2025-10-20

WODA (2024)


I love this piece — let’s call it by its name: art.

The colors, the rhythm, the quiet madness of it all.

It feels painted rather than made, as if it existed long before I did, just waiting for me to stumble upon it.

I’m proud of that — proud of the freedom I’ve carved for myself, proud that I’ve learned to move without permission, to create exactly what I love, unfiltered and alive.


And I love that I made it in Poland — Międzyzdroje, to be exact.

The waves, the sand that carried me through so many nights and mornings of doubt and horror.

That shore wrapped me in calm and pulled the fear right out of me — the fear of moving forward, the fear of looking back.


Stubborn fire.

No safety net — just intention, madness, and love stitched together with a drunken kind of faith.

It’s wild to see it breathe. To know it’s mine.

Every beat, every shadow, every flicker — born out of that quiet refusal to wait for approval.


If you haven’t seen the film yet, take a moment and watch it.

I know — everything’s fast now, everyone wants the rush, the bite-sized hit of content on whatever platform they’re scrolling.

But give it time.

Watch it on a real screen, not a phone.

Sit down, breathe, and let it play.

Leave a comment too — it’s good for the algorithm, sure, but mostly it’s good for the soul — mine and yours.

A few people have watched it, but almost no one really talks.

I’d even welcome the rough comments.

I just want that exchange — the kind I already have with my friends, with my family.

I want you to be family too.


‚WRITTEN, PRODUCED AND DIRECTED by Igor Botur‘


This is gonna be the lighthouse of my intention, flickering wild against the void — fueled by faith, fear, and a bit of beautiful grace.

2025-09-30

i love myself and billie

i write with my first coffee
i work out
i watch withnail and i
i dont self deprecate
i love billie and myself

2025-09-19

did i make a mistake

 

did i make a mistake

going on the so-called socials

seeing what’s up, what’s down, what’s hollowed out

rotting circus it is


did i make a mistake

comparing my life to this busted carnival

against their polished propaganda

and reminiscing the trap, the tar-pit, the golden cage

i once created


did i make a mistake

when i lived loose and rabid,

ego-drunk and sunburned with freedom

foam at the mouth and laughing manically


did i make a mistake

torching soldiers

and civilians both open-faced and hidden

pillaged them and strutted,

proud as a lunatic with blood on his shirt

veins full of filthy gasoline


did i make a mistake

spitting whiskey venom in bigwig faces

bolting from “opportunities”
at every chance of palmers-scented delirium

did i make a mistake

when i turned a little boy into static, the piss and the shit

at least couple times in my life


did i make a mistake

when i loved, raw and unfiltered

vomited the truth

did i make a mistake

when honesty became euro-store cheap

even for me,

after all the counterfeit hymns

i finally bled something sharp and real:

achievements and fears

im here

i howled


i wanted to write about

them

again

what 

in a flicker of doubt

i missed

but im here

i wrote today

not this lil note, no

no afterthought,

no

a world

a scene

and another

for whom?

for me

whose gonna pay for this?

well


who pays?

me, goddamn it

i know they get those budget sometimes

blood money

for their so called community events

and yes, i’m jealous

but i forget to often

i fund my own damn breath

i bankroll my own apocalypse

i foot the bill for every hallucination

every dream

i am the budget


so did i make a mistake

cutting my cousin the right amount,

watching it grow, metastasize

seed sprouted

became the tree that shades us


so who did the mistake?

was it me quitting the posting,

me ghosting the stage,

not leaping like a circus pet

not groveling at at every hollow corporation soirée they’re selling

or was it their mistake

pushing the same dead horse on repeat

never once giving thanks back

to a god, or demon, of this desert


i’m not buying

i’m thanking

thankful for blood-kin

thankful for my mistakes

thankful for the words i carved today

thankful i still drag around the guts

to create

to twist the dial

to listen

and to scream


im here

i made mistakes

but i was right

far more often

than i was wrong

2025-08-17

butt meat

butt meat

and orange wine

holy fire

what a human


better, clearer, crueler

she gets it right

every time, with ease

she makes it a home


automatic gear

driving reckless

near her faster

with my soul 

rock hard

her warm skin

and sweet smell waiting

wet


she cracks the ceiling

she burns the doubt

she lifts the carcass

she howls me clean


another kiss

another touch

another nut

what holy madness


she makes it holy

she makes it real

she makes it possible

she makes it easy


more speed

scream loud

heart split open

stomach rough

breath gone

life given back


drained in sweat

on memory foam

i inhale her

and exhale purity


she does it all right

perfect even

she makes me want it

she makes it possible

she makes it bearable


I praise her

I praise this goddamn life

and I praise what I will become

if not already am

don’t you worry

get up, young soldier

and walk towards the light

with all this luck and all this gifted might

only one thing left to do, my luv

and that is to write

Another line

 Another line—

and again you don’t write


Another line—

her face is obscene perfection


Another line—

why the hell do you never shut up


Another line—

her smell cuts through the static


Another line—

your life is simple, but you twist it into barbed wire


Another line—

lighter, yes, it gets lighter, until it doesn’t


Another line—

she throws a song into the room, and suddenly i breathe again


Another line—

fun, goddamn it, fun


Another line—

this is supposed to be fun


Another line—

you believe in yourself until the snow runs dry


Another line—

her legs, her neck, your half-mast cock


Another line—

the mess of being alive


Another line—

your dreams always make sense in the fever dream


Another line—

I am what I will, even if the will is cracked


Another line—

I come in her, thank Christ for her blood


Another line—

time is a crooked joke


Another line—

and still it keeps me pulsing


Another line—

I get angry at everything I see


Another line—

chasing the next distraction


Another line—

chemical spark or despoiling of ruin


Another line—

clawed my way forward a hundred times, only to collapse in the sick joy of escape


Another line—

doubting, cursing, loving, failing, trying again


Another line—

because the crooked truth is I already have what I wanted, and yet it’s never enough


Another line—

the world spins, I spin


Another line—

too good, too few, too fragile, and still orbiting


Another line—

I swear I’ll do better


Another line—

and I sink back into the velvet swamp of my own excuses


Another line—

another line of confession


Another line—

the ugly miracle of breathing


Another line—

no ending, no redemption


Another line—

just the raw stench of survival


Another line—

racket in my head


Another line—

an absurd compulsion to keep going


Another line—

still furious, not loose


Another line—

trying to scratch down stray reflections


Another line—

before these walls finally cave in.

2024-12-17

The Soul Does Not Suffer.

You suffer.

You hold yourself down.

You strangle yourself

every day.

No way out,

you tell yourself.

You lost,

you tell yourself.

You are nothing.

You have nothing to give

and nothing to show,

you tell yourself,

and start believing it.


Another YouTube video,

another hour lost,

another depressed thought cooked.


Where is my power?

Everybody telling me this is my world.

A white guy,

that’s easy,

you just have to go out and ask.


I asked.

They laughed.

They left me on read.

I wrote 400 companies,

only the AfD answered.

Weird feeling,

but understandable.


I threw away my life

when others worked for the future.

I had to murder and plunder

’cause working was anguish.


I spread love,

but only got adversaries.

And the love that I found,

I pushed away, out of necessity.


Forever alone,

like in my room at 12,

homework unfinished and

nobody to ask for help.

Always alone.

Nothing left besides dying.


I’m dying every day:

in my head,

in my soul,

in my body.


A powerhouse,

a leader,

defeated by the whores,

defeated by Babylon.


I just want to think

and create.

But I open my eyes

to destructive thoughts

and rising grief and ache.


Maybe it’s the drugs.

Maybe it’s the life.

Maybe it’s me.

Maybe it’s you.


An answer,

this is not.