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🚫Safety is a figment of the imagination🚫
Jul 1, 2020
I don't like it. I feel like I want to improve it. But I'm gonna leave it be.. Jumping isn't even my method.. But I do clearly fantasize about it lol
I went for another walk to the bridge, haven't been there in a bit. I just feel so sick with what's going on.. With or without him I can't win at this point...

Many a night I stand here,
Pondering out at the water.
Watching the rapids below me
Swirl, sway, and flow.
I think about what might occur
Had I happen over the rail.
A rush of air,
A sudden stop.
Pain, cold, fear.
A numbness that gives away to nothing.
A nothingness I've often prayed for.


Dec 26, 2022
Today was a bottomless day.

When the pin pricks at the bottom of my feet become tunnels,

When all that fills me simply funnels,
Down through my toes,
Emptying onto sweet earth.

Days when I feel as if
You could shake me
And you would hear nothing,
The emptiness cavernous and restless.

When words are both hollow and suffocating,
Dripping into caves below,
Water swirling around my ankles,
My waist,
My chest,
My lungs.

Days when I'm willed to speak
But can only choke on the emptiness,
Lungs filled with water and rage,
As they urge me to swim
In a sea I never asked for.


leave a beautiful corpse
Aug 20, 2020
this feeling growing in my heart
the fateful night I try to drink
am I to far gone to try
a bloody wreck lies at my feet

am I to burn at the stake
for all I've caused
I don't mean to kill no one
but now i'm filling up the graves

so tell me what have I become
a nightmare I was raised to be
so tell me what will it take
to be that angel deep inside me

I walk the night in my dreams
shattered thoughts follow me
is this the end I cannot see
all alone, I feel

I promised I said a prayer
from the wake I left behind
all the bodies in the street
my nightmare i've become


Aug 18, 2020
I write adult stories BUT this is NOT that... Luv u gyz!!! ❤ 🍆 🍑 😯


(pronounced Kyro like the city in Egypt "sacred light", & Lee-ro another form of lion)

He fell. An injury to his leg taking its hold. She layed there, crying, starving and frightened. What had they done to her? Why were these invaders taking these people from their land? He motioned to her to be silent and stay calm as he pulled himself back upnon his feet with the cold, wet rock wall. For now they were safe, but how far away were the other soldiers? He slowly waljed toward her. His hands up to show he meant no harm to her. She edged toward the dark wall for shelter. She was still frightened, beaten, exhausted. Her cuts and bruises covered in mud. Her hands and feet bound tight with leather straps. The last week a blurr and a nightmare. This was not her home. This was not her people's land. How many days had she been walking? The relentless march tied behind a horse. No food. No water. Her feet blistered. Her body shivering in the high, snowy mountain cold. Her family dead. Her brother standing in the burning field alone as she was dragged away by these invaders. He's only a year old. Barely learning to walk. Did he get captured too? Did he find someone to keep him safe? She could not get the hellish fires of the lit fields from her mind. They took many people from her village, but they removed her from them during the march. They took her alone in a different direction. 20 men for one girl? She did not know their tongue. She had never seen army soldiers. She only knew the few warriors in her farmlands where her people thrived. What did they want with her? They were a darker skin than her people. A much larger build. Giants. Monsters. Their horses were beasts of an animal. A mean, cruel heartless horde. They made no effort to dress her, feed her, or tend to her wounded feet. Her pale skin glowed through the mud covering her body against the firelight. Her body littered in scratches & lesions from trudging through the dense forest. No clothing. No freedom. She was forced to lay in her own fluids. Her skin burned from the filth in her open wounds. Her left eye swollen shut from getting beaten by the soldiers when she refused to walk any longer. Now this strange gold skinned stranger stood before her. Nothing around his body but a knife belt and a sword across his back. He did not shiver. He was large. Not as large as the dark soldiers but he was still much larger than her. She crawled along the the jagged cave wall to keep distance from him. She moved through the mud with her hands and body sliding as she cried. Inching along with her cold hands and battered feet bindings making it difficult to gain any distance as he slowly approached her. She let out a troubled, shivering whelp as he was almost upon her. At this he stopped. He did not want her to attract more attention. That he did not need. A rustling came from the opening of the cave behind him. A scamper of foot steps as he turned to hold his hand up to the noise. She continued to shimmy away from this stranger. Keeping her eye on the dim lit corner, expecting nothing short of more nightmares to come lurking through. A small shadow paused in the dim firelight. The beast just behind the rock wall. It began to nervously smell the ground at the entrance. A pointed gray fuzzy face made its way around the corner. She knew this face. It was Mírõ! The Elders young son's wolf. Mírõ looked up at the man silently giving heedence to his upheld hand. The tiny wolf looked to the girl. Recognising her face & connecting it to her scent he gently wagged his fluffy wet tail.
in hell out soon

in hell out soon

Apr 27, 2020
seven years, nine days pass by in quiet
make not a sound, not a sign, that i don't buy it
if friends are homes, a place to draw strength
i leave behind nobody that shares my wavelength

faces behind masks, forced smiles and long silences
insisting my anxiety's just taking creative licences
feeling like a ghost, unable to leave
but unable to stay, forced friendships make-believe

drowning in phlegm, bruised and breaking
body at rest but my heart's still quaking
im tired of fighting, im tired of the pain
i want to leave it all behind and never feel again

they say in time the pain would fade
but it has never left, an endless shade
rock bottom so deep, no escape in sight
no company to keep, in this endless night

seven years, nine days pass by in quiet
if i'm a burden, there's no need to deny it
i see no way out, just endless night
It feels like death is my only right

its not for attention, nor for fame
its not for pity, i have nothing to gain
its only for the peace i'll finally find
in my death, my mind unconfined

if death is all i may have, all that may set one free -
then hear me out, please kill me
(and please forgive me when i depart,
my mind's full of glass, i'm my broken heart.)


Dec 11, 2022
I followed Death down to a bright light bridge
Where he turned around and smiled
not saying a word he left unheard
and I stood there for a while.

I've followed you for so long
With you there's nothing wrong
Please, come and walk with me
Please, come and talk with me.

Death, be a friend to me
Death, for the end I seek
release me from all of this pain
before I go insane

I'll follow you down to the bright light bridge
Where we'll turn around and smile
Not saying a word, we'll walk unheard
'Til despair is behind us by miles.


•In No Hurry•
Sep 26, 2022
It's clear now. Crystal clear and seemingly obvious. A certain fact.

Tired, oh so tired. Waking becomes tedious as everytjing becomes still. Always still, never to make a move. Silence overtakes the weary mind.

Lost now. Forever gone without a tether. Floating endlessly in uncertain space. Nothing is real.


Nov 6, 2022
first hit -

from just the spin of a flint, a shower of sparks dissipate as quick as the eruption;
as this rain settles, a brilliant orange ombre blue teardrop seers through the night,
it flickers, weak and dependent on crater etched thumbs,
yet with all things considered- tranquility and the like- this light is an efflugence, that could compete with the brightest sun,
yet still the slightest breeze comes as a birthday wish
yet still the slightest wheeze comes with a parents whip.

The boy's pillow faintly smelled of cheap antiseptic, and it's case had the texture of a pair of course corduroy's. He tucked his head into the decades faded yet still textured linens. As his skin slowly sunk into the arabesque etchings, the hum of half powered florescent lights faded from focus, he thought of the warmth and sanctity promised in the private room he laid in. The softness of his beaten mattress and the regular meals. The peace his family reveled in for the two short weeks they lasted

His breath began to calm as he dozed away, but just before his dreams took hold, he thought of the gentle breeze pouring in from a distant machine stowed deep within the halls of the sprawling shelter. It was his families last night here. He had to appreciate these blessings while they lasted; maybe they'd even let us sleep in tomorrow.
Last edited:


Jul 26, 2020
A cold reality

What happened to the smile
you held on your beautiful face?
Once so full of live,
now just a bitter husk trying to survive.
In this cold reality.
A broken man alone with his thoughts
chained deep down to the last memory of you.
It wasn't meant to end this way.
Everyone suffers alone in their heads and sometimes
I wonder why the heart wants to hurt so much.
In this cold reality.
Another day passed, another night awaits,
no one stayed and nothing changed.
The unspoken option, right there in front of me,
just play this simple melody
and I surrender on my knees
with tears on my face.
It hurts, but the pain clears the fog in my mind
and it feels like I'm hopelessly lost this time.
I wonder why the heart wants to hurt so much.


New Member
Feb 4, 2023

i would love to hide with you
there's no-one i'd prefer
i'll crawl under your shirt
and cry and yowl and purr

and if you're undeterred
you fit me perfectly

i'm holding a one-way ticket to my bedroom
stubbed, it's sentimental
as long as you get the supplies
we can stay here forever

you'll come home and
i'll be perched up on my window-frame
where i watch the world through the glass
that woman was walking fast
i wonder if she's hiding too


nightmare life, go away! nightmare life, go away!
Feb 7, 2023
Life's a Dream
Dream; Red-Violet.
-- Warn: First use of arg "Red-Violet".
Action; Awake.
Surroundings; Dark.
Surroundings; Depopulated.
Feeling; Damp, On; Skin.
Feeling; Fear.
Feeling; Foggy, In; Mind.
Feeling; Shadows, On; Skin.
Feeling; Eyes, On; Skin.
Surroundings; Outside.
Surroundings; Distorted.
Surroundings; Watching.
-- Err: No source provided.
Surroundings; Laughing. -- Err: No source provided.
Surroundings; Talking. -- Err: No source provided.
Action; Flee.
Action; Towel.
Surroundings; Vibrate.
Action; Phone.
Action; Move, To; House.
Feeling; Fear.
Feeling; Wish, To; Return.
-- Warn: Previous Dream does not exist.
Action; Move, To; Bedroom.
Surroundings; Safer.
Surroundings; Sleeping.
Surroundings; Buzzing.
Surroundings; Talking.
-- Err: No source provided.
Surroundings; Comforting.
Surroundings; Noise.
Feeling; Urge, To; Lines.
-- Err: Illegal arg provided.
Action; Lines. -- Err: Illegal arg provided.
Surroundings; Vibrate.
Action; Phone.
Surroundings; Warm.
Surroundings; Happy.
Action; Move, To; Bed.
Action; Sleep.
-- Warn: No arg provided. Default will be assumed.


Like tears in rain
Jan 4, 2022
@FieldsofLavender , Is that Toki Pona writing in your signature's quote? Just curious :)
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nightmare life, go away! nightmare life, go away!
Feb 7, 2023
@FieldsofLavender , Is that Toki Pona writing in your signature's quote? Just curious :)
it is! I really like Toki Pona, and have learned a lot of writing systems for it too, ehehe. I love the hieroglyphics writing system, sitelen pona, but I think my favorite is the writing system called sitelen suwi ko, it's very cute and simple and made to be written in wet sand, hehehe


Bug friend
Feb 15, 2023
I long to be like Icarus.
Many say that his fixation made him blind but like the poem by Fiona, there's something they all miss to see.

Icarus did smile as he fell. Even as the fact he was falling to his death, isn't it just beautiful to be so close to the thing you loved oh so much? Love so much that it hurts.

Sometimes falling when you should be soaring is just what you need.
We're human. Our image is made in making mistakes and learning from them. From evolution and the ways we've overcome problems. So why is it when people act like people it's looked down upon?

Why when children are being children why is it oh so wrong? To live is to make mistakes.
And to make mistakes you have to live.

Being scared of falling will hold you back from ever living. It's better than to fall with the thought that you did it or at least tried it than to never had tried at all and lay on your death bed with a bucket list without a single crossed out line.

So while Icarus was foolish, he was happy. He set his heart on something and went towards it without regard for himself.

And that is something I believe is admirable.


Dec 1, 2022
Semi-autobiographical with tons of grammatical errors and way too long and confessional but here it goes. I'll probably regret posting this.

The desert island movie is centered on the premise of survival. Its premise is supported by our fear of isolation as a species and our desire to be independent. To be self sufficient is the ultimate test of strength, especially in extreme circumstances. But what happens when one wants to be isolated? What is one to do if they desire to be cast off from the rest of the world?

That's what my life had been like for most of my life. When I was younger, it was my job to serve people, in harsh lit hotel rooms with thin walls that seemed like they could crack if you had the nerve to scream hard enough. But now I was almost a man, and as a man you are supposed to look back on these experiences with pride rather than shame. So I stuck to the comforts of pop culture. I crafted a new version of myself after the art I loved, a version of me that felt more honest than the younger self I had been forced to sell. I fancied myself a philosopher. In reality, I was a spoiled brat who wouldn't even touch a door knob for fear of illness and spent all day eating junk food and watching television.

It all changed when I saw him, the writer. He had a face that looked like it could've been around for a thousand years. He seemed to choose all his words carefully but he also had a confident air about him. He knew he was too good for a daytime TV program. I loved his quaint looking glasses and how he parted his hair to the left just like I did. I hated his tacky neon yellow dress shirt though. Why did he think that would look good?

He was not a famous writer, but he did have a Wikipedia article, where I learned that he was well-educated (of course), that he had won lots of awards (of course), and that he was a "tennis enthusiast." I knew nothing of tennis besides Wii Sports matches I had played as a kid. He came from a world of prestige. It was like fetishizing a foreigner.

His arrogance caught up with him. Allegations of things that I either thought weren't true or was too scared to believe were true. Everyone forgot about him after that. But to me, it was impossible to forget about those perfect brown eyes, an oasis of calm in a world that thrives on havoc. I took a job at a local gas station and spent hours daydreaming about holding his weary body in my arms.

Then one day, I decided to write him a letter. I don't know why. I didn't think he would respond. It was poorly written and I crammed all the words together because I rambled so much. I had to tell him how much I loved his work. Because as much as I loved him, I loved his words too. I used to think humanity was a dull and contemptible species. But he made people pop out of the pages like the most colorful Fourth of July fireworks. You could just tell that he loved people. The way he noticed how people would raise an eyebrow at the mention of a certain name, or how they folded their clothes as they absentmindedly listened to the news. I was certain he was an angel. And angels don't associate with mere mortals.

But on New Year's Eve there it was in my PO box. A letter from him. I loved the way he crossed the Ts in my name, like it was a work of art he was carefully trying to recreate.

"Thank you for the letter—about the nicest I've ever received", he began, before opining about his exile from the literary community and offering me his email address so we could continue corresponding.

I was unemployed, bound to my bed, and losing my sanity slowly but surely. My father I rejoined the wider world again, but he didn't understand that this was no longer possible. The island of the writer and his words were all I would ever need. And now he crafted his words just for me.

At first it was about his books. I wanted to know what gave him such faith in humanity. He seemed to skirt the question. He quoted Hemingway and gave me book recommendations. I read them like scripture and gave him reviews. He said that I helped him learn how to laugh again. He was alone now, sans his mother, and I found it comforting that a man three times my age was living with his parents too. He wanted to know more about me. And reader, I told him everything. About my illnesses, physical and mental. About the people who had hurt me and the guilt I felt. About my family and their anger and how I wanted nothing more than just to die. And about my age. He had a daughter my age he was estranged from.

"I'm not gay", he would frequently begin sentences with, "but if you were older and I was, then I'd be in love with you."

My age was not a problem, he said. But no one else could know. "You've seen how the media treats me", he would whine. "My career is over." He would write seething indictments against invisible backstabbers and ominous forces who were after him. "People always seem to stab me in the back", he wrote on Valentine's Day.

Was he desperate? That's the only logical reason I can think of him wanting me, a man he had never seen, after he spent decades chasing skirts. He praised me for qualities I'm certain I don't possess. Things like "creative intelligence" and "witty intuition." He told me he thought frequently about how soft my skin was even though I told him I was riddled with acne. He wrote to me about his fantasies of our nice, quiet life together, reading books side by side together on the couch with wine glasses in hand. That is, until I reminded him I wasn't even old enough to drink.

"Do you love me?", he asked two months after he first wrote me back. And I told him, yes, I did. I wanted all the things he wanted and more. I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him. I would help take care of him when he was feeble, I promised. I'll go to college and get a good job to help support us. I love you too.

And then three days later I got a notification that read "I hope you understand if I take a few steps back at this point." He was scared, he said. He was worried that he wasn't good enough for him, a washed up alcoholic writer living with his mother whining about "cancel culture." He would never publish again and he had no other skills. And I had a future, he said. Someone younger and better than he.

I was cast off the island. I was as I was before I saw him, drifting out at sea. I suppose things are calmer now that my heart isn't beating rapidly all the time. But I miss him and I like to believe he misses me too. So now I write for him. I know that you're supposed to write for yourself but I've found that's impossible for me to do. I'm too weak to build an island for myself. But I like to think that my writing is like sending little messages in bottles out into the wild tides of the ocean. And I like to believe that one day a bottle will drift onto land and that he was discover my words and feel whole again, just as he did for me.


meow meow meow
Jan 23, 2023

i would not be hunter nor gatherer. i would be shaman.
not because i think i am better than my fellow people,
or have some special spiritual know-how, but
because i am faced with the symptoms of constant wonder.

i would crush and admire the berries i am given
to feel their seeds and slop meld into my flesh.
i would not care about where or when my meat came,
i would care why and how it ever existed.
i would cure disease with loving words, and, in failure,
tales to console would spread comfort like wildfire.

science is the art of curiosity, and i would be the ancient evolutionary.

i would lead my tribal peoples through hallucinogenic soul searching
via. the ingestion of primitive plants.

i would tell the story of the snake that deceived us long ago
into becoming conscious of our place within the small known world.

i would make up stories about the sky and
the trees and how they got there and
i'd believe my lies to be true because
how else can i explain the beauty of creation
if not by way of total magic.


Feb 12, 2023
reading everyones amazing poems encouraged me to dig up some old freeform ones from 2019, and i tried choosing the least embarrassing one

Nov 21st, 2019

Beneath the foliage, the sunken flowers and burnt grass, you will find me.
Between the stones that would once again mind me to this world, I will lie.
Willows surround me, calm and undisturbed, the gentle breeze that calms the fawn whisper my name.
Fear no man, for it is the ones above that are unmistakingly the ones we see in the shadows.

Between the stones are the burning sage and wilted flowers, petals falling across the ground where I will lie.
Hand over heart, and blood over soil.
The mind eats away at the soul, and leaves nothing behind.

There I will be, motionless in crimson and gold. The wind that whispers to the forest whine and bellow, echoing through the trees.
The withered flowers decay around me, but there I lay dormant. I wait for no god, nor demon.
The festering spirits that surround what I held dear in my past life slowly decay, as the flowers seep into the ground as I do.

Flesh slowly rots as the blackened earth surrounds my soul, the place I once called home farther than I could fathom as I disappear into the floor of this untouched land.
Sacred, and blessed. Light dims over the branches of the oak around me, willows begin to wilt.
Life continues as I do not.
Fawns continue their cycle as autumn approaches, grass burning into the ground as I do the same.
Soon all will become the thing that even the strongest of men fear, yet I will not falter.

I feel myself sink deeper, the parasites of the earth slowly eating away what I had left behind.
Yet life goes on, and I cannot protest. Fear was not on my mind, as the sun faded beyond the horizon and never returned.
No, fear was never an option as I was already within the willows, surrounding my body as I lay. Fading slowly just as the sun that never came, I would never rise again.


•In No Hurry•
Sep 26, 2022
Crimson. Even the crimson tears that rolled from fresh wounds weren't enough now.

Alone. She was forever on her own, and was never allowed to forget it.

Afraid. To take the next step? To truly committ? To do what she'd only ever dreamt of.

Dreaming. Slumber so deep it almost felt real. Never true, surrounded by illusions.

Imagined. Non-existent. A figment.


trying to hold on
Nov 14, 2022
Little poem I wrote called Saint Peter's Seminary, it's about the building itself but also (obviously) about my own struggles with both my identity and mental health.

"Am I something to be beaten?
Or treasured? Or cut? Or left to die?
A listed building, abandoned stands
Once built to assist holy hands
Aber Gott ist tot und Gott bleibt tot
Und wir haben ihn getötet.
Could God exist in this monochrome
Concrete shell, could she call it home?
The new grows prematurely old
As Ivy chokes and grips her throat

Those angular geometric shapes
Begin to scratch and carve at the face
Of the sky that lit her and the hand that fed
For she is unnatural, a soulless shed
But I find beauty in her there
Her imposing, brutal, unforgiving stare
You were not built from nature but she
Has found a way to claim her own."
Green Destiny

Green Destiny

Life isn't worth the trouble.
Nov 16, 2019
I don't have a prompt at this moment but I will say that I wish I was decent at writing in general as I have had plenty of Idea's for Fanfiction over the years. Problem is that I'm bad a grammar, making descriptive scenes, pacing and basically all the stuff that's used in writing. Learning disabilities makes remembering all that needed stuff extremely difficult.


Jun 11, 2022

i would not be hunter nor gatherer. i would be shaman.
not because i think i am better than my fellow people,
or have some special spiritual know-how, but
because i am faced with the symptoms of constant wonder.

i would crush and admire the berries i am given
to feel their seeds and slop meld into my flesh.
i would not care about where or when my meat came,
i would care why and how it ever existed.
i would cure disease with loving words, and, in failure,
tales to console would spread comfort like wildfire.

science is the art of curiosity, and i would be the ancient evolutionary.

i would lead my tribal peoples through hallucinogenic soul searching
via. the ingestion of primitive plants.

i would tell the story of the snake that deceived us long ago
into becoming conscious of our place within the small known world.

i would make up stories about the sky and
the trees and how they got there and
i'd believe my lies to be true because
how else can i explain the beauty of creation
if not by way of total magic.
"constant wonder" is a good symptom to have. :)


Feb 19, 2023
Princess Mikko sat quietly, eyes fixated on Vanity as he delicately and swiftly plucked the strings of the harp. Deep mahogany curls moving with his oscillate movements and a large Auditorium with thousands of empty seats, yet there seemed to be no listeners beside Princess Mikko herself. The auditorium was covered in a golden hue due to the lights bouncing off the beige walls and seats, a deep scarlet velvet rug covered the floors. The arch above Vanity contained a painted story just for him. Oh how lucky Vanity is. How very lucky.
Vanity lived to devour the praise and compliments from the crowds sure but from Princess Mikko it might as well be a confession of love. Something he ached for and dreamed about for days on end —-Vanity's movements exaggerated as his playing got quicker and erratic, what sounded like a light airy dance quickly turned into a high pitched beg for life. Princess Mikko stiffened and her brows furrowed with concern. She ran to the balcony of her private seating area and looked down at Vanity who had abruptly stopped playing. Princess Mikko's hands tightened on the rails as she opened her mouth to attempt a call to assure if Vanity was okay. Fortunately before she could Vanity looked up at the shaken princess, a wide grin spread across his face "What'd you think of that my princess? Wasn't I just beautifully unpredictable?".

A story I had started but never ended up finishing.


I regret nothing.
Mar 2, 2023
I've only recently got back into writing poetry again, so I'm a little rusty but I wrote this the other day <3
The Last Bus

The last flicker of street light, under the crater scarred moon
The perpetual cadence of the low wind whispering through the leaves and grass
It's comforting coolness brushing against my cheek as I wait for the last bus
The street light flickers at me once again, with it's warm, orange tinted light
he moon increments it's phase, reflecting light off of the dew gently disturbed by the movement of the grass.
The very same light that flickers in my eyes as I wait for the last bus.

Another new, yet sickening light appears though the curved, worn road
The light grew closer, and I outstretched my hand, beckoning the light
Letting it know someone was here with it,
But drove past despite calling for it; the wind suddenly felt colder.
The raw coldness felt like frozen pins sticking out of my cheek,
Far more unhospitable than the winds of the past.

I stand, holding myself and shielding myself against the icy cold,
The flickering light is now in sync with the rhythm of my pounding heart as my time comes closer.
I holler out as the next light comes piercing through my eyes,
This light was different, it was blinding. Perhaps this was the one?
Why is this one different? I laugh, giving up on understanding

understanding is overrated, after all.
The bus finally stopped for me, I wait no longer
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•In No Hurry•
Sep 26, 2022
In, out, in, out. Each breathe felt laborious, as if someone had placed an invisible weight on her chest. Shallow and uneven, her breathes came in puffs and wheezes. In, out, in, out. All she knew was to focus on the rhythm of her lungs. To bring air in and keep her heart pumping. In, out, in, out. Until finally she just couldn't anymore. The rhythm lost, her breathing became erratic until finally, no more breathing could be heard.
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mentally unstable idiot
Jan 24, 2023
I wrote this a little while ago, it's not very good but eh


a grave i visit, roses in hand
gripping firmly, staring silently
your aroma fills the atmosphere
and your whispers only i can hear

dig up your coffin, revealing you
your flesh rotten, yet your eyes opened
your flaws and imperfections
intestines mangled in all directions

your brain; solid as cement
yet your thoughts still flow like water
your otherworldly presence looms upon me
despite it having been over a year

you continue to haunt me
refuse to let me forget you
these chains you've bonded
chains i cannot break

i stare down onto your dead body
the worms feast upon your sweet flesh
i hate you
i love seeing you be consumed

my anger, i believe is justified
my hatred, it is justice for all
your sorrow, is my great reward
agony is our mutual friend

my deceased partner
it's been over a year
you've forgotten me
but i remember you

i continue to haunt you
refuse to let myself forget you
these chains i made up
chains i have the key to

i stare down onto an empty casket
no corpse, no worms, no flesh
i miss you
and i loved our time together

my deceased partner
deceased to me, alive to reality
i wish i could forget you
but i can't, and maybe that's fine

i'll place a rose on this casket anyway


Honestly? No idea.
Mar 12, 2023
Wrote this a few months ago.

You. Yes, you. I am observing you, watching, taking in everything down to the last millimetre, burning your image into my mind, my soul. I have this vision: I will come to consume you. Indulging in every morsel of your being, I beg you to allow me. One can never explain the roots of an infatuation, it is something that grew deep within the gears of the mind, eventually growing large enough to wedge itself into one's metacognition, causing it all to collapse. Once you realise, you have already become paralysed by it. You are driven by it. Which brings me to you, the concept of which I have lost myself in. Please, if you will, allow me to engross myself in your presence. For I who usually wallows in his own void and self-induced isolation I really, truly desire you. I am nothing but an empty vessel, despite my cold flesh gripping yours and our eyes locking and you for a split-second concluding that we both could potentially be the same life form, I am nothing like you. That is what draws me to you, I want to fill my void with you.


Mercy on me, would you please spare me tonight?
Mar 13, 2023
Since religion became political

Since religion became political a lot has changed
The then disappointed have turned into enraged
The iron curtain is being built just to have us caged
Propaganda of our blood stained on neighbors is sustained

Since religion became political a lot has changed
Everyone even more radical, grandpa looking for hitman
They began to declare natural, but they read it myths
They see devil in west liberal, said by the stiff

Since religion became political a lot has changed
I haven't been in church and I haven't seen cross the way is used to
It was all about purity, but in modern times of scarcity everything is diluted
I used to pray and I used to believe, but I was deceived

Since religion became political I don't believe in anything except rage
I'm devoted to change, animosity, acrimony and anger
Revolution caused by government lead by strangers
All devoted to our advancement


I notice every smile of her
And she does it so well
She's the only reason I wish I did not fell

I've signed a contract with devil
I write to reveal my thoughts
And I have a lot of plots to write
But I don't believe in my sight to be wide enough

I look around and write everyone in my head
I listen to what everyone has already said
But those mundane conversations are lead nowhere

I write intention behind their slightest move
And even though they would disapprove


I walk this earth and look upon white sky
to see the dust blown and a screaming lie
The dust blown by a local explosion
this is the end of my life's motion

We fight with everyone only to cry when peace comes
When we finish crying we begin to fight again
everybody censors word of everyone else
left and the right kills people

every answer leads us to war
every answer leads us to neglect
Many words were said before me and even more are said now
but none of them said the right thing, maybe there's no right thing to say

We are just wandering animals
how come we think of the beyond?
Why do we care about understanding?
Nothing has an answer to its existence

I might be lost in over analysis
but from this angle I see
every other view does not give me answer

I might not understand things other understand
But deep within we all know that our life is just

not good nor bad
not happy nor sad
not peace nor mad

and for this I am glad
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Mar 12, 2023
I look at the world, and then at her. She was taking off her shoes and doing her final preparations before entering the unknown.
Surprisingly, she looked so free. So graceful. So divine.
On her back, were a pair of pure white and magnificent wings. She was a prisoner trapped in here too, but now, in front of my eyes, she looked so light and beautiful in her dress, also the color of white. Just like a petal of the lily of the valley flower.
She must be an angel, sent from heaven. A beauty that the damped world did not deserve. And now she was going back to where she was supposed to be. Eternal peace.
I felt like a sinner that was finally purified.
And then I looked at the world.
What a horrifying scene. Everything was submerged in complete darkness. Every single ray of light was conquered.
The world is an enormous battlefield. Tomorrow, it will turn active again.
People would fight. Would die. Would be ready to diminish each other for the sake of their own. The winners would live and would thrive, and the losers would become filthy slaves at the bottom of society, with their individuality and basic human rights braced off for the rest of their miserable, worthless lives.
Suddenly, I shivered.
Was that where I was coming back? Was that the reality I had to face?
If I came back, what would be awaiting?
Who would be there?
What kind of gruesome challenges would I have to face?
Is this where I would be buried in?
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Mar 19, 2023
this was a poem i did a few months ago :D

I wonder

Each and every day
When my brain isn't cloudy
I wonder many topics
Whether It's me or other things

I wonder about friendship
How does it always work out?
I wonder about love
How does it always crumble?
I wonder and wonder
Until I can't anymore

Like I'm at the bottom of the ocean
A fish only waiting to be eaten
Knowing that all those things I wonder
Will inevitably be all just a dream

In the end, it doesn't even matter

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