A small house surrounded by towering buildings is not a happy house.
people pass by and never stop to admire its quiet grandeur.
As innovation sprouts up around it, the presents of homes grow sparse–
buildings rise over their graves.
Its windows collect dust, blinding it from the view of the new world.
The roof is worn, and water pulses through the cracks like blood from a wound.
Vines scale the sides like twisted veins, drawing pictures beneath the skin.
The siding is discolored, like the pail band on your finger from a ring you once thought would be permanent.
The door is freckled with fingerprints from those who have come and gone.
The house grows feverish from the lack of
Circulation.
The fear of being stamped out swells within its walls–
Until finally it crumbles, forgotten,
Into the dust it once stood upon.
Nov 6, 2025
Nov 6, 2025 at 9:20 AM UTC
The future will bring an end to our future.
It will hypnotize us and march us off a cliff.
The future will grasp our strings and maneuver us like puppets.
It will bring an end to injustice by making us all unjust.
It will create peace by silencing opinion.
The future will make our lives pointless–
living them for us before we’re old enough to comprehend life itself.
It will pummel us to the ground in order to ensure our lack of rebellion.
It will pick us off one by one, leash us, and then call it freedom.
The future will take us by the hair
and drag us towards what we fear to face,
Until running is no longer an option.
The future has brought an end to our future.
Nov 6, 2025
Nov 6, 2025 at 9:19 AM UTC
There's a being out there we call existence and on his back we live.
Few know he is there. Even fewer care.
The world we know sprouts from the life he has gifted us.
He breaks his back hauling us through day and night.
His limbs have grown frail with hunger, for he has given all his nutrients to us, and we take without a thought for him.
When we rebel and do harm to one another we cause harm to him as well.
He is a parent– feeling all things so that his children may be free.
His hands and knees are bloodied and ragged from crawling, while we do nothing to lighten his load, only to weigh it down.
His eyes are bloodshot from watching us tear each other apart.
They weaken with grief as he sees his children suffer at their own hands.
His lips are raw from screaming our names, from whispering directions which we ignore.
His tears only exist in memory for he sent them all to us so we may have water to drink.
His skin is shriveled from ******* the moisture from his body and instilling it in ours.
His chest is eroded from holding us close as we tremble in fear and in sadness.
And still, he endures.
For you. For me. For this fragile world he nurtures. For the hope that we will one day open our own eyes and see him– not as a myth, but our maker.
Nov 6, 2025
Nov 6, 2025 at 9:19 AM UTC
The clock is digging our grave. Every day, every hour, every withering second– a quiet worker in the dark, humming as it goes.
Some clocks dig with malice,
their hands flailing like a strangled child,
Their seconds falling heavy as dirt on a coffin.
Others move gently, almost tauntingly,
lifting only a breath of soil at a time.
The clock digs whether we watch or not.
Some try to bind its hands and lock up its face,
pretending stillness means safety–
But even silence keeps its rhythm.
The clock is digging your grave,
Its shape contorts to reflect your growing fear.
The clock is digging my grave, each tick another scoop.
Each tock another closing breath.
And I can’t help but listen to every strike of the shovel.
Nov 6, 2025
Nov 6, 2025 at 9:17 AM UTC