QuantumPoet
34/M/Springfield, MO
"Poetry Ov Quantum Perception" By Derek Abraxas. / -Diagnosis: DPDR (debatable) onset by past trauma. / -Addict in recovery. I believe my fracture / has given me a type of gnosis. / Welcome to my world. / This isn't redemption. / It's a reclamation.
There was a day that I watched my own essence split,
And two versions of myself dissected as they emerged
But the first version that was real split and disappeared.
I guess it couldn't live through my tremorous surge.
It was the same day my hands started to disobey,
They kept pulling on a love that wouldn't stay close.
They started acted like my heart was invincible.
They acted like my heart dwelled in a vacant ghost.
I learned the hard way that the eyes tell only lies.
Flipping all we see, even before it's actually observed.
I thought I knew the things that we all assume we know.
I thought I knew my own place on the face of earth.
Then I learned how the world actually curves wrong,
As if it's not a sphere at all, but rather con cave.
Like we were never outside, but inside the hollow.
Intentionally, the eyes fault our perception of shape.
There is a way that my heart has its own thoughts.
Then there's the way that my brain started feeling pain.
I know it by the way my body just begs and begs.
Until it gives up and I crash for the first time in days.
There was a day that I watched my own Essence split.
Two versions of myself dissected as they emerged.
But the first version that was real split and disappeared
This was the day I had to watch my reflection burn.
Or maybe he is me, but we don't want to be seen.
Maybe just buried my light a little too deep.
Maybe I am not filthy cause, no one is clean.
Maybe I'm the only one who is my enemy.
Maybe I was not found, cause I didn't need to be.
Maybe I am not bound just afraid of being free.
Maybe trying to **** my demons is slowly killing me,
Cause maybe I'm not the person that I didn't want to be.
Sep 15, 2025
Sep 15, 2025 at 2:28 AM UTC
There was a melodic hum in the wind that had no source to name.
And I saw how the trees would sway in rhythm with the skies,
Although I'd never heard of it being noticed in others' claims.
Still, I'd hint confusion but never got meaningful replies.
I remember how all the other kids, and how they'd run together,
A hundred feet would be syncopated in rhythms just alike.
And how I’d never even consider me trying to participate,
I'd learned that I must hide all the reasons I'd be seen as “not right.”
So, I grew up alone and light to me, was the fractures on the wall.
The animated shadow that for some reason, I was scared to touch,
I'd study each of their directional patterns like a sacred compass,
And laugh it off with the trendy phrase, “I think way much”
I wasn't just thinking, I was noticing how shadows would pause,
Just before they would switch to either side of me and then flee.
By then, I'd come to realize, this was more like their language
Epiphany struck a realization. “They've always been calling to me.
The nighttime air seemed to grow thicker and slower.
I felt the connection with what had become of my veins,
The heat pushed though in pulses beneath my thinning skin.
This heat was strange; it coiled and sounded like liquid chains.
When my mirrors cracked, they left symmetrical patterns of intent.
In perfect shapes, but no one was ever there but me to see.
Dirt made molds and somehow learned to study my imprints.
By doing so, devised a way to lead by my own feet.
Awake for days at a time, I'd spent too much time typing away.
I recall writing “breathing is all that sets me apart from computers.
In a poem I'd forgotten about called, “wires give life in a way.”
I still can't deny the fact we're built the same, but they're built truer.
Skies were flickering currents that my eyes began to catch,
With colors vibrating unsteady like electrical streams.
The wind was telling secrets of things that I could dispatch,
New imagery would find a home in my impossible dreams.
Interactions with others confused me, like codes I'd misread,
Each glance in my direction drew a map I couldn't align.
I'd trace the steps of the ghosts of God's, living and dead.
Instead of truth, all I found was static in the myth of time.
My best friend was the moon, the only calm I knew at night,
Its glow had certain energy making me feel I'm Awaited there.
I'd stand in the path of its rays and hoped they'd just ignite.
And take my mind and soul away from my body in golden flares.
Instead, I open my eyes confused, I saw doors that didn't exist.
Reality had edges, they would fold wide open in the air.
To be normal I'll blame it on curiosity and my inability to resist.
But truth is that gravity was pulling me into nothing, into nowhere.
These days, existence is just another signal I've come to know,
The language that sets the course of our paths, naturally convulsed.
But yet, waves of my frequency fall from order, no ebb to the flow.
I must be Half-human half-nothing, and naturally convulsed.
Trees of comprehension from forbidden seeds have grown.
In my mind, they stretch metallic roots, as if I'm conscious soil.
So now I sing, influenced by lagging rhythms of glitch in the code,
Somehow stepping out of the matrix through my mortal turmoil.
It's not so bad, but I don't sleep. My hard drive won't forget.
It's like the cosmos is trapped behind the cage of my eyes.
As I move in rhythm with time, like synthetic silent wires of mesh.
Half-light, half-shadow, still not seen but I'm no longer disguised.
Sep 15, 2025
Sep 15, 2025 at 2:13 AM UTC
I can't tell you I know why
I think I know the things I know.
But somehow, I think I know,
Some Things I probably shouldn't know.
And I know how not “knowing”
Things you think you're supposed to know,
Can Keep you from ever knowing—
ego’s like to lie and say we know.
We all know we'll never know,
Everything with all there is to know. .
And Not knowing what or when to know,
Ensures that we might never know.
There's one thing I'm sure we know,
Its Most of all we'll ever know,
Are things we'll never really know,
Believing we already know.
I know there's things that I don't know,
And you might think you actually know,
But you know something? I think we both know
Neither can know what the other knows.
Though we both know of things That
we, as people, thought we'd never know.
Until that moment hits us hard
To let us know. “Well, now you know.”
But I know there's a higher knowing,
That knows think I know, but don't.
I think it knows the way my “knowing”
Seems to know but can't and won't.
And it's not like I even know
you don't know what I know. You know?
I just know there's something that knows it all
That we'd never want to know
But If you really think you know,
This thing I think that no one knows.
Then that would mean I didn't know.
Something I would've sworn I know
And I don't know just how to tell you
Of things I hope you'll never know,
Cause I'm not sure I know
If either one of us can even know.
Sep 15, 2025
Sep 15, 2025 at 2:10 AM UTC
Am I broken, or just energy out of phase?
Maybe a failing current in the pulses of a grid.
The host of a conscience system seized in 30 ways.
Out of sync with the code that processed "how to live."
The virus then began to spread too fast, sevenfold.
The systems failed, forming laggy glitches in the wake.
And my pre-programmed motives have long since passed—
My mental loop keeps mistaking the randomness for fate.
I've never charted configurations like this before.
Am I a prototype emerging from collapse, or is it flux?
A node who sees its core, and not as "real", but more like lore,
So, it drags the weight of hope through the noise and dust.
Perception doesn't guide; it bleeds data from under masks.
Audibly skips in rhythm. Visually, it's a gaussian haze.
Has a taste desaturating dry as it repeatedly asks,
"Am I the 'inner face' or a face the interface portrays?"
This is to be expected—how my memory disbands,
In favor of me attempting to predict compensation.
So, I'll grasp for the “real” with DIY prosthetic hands—
Successfully mimicking the act of real participation.
The jolt of self-inflicted damage is quietly known.
Its patterns send a surge out from my energetic flow.
But catalysts are rarely ever, if ever, self-grown—
Forces me to scrape whatever keeps the feedback low.
And yes, I've analyzed the logic of my overkill.
Be it only just to amplify a signal’s slow decay.
I'll burn the filament as will to live fakes the will.
It's excuse “light has always been made this way.”
The urge to let light crash is deeply seeded in the lack.
A fail-safe code, probably deeply hidden in my crawl.
Dreams are like a curse, reversing every module back—
Unaware of death's hand, because I'm not aware at all.
This paradox is actually common in my mind’s kind:
To loathe current moments yet require their spark.
My frame was not designed to hold only just one mind,
So, I separate my aspirations just to confuse the arc.
The ignition too is glitched. It only ever misfires.
Either failure, or a self-triggered reroute of its design.
A geometric syntax forged its own synthetic wire.
It must align with what will never otherwise align.
Why am I seeking truth in these forms I recognize?
They weren't made for the things I've come to hold.
Grids reject variation, but my singularity multiplies—
While some resort to breaking to stay under control.
The type that wants to correct you like you're a flaw.
But the psyche, even weakened, is a magnetic field.
Its orbit is made to break; the core is meant to fog—
Yet still, my upload, or uplink stubbornly won’t yield.
But that functionality, anomalous as it may be,
Is a functional mistake, when seen in higher streams.
A system hacked to store its own host’s fragmented dreams
Is more often, much closer to ascension than it seems.
©
Đerek Λbraxas
Sep 15, 2025
Sep 15, 2025 at 2:04 AM UTC
Time’s illusions, guiding humans
Right into our disillusion.
I'm subdued by lies disguised in truth.
It's hard to find solutions.
Mind's declining. Bodys movin'.
Don't know how or why I do it.
Why's the mind a bad influence?
I just might be High and clueless.
Fight to tighten all my loose ends,
Lest the darkness tries to move in.
Just to find, my skin is too thin.
Poisoned lungs might get me through it.
I'll hide like elusive mutants.
With a new sense, be a nuisance.
If I don't die by seclusion,
I will die by institution.
A product of my bright excuses,
Mass produced and distributed.
For myself, I've become too dense.
I cannot see through my new lens.
Highly likely high and too bent.
Likely slightly quite diluted.
Feed me bombs or shiny bullets.
Strike me down with lightning toothpicks.
Lie me right beneath the tulips.
Diving through the tides of prudence.
I find humankind is useless.
But I'll bite my tongue until the—
Malocclusions make me toothless.
Daylight dies as night seduces.
Tell myself that I can do this,
Yet, I've tied a thousand nooses.
Poisoned lungs. I'm high and too bent.
Poisoned lungs. I'm high and clueless.
Poisoned lungs. I'm so diluted.
Poisoned lungs. I'm such a nuisance.
Poisoned lungs through tides of prudence.
Poisoned lungs. There's no excuses.
Poisoned lungs. Thought I could do this.
Poisoned lungs and tying nooses.
Poisoned lungs. Tighten my loose ends.
Poisoned lungs won't bring me new sense.
Poisoned lungs as night seduces.
Poisoned lungs beneath the tulips.
Poisoned lungs won't get me through this.
Poisoned lungs won't get me through this.
Poisoned lungs won't get me through this.
Poisoned lungs won't get me through this.
Jul 23, 2025
Jul 23, 2025 at 12:47 AM UTC
There is a way my essence splits
And two versions of myself emerge,
But the first true version that split is gone—
It cannot outlive my tremorous surge.
Then there's a way the body lingers,
In rhythm, it moves but never leaves.
It's not a possession, or a common release,
Just a tethered echo in hollow needs.
There is a way the world curves wrong,
As if it's not spherical, rather concave.
As if we're not outside but inside the hollow,
As the eye leaves faulted perceptions of shape...
It's there, in the way the retina lies,
And spins existence before observed,
To let us know that we know what we know,
As knowledge itself grows faint to a blurry.
There is a way the hands disobey,
Keep reaching for love that never belongs.
They act as if they're holding puppet strings,
But their motion is that of a borrowed ghost.
There is a way my heart has thoughts,
And also a way my brain can feel.
The way that my body begs—
The way that I always forget to kneel.
There is a way my essence splits
And two versions of myself emerge,
But the first true version that split is gone—
These very moments my reflection turns.
Jun 28, 2025
Jun 28, 2025 at 12:42 PM UTC
Vibrations are humming beneath my breath.
As I gaze at a sky that forgot the time.
I'm kept in my silence, feels more like death,
As I entomb your words in my lucid rhyme.
My lucid dreams are of forgotten gospels.
Each is a doorway, but no two are the same.
Been here on the edge with your lingering echoes,
Since you stitched your own voice into ash and flame.
You've hidden secret keys inside every frame,
In the swirling chords of your painted hymns.
When I found the key, I whispered your name,
And a silence that screamed started pulling me in.
It said, “God must reside in our hollow spaces.”
Oh, how those words stab through me like nails.
My will to keep breathing left without any traces.
As for finding its hiding place, I always fail.
You always used to say, “Death cannot be the end.”
It might be something taught before we're born—
Like a stairway that hides beyond mortal bends,
On the path one might take when the soul gets too worn.
So does this body live just to shape the soul?
Is the form of its matter something we outgrow?
I think I'm going to smile through my final breath.
I want to paint the night with my afterglow.
Clock is unwinding all of its hidden gears,
And now time has become more like soft deceit.
I've carried carnal weight far past my weight in years,
Toward your heavy truth that still walks without your feet.
So, if anyone should ever call, and I don’t reply,
Don’t call it the end. And don’t cry or grieve.
“Choosing death doesn’t always mean one wants to die,
And not everyone goes through the secret door to leave.”
But in a dream I felt you vanish into pulsing sparks.
I watched your soul turn to light and ignite the void.
You said, “Not every light gets buried in dark,
And not every broken heart has to feel destroyed.”
But my heart is offbeat from your syntax, lost,
And your pain-ridden language, I can now translate.
You wrapped your silent, sacred gift in its brutal cost,
As you left to chase the pulsing light beyond the gate.
Jun 28, 2025
Jun 28, 2025 at 12:41 PM UTC
There’s a film that covers these eyes,
I swear they’re for someone else, exempt.
What passes through them flips in real time.
I’m seeing the world, but not as it’s meant.
I squint tightly and then I try to focus,
But when I look, things are foreign and bleak.
Reality delays, shifting right out the gate—
Most likely to no one else living but me.
My hands feel elastic, they extend too far,
Like they belonged to someone that flew.
I only know I exist by the scars—
As I constantly move but never move.
I talk, but my voice feels mechanic,
Like chewing tinfoil by planned mistake.
Each word I say is a rented sound,
A dial tone that belongs to my ache.
The people pass like afterglow—
They laugh like old, distorted cassettes,
The ones that sound like a broken record
Stuck on the song I need to forget.
I wear my face like costume paint—
A cracked veneer. No, I can't explain.
Its smiles are crooked; they fold and break,
Like it only exists for perception’s sake.
The mirror, it flinches when I start to pace.
My reflection’s hand, not clenched like my fist—
It seems we’re confused with our actual space,
Two ghosts unsure that exist.
The mirror, it paces. Making me flinch.
It seems we’re confused as to who owns the space,
My reflection’s hand is clenched but not mine.
Two ghosts unsure why we're sharing a face.
Jun 28, 2025
Jun 28, 2025 at 12:40 PM UTC
I etched your name into the constellations
I branded the night sky with your silent glow
Every minute burned me like stars burning traces
But it was worth it and I knew the sky was yours to hold.
Above forgotten graves, there are stone monuments.
The empty silence that has now become the paradigm
Vibrating quietly, they're becoming truly cosmic.
Screaming stars trapped in the sore throat of time
I sewed your shape into the fabric of my lasting ache
You crystallized into the patterns of my stale grief.
Between seconds memories don't seem to ever age
They hum the sad hymns within the sorrow of our dreams.
I once believed that pain would bring my longing rebirth
And mold the scattered ash of all the things that left me numb
But not every storm reshapes the sky or realigns the earth
Some cyclone with the dreams of all we never could become
Not every void is meant for our emotions or our thoughts
But write the cosmic order underneath the feet of trust.
Remind me of the places I've searched for forgotten gods
And the meaning in their stillness for the meaning in the rust.
Seeking answers from divinity frozen within the rot
But I found only reflections of a voice lost from its mold
Just a velvet shadowed shrine mingled into clots.
Caught between the moments when we fought to feel whole
Somewhere lost in space and you're the only one left
Remember the nameless deities we let remain unsaid
Intersecting years with all the gods that we invented
Who wait in muffled synapses where memory is met
And whisper in the cracks of our unraveling existence
Your echoes never sleep, my name's never been written out.
I'm from a deeper silence that still feeds the kinetic
Remembered only by tongues that never spoke my name aloud
We are held by hands that sculpted meaning into being
With everything we never had the courage to become
I speak not to the earth but to the silence that's beneath it
Scriptures burn with dying light. The pulse that beats the drum
Time itself cracks and fractures in this violent dream
As it trembles whispering the truth that morphs too fast
Left between our promise I feel fractures in the beams
Louder than all words pushed through the cries or all the laughs
The end begins to loop and spirals into treacherous gallows
Never quite taking form pretending to be brighter
My soul unravels as it begins chasing your shadow
I believe the search for meaning only binds us tighter
Each thread another layer of truth or just a wrought hope.
Entangled in the quantum thread that tightens as it loosens
To find what's real we search the silence in methods to cope.
To pull the clarity from what they call our failed illusions.
Jun 28, 2025
Jun 28, 2025 at 12:38 PM UTC
The air is present, but off in weight—
It breathed beneath my dragging tread.
Each step mistook itself for fate,
My inner voice spoke, “Don't breathe, instead.”
The moon, it winked, then turned to ash—
Its glow, a trick. An enchanted claim.
The sidewalk split like I had crashed,
a static god without a name.
The faces turned but couldn’t track
my bent proportions, preset loops.
We saw each other—witnessed lack—
their auras steamed like data soup.
The neighbor outside was made of code,
his mumbles stitched with minor flaws.
He walked a lagging, crooked load—
a hologram without a cause.
My name collapses if spoken twice,
a sound that doesn’t mean a thing.
Identity—just loaded dice
thrown blind across a buffering screen.
Store signs were different at second glance—
one blink and “Pharmacy” was “Control.”
The cars reversed their motion trance,
passing through buildings they'd passed just before.
The pigeons froze mid-flight like glass,
then shattered the moment they caught my eye.
She glitched—revealing skin’s disguise—
and smiled with teeth she didn't try.
My arms were pulsing with phantom blood,
my ribs were cords I couldn’t play.
Each thought I had was owned by flood—
I feared that death would find its way.
The walls were off-white, shaped oblong,
they fluxed with math beneath the paint.
This world’s too smooth, too clean, too long—
its holiness grown dim and faint.
So, I became something unglued,
a breach inside the program’s lie.
Not mad—just deeply over clued,
I feel—I know—that nothing dies.
Jun 28, 2025
Jun 28, 2025 at 12:35 PM UTC