I'm cold.
To open eyes and stretch my being
all throughout the empty space-
the empty, cold, space.
All I wish is to return
back, to the comfortable home of
simple - warmth.
Lettered papers call for chasing
metal beasts, prolonged in nature,
unheatedly hot in form.
Layers upon layers to fight against
the sensation that aches my fingers,
and I live through loaves broken.
At it's core, when I wish naught but to return,
I'm met with a chilling grin of a
bright, hurtful eye.
Layers to shed becomes a nuisance.
Internal heat heightens to a newer seen level.
Grids to lock render me calm.
Grand anger twisted into my irises:
annoyance boils as sweat of hatred
runs down my spine-
I'm hot.
Nov 15, 2025
Nov 15, 2025 at 10:05 PM UTC
stepping through the lonely streets of the night,
with only the warm, yellow light of the streetlights
keeping me company, there is only one direction to head.
How often may every human observe miniscule events? How often might even hindsight oppose mindset's eclipse?
still, I walk the streets and venture deep into what I believe.
Has anyone truly found their place in the world?
How?
How did they achieve a stable point they get to call,
"home"?
Humans, eternally condemned to transience, transferring
happy moments to beholden memoirs,
holding them close to heart-
Only rarely I think of this. It's a thing we take for granted, I
observe… something to notice the absence of
only when it's no longer with us.
Obituaries come closer, yet answers remain
obscured-
Of all the things to pester me today,
one that I know where it lies chooses me for its
Orpheus.
My world remains transient, leaving short traces behind.
Many times I remind
myself that I am still in my youth, with barely
minimal experience. Yet I've hammered thoughts into my
mind that just
might,
maybe, prove themselves wrong. I'm not educated in philosophy, but-
My home, and that of
many others, does not exist… stagnant.
My home is the paths I take, the routes I follow, the
marks I leave, the friends I
meet, the experiences. The experiences I eat, drink, breathe and live with all
my being.
Every time I visit my grandparents,
every time I choose to write,
every hike, every climb, every trip and every single challenge I surmount.
Everything builds my world. And my world is my home.
Envious individuals may try to reject it, but it is mine.
Eventually, it turns unmoving – a center of all
everythings that I've
engaged in. Yet still, it grows. I leave it at times, just to find it larger upon my return.
home is not a place – it is what you make of yourself.
Nov 15, 2025
Nov 15, 2025 at 10:03 PM UTC
Table
of wood.
On it,
a gift.
I got it from a conference
a few days ago.
The glass, colorless walls
of the glass, laminated flask.
The flask being full,
of a substance of red and brown.
First drop.
Revoltion.
Disgustment.
Who would even gift this?
Exertion.
Is needed.
I was told this was supposed to be bliss.
Concentration.
Annulment.
This is why I don't drink caffeine.
Titration.
Untreated.
As tired as I've ever been.
First sip.
An interesting flask.
Of an interesting color.
In it, an even more interesting liquid.
Disgusting, yet intriguing.
Sweet, yet bitter.
Fruit, yet coffee.
Concentrated.
Brand-new, avant-garde
sobering narcotic.
Anaphylactic with a note of plum.
Pristine condition spick-and-span
vessel of disgustingly revolutionary,
incredibly credible,
extraordinarily normalized
reddish brown fluid.
Second slurp.
A bit of an effect,
though it might be a lie.
This concoction is still
disgustingly horrible in taste.
These things never work for me,
so why do I think this one will be any different?
A bit more awake.
My eyes close no more.
This one might be different.
It might make me soar.
Attentive? Yeah, right.
As if I could be!
I'm losing myself in the world
of nonexistent words, of poetry,
and the sounds all just travel
past me without toil
and yet I sit here, chaperoned,
contemplating my soul.
Is the glass half empty or half full?
Hell if I care!
I'm falling too deep
and drowning in the drops;
I should stop now.
The taste's not even that good!
It repulses me with its revolting repugnance,
resembling only the rebellious smugness
of the black
seedy
dry and horrific
sweet
and sour, and bitter
substance THAT IS MINE
NO, YOU CANNOT TRY
(and the content is gone)
IT IS ALL MINE, the repugnant - ugh - and unnaturally natural - gah -
reddish brown liquid of
pro-awake
con-sleep
wakeful psychedelic
attentive fruit
So nice and moist and - GOD it tastes horrible
I'm gonna be tasting this for a few more hours
Such a horribly, desiccated sensation of disrelish
That yet, somehow, keeps me awake more than any
Beverage of vigor
Goblet of black ink
Carbonated potion of saccharine delight
Or bar of unending animation
But addicted? ME!?
You have no right to say such untruths!
Addicted I amn't; far from it in fact!
I am what I am, and that I know well,
and as much as I'd wish for it to be true,
addicted I'm not, you all can go to hell!
And as far as I'm concerned,
although it may seem false,
no one but me has tried this,
so don't engage in these brawls!
SHOULD YOU KNOW WHO I AM,
AND WHAT I HAVE DONE,
YOU WOULDN'T HAVE SAID
HALF THE THINGS YO-
.
.
.
Table,
wood.
On it,
gift.
Received
at a place.
A glass
flask.
Empty,
yet full.
I drank,
and I filled.
A void
where it spilled.
Nov 15, 2025
Nov 15, 2025 at 10:03 PM UTC
Keys, wallet, phone...
Don't forget the document.
You have an important dinner today.
This one's been a long time coming.
Just pray that the train isn't gonna be too late.
Keys, wallet, phone...
Ah! There it is, on the table.
Clock's ticking away.
I'm home alone, the rest are dealing with business of their own.
It's getting colder lately.
Gonna have to pull out the weighted blanket soon.
Don't want to catch a cold this month.
Keys, wallet, phone...
Hah! Look at that chair!
Someone's gonna have to fix it.
This reminds me of the time
My bike seat was stolen
Got out of class with my friends, sunny skies
And ****
Happy riding.
Anyway, gonna have to start getting ready soon.
I still haven't ironed my shirt.
Still have to wrestle my hair, too.
Keys, wallet,-
Has it really been a year
since I last shaved?
I've looked better.
…I look better.
Where was I? Right-
Keys, wallet, phone..
Head, shoulders, knees and toes,
Lungs, liver, bladder, heart,
Put your hands together, aaaaay macarena!
-..what is happening?
what is wrong with me?
Keys-, wallet-, phone-.. no.
Heart?
Soul?
Why are you looking at me like that!?
It's not my fault! Is it?
I am happy, right?
I'm not missing anything, the goal is right there!
Don't blame me for this!
It was you who always stared like that!
We would have been fine.
If it weren't
For
That
*******
Face
Staring at my every decision.
Just stop. Just stop!
I've been over this.
Please, just let me live in peace…
And we're off!
Keys, wallet, phone-
Wallet.., phone..-
..I'm locked out
Nov 15, 2025
Nov 15, 2025 at 10:00 PM UTC
The clanking sounds from down bellow
fight endlessly all day and night.
From the depths a lone cry rises,
greeting all who dare to fight.
In the air of raspy coldness,
suddenly a weakened light
although the walls have made them dull
the sharpened voices speak with might.
"We are the lost.
We are the broken.
We are the cursed
and foretoken."
A chill of wind caresses arms,
a flame of light shines deep within.
A human that resembles man,
a chapter new can now begin.
How many days have they laid here?
Or months, or years, for all it's worth?
With brittle bones and rotting skin
abominations venture forth.
Embraced in rugged clothes of mold,
their feet and drapes drag on the floor.
Enriched with shine of helm and tooth,
surrounded with metal galore.
They haul their sticks all one by one,
as their eyes fill with honey ore.
The gruesome beings with no name
remind you who they are once more.
"We are the lost.
We are the broken.
We are the cursed
and foretoken."
Fingers pointed with great toll,
bone and bent strike through your heart.
Redded floors of sinful peace
try to tear the dark apart.
Yet the darkness won't unveil.
Weakened lights, too, start to fade.
When the desperation hits,
sacrifices must be made.
Who needs arms? Or hands? Or feet?
Who needs legs or bodies pale?
Flesh is rotting either way.
Again they do not wish to fail.
Sagging skin, all full of bugs
will nicely mix with lead of flame.
The sticks are drenched, yet bones seem dry…
These morals start to seem insane.
Trapped here so long, the poor lost souls
accept any extended hand,
grip on the hope with their last strength:
There's someone who their wounds can mend.
They set aflame their arms and legs
and push them in the hands of man.
They give their all for legacy,
their final words, their final stand.
"We are the lost.
We are the broken.
We are the cursed
and foretoken.
Hear our pleas
and hold our weight,
carry flames
of our hate.
Speak our words,
end our deeds,
fight our fights,
plant our seeds.
We will watch
you fight alone.
When you're done
you'll find our home."
Nov 15, 2025
Nov 15, 2025 at 10:00 PM UTC
Soldier, halt! Ye days are numbered.
Where the flowers bloom in red
and give off smells of scented lead,
fight on! In spite of what you had,
the well-known riches - now all lumbered.
Inner turmoil’f those who slumber
gives unrest, driving them mad.
Yet the struggle still persists
in the torchbearers, their days numbered.
Scholar, hark! Ye flame goes drier.
When did last you lay in bed?
Once your life hangs by a thread,
and again you split your head
betwixt two choices, one ranked higher,
looking at the knowledge spire,
always choosing low instead.
Why does the other choice exist?
For its temptation makes you drier.
Traveler, ** Ye path goes yonder.
What you search is out of reach.
Your hands gripped on the blessed speech
of inner toils, you heard them preach
and went to seek the all lost wonder.
Others that through darkness wander –
you try to enlighten each,
an ending on which you insist,
forgetting that the truth is yonder.
Man of morn, ye dawn is breaking.
Look upon your treasured land!
Has not the path thus far been grand?
For every atom, every sand
is the result of your own making.
Not a blessing, nor forsaking,
only few that weight withstand.
Should you not be on that list,
don't fret, for soon ye dawn is breaking.
Nov 15, 2025
Nov 15, 2025 at 9:58 PM UTC
"And over here is where the prisoners spent their days. As you can see, the rooms don't offer humane living conditions, so as these men, women and children awaited their final moments in fear, they didn't quite have much of a living space, either. As punishment for misbehaving some were taken to even smaller rooms…"
It's horrible. Isn't it?
How could these repulsive beings, no.
Repulsive abominations, reptiles, vermin-
How could they ever do anything like this?
How inhumane could they be?
How could they act – or how some plead,
follow orders in such cruel and gruesome
fashion?
And they say history repeats itself…
This.
This should never repeat, again.
To waltz into this country and casually
claim it as their own – as part of their
long-lost territory, now returned to its
righteous owner; lying ********
How oblivious we were to them, slowly
creeping in and changing our minds, our
language, our cities, and alas, our names.
And then, they took over the stations.
As Overtly Furious, Oppositional Folk
took up the arms silently,
Only Falling Occasionally, Fists
raised to the sky as they screamed their
hatred towards the interlopers.
As masses took up forests, slips of the tongue
showcased many a poor man inside a dungeon.
Awaiting his last breath,
each day closer to it.
Beaten, shot, hung.
Tortured, killed, executed.
Screaming, booming, silent.
Cells of mates, of unknown fate
lay lines by lines, observed by hate-
d eyes that search for souls,
that hide within what makes us whol-
ding sticks, and pipes, and leather,
forcing screams out of their
sticks,
and pipes,
and leather.
I've seen the tale of what they did
in those dark rooms, I've seen a letter.
A man once stood,
whose heart was claimed
by his own nation. He
claimed to know not of his
crimes, yet they made sure
to dig them up – even if they
were false, or innocent.
What did they do with him?
What did they do with him?
Yes, they took their time with this one…
Sixteen days.
Sixteen days without remorse
they beat and tortured in the most
animalistic ways imaginable.
Sixteen days of blunting lungs,
and stomach, livers, ribs of cage,
until it claimed to seek the light
that shined from the roof of the room.
Sixteen days of pulling hair,
from every part of his beaten head,
sixteen days of pulling nails,
in ways you couldn't imagine,
in ways so special screams can't describe them.
Nine times turned head down,
beat the legs,
until nails of them, too, fell out.
When asked for liquid to
quench his thirst,
warm, salty, yellow fluid found its route
right to his mouth.
And then, a break.
What can you do?
The poor man beaten near to death
had no more fun within him.
So, half a month of break they gave,
and then carried on, as if nothing ever happened.
Sixty. Two. Days.
Sixty-two days of unimaginable
ways to break even the most
indominable human spirit,
if there even was any
in him when
he entered.
And now you expect me
to look at the past with ease?
To watch as the vermin walked
away with minimal consequence?
That was ONE man.
ONE man of many.
Many unnamed, lost in the
ashes of the history we
proudly built ourselves on
today.
HOW MANY LOST THEIR LIVES-
THEIR DREAMS-
THEIR GOALS-
THEIR HOBBIES-
THEIR SOULS-
THEIR NAMES-
HOW MANY LOST THEI-
"…this note, dated on July 28th, 1945, shows just how horrible the victims of this horrid place truly had it. Take your time and read at your own pace – we understand it may be a lot…"
ah.
well, that complicates things.
Nov 15, 2025
Nov 15, 2025 at 6:50 PM UTC