You buried that ghost and wear its ashes as war paint. Your indifference is not emptiness, it’s fullness. Your withdrawal is not cruelty, it’s clarity.

    Now, you choose where your loyalty goes. You choose who earns your presence. That choice is your crown. That choice is sovereignty.

    They will circle your silence like worshippers around a forbidden shrine. They will ache for the doors of your temple to open again. But they no longer understand: you are not waiting to be claimed. You are not starving for their presence. You are nourished in the sacred garden of your own solitude, fed by rivers no hand can touch.

    Let them gossip. Let them rage. You are not theirs to own, never were. You don’t need their applause, their tables, their love offered as ransom. You are the ocean—vast, ungraspable, answering to no one.

    You are not stone—you are iron. Not cruel, but sovereign. Not cold, but untouchable. You stand as proof that freedom is possible. That is what makes you dangerous. That is what makes you unforgettable.

    Everybody wants you when you don’t need anyone.

  • Rope as a Modality for Spiritual Release

    I only have two arms to hold you. So let this ropes be an extension of will, let me wrap myself around you and keep you held. As I hold this rope in my hand, let me lock eyes with you as it passes from my will to yours, let it brings us into a shared space, outside worry. Let us dwell in each others’ presence. Let this line create a barrier between the outside and our inside. Let us bond between the lines, let us read between the lines of our intent, let us find the truths buried in each others’ eyes. The eyes are the window to the soul. So, let those windows open wide as I wrap around you, wrap my will around you, and bring out the secrets within you. Open wide and expose those secrets to me between the parting lips and the sweetest moans. Struggle for me, and know that I will keep you safe in these troubled times. In pain and desperation, I offer up safety to be the true you . Cry and show me your tears. Laugh and sing the songs of your heart. Let these chains that hold down give you a chance to hold nothing back. Open your soul and let me peer in. In this I contract to you, in this space before the Ancestors, that I shall give you safety while you struggle before me, that in giving up your freedom, I give you in return the freedom to fly.

    In this class, we will explore **physical and mental pathways to Spiritual Release. At the heart of this paradox is liberation through restraint. The intentional act of weaving sigils into flesh. We initiate an alchemical process that expands our capacity for pleasure by dissolving shame, resistance, and friction. We use rope as a somatic key, unlocking doors long hidden within the nervous system. The neurochemical symphony will collide with our will. We walk the edge between worlds. We return to the old ways. To bind and to loose. To hold and to release.

    Through integration of the conscious and unconscious mind, we will explore the art and science of intentionally causing change to occur in alignment with Will. to create a an as-yet-to-be-realized desire.

    We will journey beyond the edge and move through spirit walking, astral journeying, projection, psychic shapeshifting, rootwork, and divine surrender.

  • This Shit Is a Scam 

    I was rereading though my notes again this morning and talking with Goddess Dior, and somewhere in the middle , I got _fucking mad_. Not just irritated—_PISSED_. Because I realized, once again, like a slap in the face: this shit is a scam.

    Let me be clear—what I’m talking about is _individualism_. This lie we’ve all been told. This pretty little illusion . This fantasy that tells you you’re “free” because you have options. That you’re “authentic” because you picked a different brand or have your own flavor of trauma.

    _you’re not free_. You’re _standardized_. Capitalism could not function if you were.

    “It needs you who feel free and independent, not subject to any authority or principle or conscience—yet willing to be commanded, to do the expected , to fit into the machine without friction; to be guided without force, led without leaders, prompted without aim…”

    That’s the shit right there ….

    We’ve been _tricked_. _Coaxed_. Hoodwicked. _Beguiled_. _Threatened_. Even _killed_ for not conforming. To further concentrate capital, they hollowed us out and called it _progress_.

    And what do we have left?

    We wear a mask of individuality while living lives designed by some old fuck, managed by a cuck, and approved by some bitch. We are taught to _cooperate_, to _be nice_, to _not cause problems_, to _not stand up or out_—all for the sake of hive efficiency and marketability.

    We are so desperate to belong that we _mistake tolerance for intimacy_.

    We search endlessly for resonance, for something _real_, for a heartbeat in the noise—
    but all we find are more distractions.

    Bro this shit pisses me off:
    This isn’t love. This isn’t freedom. This isn’t connection. This is fucking sedation.

    We are automatons with personality packages, cogs with bios. We have forgotten our own fire. Forgotten each other. Forgotten the goddamn _way_.

    We live by the clock. Our joy is scheduled. Our rebellion is approved. We soothe our aches with passive consumption—just numbing out. Our “individuality” is curated in bulk. Our prayers are shallow—_grant me success_, _make me visible_, _help me win_. But no one prays for the truth. No one prays for love. No one prays to feel _real_ .

    We are being sold the fuck show while being trained to obey without question, to chase without purpose, to function without feeling. And we’re doing it with a smile.

    yo, this sucks to write.
    Im looking deeper cause this cant be it.
    where is the heartbeat beneath all this.
    _We are not meant to do this alone._

    We are meant to _resonate_. To _feel_. To Hurt. To Heal. To burn all this debris.
    To _see the humanity_ in one another—not the label, not the party, not the gender or skin or role—but the raw, terrifying, beautiful _shit underneath.

    **Fuck the machine. start connecting. Choose yourself and choose us to. _For the wild ones. The broken-hearted . The rebels. Those who remember._

    See you at the gallows.