To the pleasure of absolute nothingness, paradise for the yearners. Hell for the worriers.
The garden of ruined fruits will be forgotten, the harvest of the mold, the better option is to never create the garden.
Removal of the fruits, the seeds, the compose, the soil. No more the swings of sweat and tears. Harken back to nothing.
Yet without such things there is no consumption of the food, there is no yearning for the good, Like a car with only a hood.
Directionless be the thought, end and start would serve the purpose of the martyr's unknowing. It is not sacrifice, it is escapism.
Mar 9
Mar 9, 2026 at 6:52 PM UTC
The fervent belief that corrects the world.
Lest it be someone who abject stupendously.
Call them the worshippers of pagan poetry.
Being zealous for the worshipper of none, but within irrational foreboding of the follower.
Afraid be the choice that gives a disadvantage.
Afraid be the future with no happy outcomes.
Afraid be the deeds going to none at the end.
The eyes of humanity will see you, the acolyte, as the trivializationer of those whom don't follow your path.
The abominator of the theology of love.
The lamb whose shepherd belittles empathy.
The groupie of willing unknowingness.
The silent conformer to mass genocide.
Feb 22
Feb 22, 2026 at 1:20 PM UTC
Within, the aftertaste of flowers and seeds,
Without, the shocks of mechanical fleshy movement.
Together, the beginning of it's growth for weeds,
Nothing, the grave permitted by nature's approvement.
The air carries it's soothing wave through the ravaged canyon,
The abhorrent affairs which the gases deject,
The soul, which is the lover's fanion,
All they do is to expose, and leave it pecked.
Worrisome for the nothing's hospice,
the hope of comfort, for there is none to feel,
many wish to make it pompous!
But at the end all would kneel.
Feb 22
Feb 22, 2026 at 12:34 AM UTC
For naught have'if your life be true,
you ought to seek youth's remaining dew.
The red sea do you consume, with little room to fill for love to bloom.
Yet there are no warming hue's of a mother's instinctual cue.
Far away have you sailed for me,
the messages of open static to interpret upon the sea.
Sang the tales of your adventure, but stuck with such indentures.
Phantasmagorical would be for thee, yet no words of who was he.
Were the days of Irreality, such a lazed maternal banality?
Why did it stick? The sword of duality?
Would death be meaningless? If it were my seasickness?
Hope is lost for the disappearance of my carnality.
Feb 19
Feb 19, 2026 at 1:08 AM UTC
Relish in the warmth of a mechanic's frozen serenity.
The man's corroless heart, views the cries as annoyance to his slithery meal.
Toady are the men who consume the words of the media's perverted vernacular, gushing towards the companies oily third cane.
No longer are the perpetrators the men who run the country, but the woman o' man you've never seen, the number on the dart board of public persecution.
The passion of decency is killed by the job of agendas.
The very existence of a group surviving like you is deemed a crime, how far would you follow your dying god to reach a once loved nation which uses their wealth as a building block to society?
Destroy the progressives, destroy the ones causing the most sufferings, destroy the ones ruining everything you once loved, like anything that came with hatred had any to give.
Feb 17
Feb 17, 2026 at 5:15 PM UTC
Tone of calming notes,
Removal of sense, Rush! Rush!
Smooth Brash Melody!
Feb 16
Feb 16, 2026 at 1:01 PM UTC
The terrified act of a journey is replaced with a euphoric euthanasia.
Horrors of terrible visions yet numb to come.
After one taste, one unexplainable hollow joy, one spike of dopamine rush, then the vines of self-fulfillment grow.
Trapped within a disgusting fleshy vessel which inside grows to hate.
No longer is each act a euphoric euthanasia, without it, it's mental ************
No longer does every ritual end with elation, it's just the removal of negative sensation.
Trapped in a jar filled with thorns covered in sanitizer, each ritual's negation is of the miser.
The hand which gives out wants something of use, yet that help itself gives them the uprisal of an ego boost.
Subjugation of one self's love, the rustication of communication.
Hating my own disgusting flesh for it's own enslavement, the dream of a noose is nothing more but depravement.
Feb 16
Feb 16, 2026 at 12:11 PM UTC
Be the one who carries the flames of another's passion.
be the one who knows what they are doing while everyone is aimlessly digging their own grave, like Monarchs of grand illusion to confirm and conform others of their correct beliefs.
Be the one who has hopes and dreams which fit correctly in the square shaped pit called a career.
Be the one who shushes the dreams of a kid who's only sin is imagination.
Be the one who lives off caffeine, *** and hatred to fill your vortexed heart with no container to hold it's own pathetic shape.
Be the one who owns up to the problems you didn't invent, think, or even start.
Become the person which everyone thrives but you hate.
Feb 16
Feb 16, 2026 at 12:16 AM UTC