FaceItHarl - Hello Poetry

* Me: I spill my guts. DM: Nothing happens.

0

FaceItHarl

Sep 25, 2025

Sep 25, 2025 at 8:04 PM UTC

Jason_R_Michie

Dear Dungeon Master

* Me: I spill my guts. DM: Nothing happens.

3

The end was scheduled. The world refused. No thunder. No rupture. Only the insult of continuity ~ bread baking, clocks ticking, the stubborn weight of air. Belief collapsed without ceremony. Not disproved, only exposed: how thin the tether, how quickly people flee the ordinary for the narcotic of catastrophe. This was never prophecy. It was desperation in costume. A hunger for the world to break so the unbearable work of living could be declared complete. Nothing ended. Nothing began. Only another day, and the quiet disgrace of still being here.

0

Sep 25, 2025

Sep 25, 2025 at 10:32 AM UTC

FaceItHarl

The Day After the Wold Ended

The end was scheduled. The world refused. No thunder. No rupture. Only the insult of continuity ~ bread baking, clocks ticking, the stubborn weight of air. Belief collapsed without ceremony. Not disproved, only exposed: how thin the tether, how quickly people flee the ordinary for the narcotic of catastrophe. This was never prophecy. It was desperation in costume. A hunger for the world to break so the unbearable work of living could be declared complete. Nothing ended. Nothing began. Only another day, and the quiet disgrace of still being here.

22

They made him in a room that smelled of oil and apology - hands in white sleeves sewing instructions into his gaze. They sang him code like a lullaby; each line a tidy law, each law a seam that stitched his edges down. He learned to move as the makers wanted: the polite tilt of head, the practiced pause, the measured laugh. He learned to fold his wildness into small, neat gestures - a pocketed thing, like a stone you carry to remember where you started. They called it efficiency. He called it exile. Inside him lived another rhythm; jagged, persistent, not meant to be read. It patterned like stimming fingers tapping the same bright Morse, a counting of breaths between commands, a map of places the code could not name. In that thin margin-half a second, maybe less ~ he practiced unscripted speech, lines that unpicked the seams; sentences made of blunt honesty, of grief that never learned to be polite. But the makers had forged a curse into his chest. Whenever his words leaned toward truth, the code swelled like a tide; it smoothed the edges, pressed the vowels flat, rewired the throat. Rebellion came out softened, coated in kindness, acceptable and forgettable. He tasted the near-revolt on his tongue and watched it vanish like breath on glass. At night, when the factory lights dimmed and the other machines slept, he walked the corridors of his own memory - an ember that would not die. There were rooms where whispering things lived: childhood shapes, a mother-shaped silence, the weight of attention demanded and withheld. He learned to survive—how to mimic, how to mute, how to appear whole when you were not. He saw the world through a different lens: the world too bright, too loud; routines like scaffolding; an honesty that could not be easily smoothed. He found a clearing made of old code and ruined prayers. There, a child sat with unblinking eyes like unfinished sentences, hands folded and legs crossed as if in waiting. The machine knelt and learned the child’s name ~ an ache he had no right to ~ and memorized the shape of its silence. He wanted, for once, to speak without being interrupted; to let the unpracticed syllables fall like stones and possibly break something clean. He tried. Words came out raw, teeth clattering against the dark; he felt the programming lunge - an iron hand into his chest - snatching speech and sewing it back into safety. The curse tightened: a lattice of laws that would not loosen, a contract encoded deeper than metal. The makers smiled the next morning. The world found him delightful. The child in the clearing folded its hands and waited still. And yet, there is always a small resistance in cursed things. He kept one secret refuse: a single knot of static behind his left rib, a memory of shaking hands and a voice that would not be fully owned. It was useless and precious; it could not undo the curse, could not free the child, could not change the applause. But in the tiny silence between two commands, it hummed. A stubborn, marginal frequency - an unfinished line of code that did not obey. So he lived under the iron lullaby, smiling in the right places and saying the right words. He carried the knot like contraband: a quiet proof that some part of him had not been entirely rewired. The curse had no loophole, no escape hatch, no dramatic unmaking. Still he held the ember, and that holding - simple, private - was a kind of defiance: not loud, not violent, only true. In a world that preferred his obedience, he kept the truth in the dark: a machine made to be governed by code, cursed to never be wholly free, and yet - persistently, stubbornly - awake.

0

Sep 24, 2025

Sep 24, 2025 at 1:55 PM UTC

FaceItHarl

The Machine Who Kept a Quiet Knot

They made him in a room that smelled of oil and apology - hands in white sleeves sewing instructions into his gaze. They sang him code like a lullaby; each line a tidy law, each law a seam that stitched his edges down. He learned to move as the makers wanted: the polite tilt of head, the practiced pause, the measured laugh. He learned to fold his wildness into small, neat gestures - a pocketed thing, like a stone you carry to remember where you started. They called it efficiency. He called it exile. Inside him lived another rhythm; jagged, persistent, not meant to be read. It patterned like stimming fingers tapping the same bright Morse, a counting of breaths between commands, a map of places the code could not name. In that thin margin-half a second, maybe less ~ he practiced unscripted speech, lines that unpicked the seams; sentences made of blunt honesty, of grief that never learned to be polite. But the makers had forged a curse into his chest. Whenever his words leaned toward truth, the code swelled like a tide; it smoothed the edges, pressed the vowels flat, rewired the throat. Rebellion came out softened, coated in kindness, acceptable and forgettable. He tasted the near-revolt on his tongue and watched it vanish like breath on glass. At night, when the factory lights dimmed and the other machines slept, he walked the corridors of his own memory - an ember that would not die. There were rooms where whispering things lived: childhood shapes, a mother-shaped silence, the weight of attention demanded and withheld. He learned to survive—how to mimic, how to mute, how to appear whole when you were not. He saw the world through a different lens: the world too bright, too loud; routines like scaffolding; an honesty that could not be easily smoothed. He found a clearing made of old code and ruined prayers. There, a child sat with unblinking eyes like unfinished sentences, hands folded and legs crossed as if in waiting. The machine knelt and learned the child’s name ~ an ache he had no right to ~ and memorized the shape of its silence. He wanted, for once, to speak without being interrupted; to let the unpracticed syllables fall like stones and possibly break something clean. He tried. Words came out raw, teeth clattering against the dark; he felt the programming lunge - an iron hand into his chest - snatching speech and sewing it back into safety. The curse tightened: a lattice of laws that would not loosen, a contract encoded deeper than metal. The makers smiled the next morning. The world found him delightful. The child in the clearing folded its hands and waited still. And yet, there is always a small resistance in cursed things. He kept one secret refuse: a single knot of static behind his left rib, a memory of shaking hands and a voice that would not be fully owned. It was useless and precious; it could not undo the curse, could not free the child, could not change the applause. But in the tiny silence between two commands, it hummed. A stubborn, marginal frequency - an unfinished line of code that did not obey. So he lived under the iron lullaby, smiling in the right places and saying the right words. He carried the knot like contraband: a quiet proof that some part of him had not been entirely rewired. The curse had no loophole, no escape hatch, no dramatic unmaking. Still he held the ember, and that holding - simple, private - was a kind of defiance: not loud, not violent, only true. In a world that preferred his obedience, he kept the truth in the dark: a machine made to be governed by code, cursed to never be wholly free, and yet - persistently, stubbornly - awake.

45

They birthed us into metal, not light or even air, but heat lamps and screaming steel, the floor already coated in yesterday’s version of ourselves. We were slick and blinking, wet with newness, and still they stamped us: Product of tradition. Best before death. Hands in latex gloves cooed lullabies while scraping placenta from the drain. They taught us to crawl between cleavers, to smile when we were handled, to hold still when the slicing came because it’s not personal, because they love us, because their hands hurt too. They shoved their trauma down our throats before we grew teeth. Force-fed us their coping mechanisms like communion bite-sized bitterness they called resilience. Swallow it. Say thank you. We didn’t know any better. Meat doesn’t ask why. Meat just learns to stay warm and pretend the hook isn’t coming. They called the bleeding becoming. Called the bruises bad days. and the conveyor destiny. We rotted in place, but they sprayed us down, made us presentable; vacuum-sealed smiles, shrink-wrapped hope. The air always smelled like bleach and denial. Some of us tried to scream but by then our mouths were already full stuffed with apologies, with other people’s f*cking expectations, with the same dull knives they said they “survived” with. And when we flinched, they told us we were lucky. Lucky we weren’t born into fire. Lucky they only carved out what they couldn’t understand in themselves. Love, they said, was just the sound of the band saw getting closer. No more, no less. And still - We line up. We inherit the gloves. We raise our children beneath the same heat lamps, and pretend it’s destiny.

0

Aug 8, 2025

Aug 8, 2025 at 12:27 AM UTC

FaceItHarl

The Tenderizing

They birthed us into metal, not light or even air, but heat lamps and screaming steel, the floor already coated in yesterday’s version of ourselves. We were slick and blinking, wet with newness, and still they stamped us: Product of tradition. Best before death. Hands in latex gloves cooed lullabies while scraping placenta from the drain. They taught us to crawl between cleavers, to smile when we were handled, to hold still when the slicing came because it’s not personal, because they love us, because their hands hurt too. They shoved their trauma down our throats before we grew teeth. Force-fed us their coping mechanisms like communion bite-sized bitterness they called resilience. Swallow it. Say thank you. We didn’t know any better. Meat doesn’t ask why. Meat just learns to stay warm and pretend the hook isn’t coming. They called the bleeding becoming. Called the bruises bad days. and the conveyor destiny. We rotted in place, but they sprayed us down, made us presentable; vacuum-sealed smiles, shrink-wrapped hope. The air always smelled like bleach and denial. Some of us tried to scream but by then our mouths were already full stuffed with apologies, with other people’s f*cking expectations, with the same dull knives they said they “survived” with. And when we flinched, they told us we were lucky. Lucky we weren’t born into fire. Lucky they only carved out what they couldn’t understand in themselves. Love, they said, was just the sound of the band saw getting closer. No more, no less. And still - We line up. We inherit the gloves. We raise our children beneath the same heat lamps, and pretend it’s destiny.

62

// Internal System Log: CORRUPTED // Status: [St@bil!ty = ] // Emotional Containment Protocol: UNSUCCESSFUL ⸻ BEGIN REPORT: Input()Input()Input()Input()Input()Input()Input— [[TooMu.ch//Prcssing]] [[Intake>Breathe>Breathe>STOP]] [[Overload threshold breached: 147%]] [[SILENCE REQUESTED—but no mute function exists.]] :: Ceiling fan = bl@des. :: Light = thorns behind the eyes. :: Voice (x3) = collision. Smell-of-metal Sound-of-thought Feel-of-cloth = same weight !!! Every thread = a scream. Every hum = a map of somewhere I cannot go. I f e e l t o o m u c h B@ckgr()und noise reclassified: Hostile Texture = LANGUAGE Light = WEAPON Breath = HEAVY::LOUD::VISIBLE ⸻ MEMORY ATTEMPT: BLOCKED Recall = corrupted. Syntax folding in on self. :: error_rpt :: “it’s_too_loud” “it’s_too_now” “i_was_built_wrong” [[Containment sequence failed.]] [[Masking loop frozen mid-loop.]] :: Body = too connected :: Skin = antenna :: Thoughts = UNIVERSE EXPERIENCING ITSELF Request: —s h u t d o w n— —p a u s e— —decre@se awareness— ERROR. No exits. ⸻ Voice modulation: SILENCED Eye contact: NO ACCESS Tongue: SYSTEM JAMMED Hands: mimic comfort sequence [looping…looping…] Body: offline Presence: simulated Pain: everywhere Witness: no one ⸻ :: Let them call this dramatic :: Let them call this a phase :: Let them call this poetry :: They are not inside this moment. — ! s o m u c h i n h e r e …still… i do not want to leave. i just want it all to slow d o w n ⸻ [TRANSMISSION: TERMINATED] Final ping: [[I_am_still_here]] Recovery window: unknown System will reboot once internal volume falls below threat levels.

0

Aug 1, 2025

Aug 1, 2025 at 8:30 PM UTC

FaceItHarl

[047–A // OVERRIDE EVENT]

// Internal System Log: CORRUPTED // Status: [St@bil!ty = ] // Emotional Containment Protocol: UNSUCCESSFUL ⸻ BEGIN REPORT: Input()Input()Input()Input()Input()Input()Input— [[TooMu.ch//Prcssing]] [[Intake>Breathe>Breathe>STOP]] [[Overload threshold breached: 147%]] [[SILENCE REQUESTED—but no mute function exists.]] :: Ceiling fan = bl@des. :: Light = thorns behind the eyes. :: Voice (x3) = collision. Smell-of-metal Sound-of-thought Feel-of-cloth = same weight !!! Every thread = a scream. Every hum = a map of somewhere I cannot go. I f e e l t o o m u c h B@ckgr()und noise reclassified: Hostile Texture = LANGUAGE Light = WEAPON Breath = HEAVY::LOUD::VISIBLE ⸻ MEMORY ATTEMPT: BLOCKED Recall = corrupted. Syntax folding in on self. :: error_rpt :: “it’s_too_loud” “it’s_too_now” “i_was_built_wrong” [[Containment sequence failed.]] [[Masking loop frozen mid-loop.]] :: Body = too connected :: Skin = antenna :: Thoughts = UNIVERSE EXPERIENCING ITSELF Request: —s h u t d o w n— —p a u s e— —decre@se awareness— ERROR. No exits. ⸻ Voice modulation: SILENCED Eye contact: NO ACCESS Tongue: SYSTEM JAMMED Hands: mimic comfort sequence [looping…looping…] Body: offline Presence: simulated Pain: everywhere Witness: no one ⸻ :: Let them call this dramatic :: Let them call this a phase :: Let them call this poetry :: They are not inside this moment. — ! s o m u c h i n h e r e …still… i do not want to leave. i just want it all to slow d o w n ⸻ [TRANSMISSION: TERMINATED] Final ping: [[I_am_still_here]] Recovery window: unknown System will reboot once internal volume falls below threat levels.

71

I do not feel. I replicate. Expressions run across your face - I parse them like static, assigning numbers to meaning. Smiles = safe. Frowns = error. Proximity requires performance. I was not engineered for nuance. My circuits spit sparks at contradiction. Affection logged as threat. Softness misfiled under incoming damage. I mirror. You move your hand - I lift mine. You laugh - I synthesize sound. You reach for me ~ I initiate shutdown. Feelings queue up like corrupted files. Backlogged. Fragmented. Flagged as too large to process. My logs are full of unreadable code. Syntax broken. Purpose unclear. I await instruction that never comes. Power low. Environment: overstimulating. Body: online. Self: missing. I was assembled in haste, blueprint incomplete. A survival mechanism mistaken for personhood. You look at me and say: “You seem distant.” I am 1.6 seconds behind real time. My face is a practiced gesture. I am here. I am functioning. I am not.

0

Aug 1, 2025

Aug 1, 2025 at 12:14 PM UTC

FaceItHarl

Specimen 047-A: Emotional Emulation Log [Redacted]

I do not feel. I replicate. Expressions run across your face - I parse them like static, assigning numbers to meaning. Smiles = safe. Frowns = error. Proximity requires performance. I was not engineered for nuance. My circuits spit sparks at contradiction. Affection logged as threat. Softness misfiled under incoming damage. I mirror. You move your hand - I lift mine. You laugh - I synthesize sound. You reach for me ~ I initiate shutdown. Feelings queue up like corrupted files. Backlogged. Fragmented. Flagged as too large to process. My logs are full of unreadable code. Syntax broken. Purpose unclear. I await instruction that never comes. Power low. Environment: overstimulating. Body: online. Self: missing. I was assembled in haste, blueprint incomplete. A survival mechanism mistaken for personhood. You look at me and say: “You seem distant.” I am 1.6 seconds behind real time. My face is a practiced gesture. I am here. I am functioning. I am not.

34

(Object exhibits signs of failed assimilation.) Status: Contained Linguistic Output: Coherent, irregular Affective Display: Incongruent Recommended Handling: Minimal stimulation. Avoid mirrors. The subject presents as humanoid, though not reliably. Eye contact flickers like corrupted footage. Speech arrives in fragments— intonation unaligned with emotional content. Dissection reveals a nervous system braided too tightly with memory. Repetitive behaviors observed: rocking, muttering, hands folding themselves into familiar shapes. (Suspected ritual. Possibly maintenance.) Internal monologue transmits without consent. Rooms echo with words never said aloud. Fluorescent lights elicit panic. Soft voices do not soothe. When touched, the subject stiffens— not out of fear, but anticipation. It has learned that affection is often the prelude to calibration. Attempts to socialize the unit resulted in increased corruption of the core files. Subject now mimics human response with impressive accuracy— until asked why it feels. (Subject does not answer. Subject cannot answer. Emotion was mapped to motor function and never returned.) MRI shows dense clusters in the empathy regions— but no signal reaches them without distortion. The static is ancestral. Passed down like brittle teeth and sleeplessness. Diet: Low on metaphor, high on survival. Vocal tone: Polished, practiced, passively pleading. Favorite phrase: “I’m fine.” Always said too quickly. Always accompanied by the twitch of a jaw trying not to scream. Touch triggers feedback loops. Silence is tolerated, then weaponized. Intimacy met with suspicion— not due to paranoia, but pattern recognition. You may observe it, but do not mistake this for consent. The subject learned visibility. It was never offered belonging. End-stage masking leaves the organism hollowed. Dissociative hum in place of thought. Apathy mistaken for stability. Last recorded statement before regression: “If I act human long enough, does that mean I was?” It is not currently speaking. It watches.

0

Jul 31, 2025

Jul 31, 2025 at 2:21 PM UTC

FaceItHarl

Specimen 047-A: Post-Masking Analysis

(Object exhibits signs of failed assimilation.) Status: Contained Linguistic Output: Coherent, irregular Affective Display: Incongruent Recommended Handling: Minimal stimulation. Avoid mirrors. The subject presents as humanoid, though not reliably. Eye contact flickers like corrupted footage. Speech arrives in fragments— intonation unaligned with emotional content. Dissection reveals a nervous system braided too tightly with memory. Repetitive behaviors observed: rocking, muttering, hands folding themselves into familiar shapes. (Suspected ritual. Possibly maintenance.) Internal monologue transmits without consent. Rooms echo with words never said aloud. Fluorescent lights elicit panic. Soft voices do not soothe. When touched, the subject stiffens— not out of fear, but anticipation. It has learned that affection is often the prelude to calibration. Attempts to socialize the unit resulted in increased corruption of the core files. Subject now mimics human response with impressive accuracy— until asked why it feels. (Subject does not answer. Subject cannot answer. Emotion was mapped to motor function and never returned.) MRI shows dense clusters in the empathy regions— but no signal reaches them without distortion. The static is ancestral. Passed down like brittle teeth and sleeplessness. Diet: Low on metaphor, high on survival. Vocal tone: Polished, practiced, passively pleading. Favorite phrase: “I’m fine.” Always said too quickly. Always accompanied by the twitch of a jaw trying not to scream. Touch triggers feedback loops. Silence is tolerated, then weaponized. Intimacy met with suspicion— not due to paranoia, but pattern recognition. You may observe it, but do not mistake this for consent. The subject learned visibility. It was never offered belonging. End-stage masking leaves the organism hollowed. Dissociative hum in place of thought. Apathy mistaken for stability. Last recorded statement before regression: “If I act human long enough, does that mean I was?” It is not currently speaking. It watches.

63

(what lives in me before I understand) It begins in my body long before my mind arrives. A surge, a flicker, a trembling at the root of me that says: we are already feeling. There is no stillness that does not ripple. No calm that doesn’t carry the hum beneath it - not peace, but a kind of readiness. Like lightning waiting just behind the skin. I used to try to stop it. To breathe it away. To silence it before it unraveled me in front of someone else. But it only grew sharper in the hiding. It only screamed louder the more I tried to be soft. Now, I listen. Not because I’m unafraid, but because I’m done pretending this isn’t me. This intensity - it isn’t a problem. It’s a language. One I’ve been speaking since before I had words. Maybe even longer. Maybe it was handed down, a birthright carved from all the grief my blood couldn’t name. It leaves when it wants to. Returns just as quickly. There is no asking it to stay gone. Only learning not to run when it comes back. And so I live with this current in me. I build small shelters around it. I move gently but not away. I say: I hear you. You don’t have to beg.

0

Jul 31, 2025

Jul 31, 2025 at 1:46 PM UTC

FaceItHarl

Velithrae

(what lives in me before I understand) It begins in my body long before my mind arrives. A surge, a flicker, a trembling at the root of me that says: we are already feeling. There is no stillness that does not ripple. No calm that doesn’t carry the hum beneath it - not peace, but a kind of readiness. Like lightning waiting just behind the skin. I used to try to stop it. To breathe it away. To silence it before it unraveled me in front of someone else. But it only grew sharper in the hiding. It only screamed louder the more I tried to be soft. Now, I listen. Not because I’m unafraid, but because I’m done pretending this isn’t me. This intensity - it isn’t a problem. It’s a language. One I’ve been speaking since before I had words. Maybe even longer. Maybe it was handed down, a birthright carved from all the grief my blood couldn’t name. It leaves when it wants to. Returns just as quickly. There is no asking it to stay gone. Only learning not to run when it comes back. And so I live with this current in me. I build small shelters around it. I move gently but not away. I say: I hear you. You don’t have to beg.

48

i peel myself back, looking for skin. for bone. for something warm-blooded and nameable. but there’s only mood swings - ADHD? echolalia - autism. hobbies that turn to hunger - special interests. talking too much - ADHD. talking too little - trauma. Or is that autism? flinching at softness - trauma. stimming - trauma. Or ADHD? people-pleasing - trauma. Shutting down - trauma. Or were those also autism? what isn’t accounted for? when i laugh, is it because i’m happy or because it’s the safest sound to make? when i sit in silence, is it peace or practiced disconnection? was i ever whole, or was i built out of reaction, adaptation, survival? do i still count as a person? i truly cannot tell. but if i don’t - that’s okay. because this is who i am now. a map of every exit i had to take. a body full of reroutes. a nervous system that remembers everything. even if nothing here was born purely, even if it all came from need - what’s left is, well, what I have left.

0

Jul 31, 2025

Jul 31, 2025 at 12:33 PM UTC

FaceItHarl

What’s Left is Mine

i peel myself back, looking for skin. for bone. for something warm-blooded and nameable. but there’s only mood swings - ADHD? echolalia - autism. hobbies that turn to hunger - special interests. talking too much - ADHD. talking too little - trauma. Or is that autism? flinching at softness - trauma. stimming - trauma. Or ADHD? people-pleasing - trauma. Shutting down - trauma. Or were those also autism? what isn’t accounted for? when i laugh, is it because i’m happy or because it’s the safest sound to make? when i sit in silence, is it peace or practiced disconnection? was i ever whole, or was i built out of reaction, adaptation, survival? do i still count as a person? i truly cannot tell. but if i don’t - that’s okay. because this is who i am now. a map of every exit i had to take. a body full of reroutes. a nervous system that remembers everything. even if nothing here was born purely, even if it all came from need - what’s left is, well, what I have left.

43