iamanopenbook - Hello Poetry

He sells nostalgia while promising a return to a place that only ever existed as a feeling you get when you’re scared and tired of pretending otherwise. Donald Trump doesn’t lead, he yanks, dragging a nation by its ugliest instincts and insisting the resistance is proof we’re moving forward. He mistakes volume for authority and destruction for clarity. The road he’s leading everyone down is loud, scorched and intentionally confusing, no signs to be seen, just mirrors. Every fear reflected back and polished, amplified, fed until it mistakes itself for truth. Reality is now merely a suggestion as truth isn't argued, it's discarded. Institutions become enemies. Expertise is now arrogance. Empathy becomes weakness and what's left isn’t leadership; it’s sanctioned spite, collapse framed as courage, demolition theatre. Fear is the fuel. There must always be someone to blame, someone to punish, someone to erase. Fear is efficient, it bypasses thought, short circuits doubt. Hope asks you to build while fear just asks you to point. Hope demands patience. Fear just needs to be loud. The language flattens everything: complexity is mocked, nuance booed offstage. We’re told to forget dialogue and cohesion, forget linear thought, forget the dull discipline of democracy. “Don’t force the world to be that small”, he sneers. Then compresses it anyway, into a us versus them, winner takes all, loyalty over law. What unsettles me isn’t only the man; it’s the muscle memory he’s carving into the culture. The reflex to choose spectacle over substance, certainty over curiosity, cruelty over care. Roads don’t just take you somewhere, they also teach you how to move. And this road trains impatience, suspicion, and the belief that power is something you seize, not something you carry responsibly. I can hear the applause echo as the guardrails thin and it sounds like confidence, feeling like progress. But momentum isn’t direction, and volume isn't truth. Eventually, someone has to ask where the **** this road actually leads cause it feels like we’re being marched in circles, dazzled by shine while the ground quietly gives beneath our feet.

0

Mar 24

Mar 24, 2026 at 7:45 PM UTC

D.J.T.

He sells nostalgia while promising a return to a place that only ever existed as a feeling you get when you’re scared and tired of pretending otherwise. Donald Trump doesn’t lead, he yanks, dragging a nation by its ugliest instincts and insisting the resistance is proof we’re moving forward. He mistakes volume for authority and destruction for clarity. The road he’s leading everyone down is loud, scorched and intentionally confusing, no signs to be seen, just mirrors. Every fear reflected back and polished, amplified, fed until it mistakes itself for truth. Reality is now merely a suggestion as truth isn't argued, it's discarded. Institutions become enemies. Expertise is now arrogance. Empathy becomes weakness and what's left isn’t leadership; it’s sanctioned spite, collapse framed as courage, demolition theatre. Fear is the fuel. There must always be someone to blame, someone to punish, someone to erase. Fear is efficient, it bypasses thought, short circuits doubt. Hope asks you to build while fear just asks you to point. Hope demands patience. Fear just needs to be loud. The language flattens everything: complexity is mocked, nuance booed offstage. We’re told to forget dialogue and cohesion, forget linear thought, forget the dull discipline of democracy. “Don’t force the world to be that small”, he sneers. Then compresses it anyway, into a us versus them, winner takes all, loyalty over law. What unsettles me isn’t only the man; it’s the muscle memory he’s carving into the culture. The reflex to choose spectacle over substance, certainty over curiosity, cruelty over care. Roads don’t just take you somewhere, they also teach you how to move. And this road trains impatience, suspicion, and the belief that power is something you seize, not something you carry responsibly. I can hear the applause echo as the guardrails thin and it sounds like confidence, feeling like progress. But momentum isn’t direction, and volume isn't truth. Eventually, someone has to ask where the **** this road actually leads cause it feels like we’re being marched in circles, dazzled by shine while the ground quietly gives beneath our feet.

5

Insomniac with a dreamer's soul stealing mornings from these metal detector mornings. Exploitation fiend. Stop. Turn over. In your mind, role the issue between slim finger tips while adding some color to these bureaucratic dreams. Forget dialogue and cohesion. forget linear and metaphor. Don't force the world to be that small. You laugh whenever they mention “reality”. You're faking so profound Your faking, so profound. Opaque Like words we will one day have our revenge upon What's left? The skeleton of intention A dream you've been meaning to have? You wake and don't pretend to understand why she grew fangs between her lily lips and took off smiling into the void. The notion of existence Staring into...into... Everyday we build again everything we pull from or nothing Connectedness is the essence of everything Everything is relative and Poetry is just lies about existence When did you feel happy last? Was it your intention? How is it I become conscious of how foolish I am to have been searching when you were with me all along? What words are left that would make a difference? What could I say without feeling ashamed? Write a thousand words Or write the same word a thousand times Same difference But don't walk away add your story here: I have dreamed of you so much you are no longer real Dear you, I am running across vast distances maybe to see if you have called I am late I am following you around in my mind I am trying to forget you but it's getting worse not better How can I touch you across this secret chasm of things flown apart? Challenged to remember the details of your face it took awhile for the realization You do not complete me We are sky perfect just soul sleeping Narcolepsy keeps us falling back uncontrollably

0

Dec 1, 2025

Dec 1, 2025 at 3:40 PM UTC

Some Amnesia Between Lovers and Words

Insomniac with a dreamer's soul stealing mornings from these metal detector mornings. Exploitation fiend. Stop. Turn over. In your mind, role the issue between slim finger tips while adding some color to these bureaucratic dreams. Forget dialogue and cohesion. forget linear and metaphor. Don't force the world to be that small. You laugh whenever they mention “reality”. You're faking so profound Your faking, so profound. Opaque Like words we will one day have our revenge upon What's left? The skeleton of intention A dream you've been meaning to have? You wake and don't pretend to understand why she grew fangs between her lily lips and took off smiling into the void. The notion of existence Staring into...into... Everyday we build again everything we pull from or nothing Connectedness is the essence of everything Everything is relative and Poetry is just lies about existence When did you feel happy last? Was it your intention? How is it I become conscious of how foolish I am to have been searching when you were with me all along? What words are left that would make a difference? What could I say without feeling ashamed? Write a thousand words Or write the same word a thousand times Same difference But don't walk away add your story here: I have dreamed of you so much you are no longer real Dear you, I am running across vast distances maybe to see if you have called I am late I am following you around in my mind I am trying to forget you but it's getting worse not better How can I touch you across this secret chasm of things flown apart? Challenged to remember the details of your face it took awhile for the realization You do not complete me We are sky perfect just soul sleeping Narcolepsy keeps us falling back uncontrollably

59

Among heartbreak’s deepest wounds is this: not that they didn’t choose you, but that you let yourself believe they would. You opened the door just a sliver enough for hope to slip in and drag every soft, trembling part of you behind it. Redecorating your mind with what ifs and imagined futures. Now you wander through the aftermath, replaying each moment like a film you made searching for the frame where truth blurred, where fantasy dressed itself as possibility. It’s not regret that lingers. It’s betrayal. Not theirs. It's Yours. The betrayal of your own knowing. Of the whisper in your chest you shushed to sleep. Of the softness you offered like a gift to someone who never asked for it. Of the intuition you silenced When it was begging you to listen Realizing that You didn’t just want them. you wanted to be right about what it all meant.

0

Oct 11, 2025

Oct 11, 2025 at 9:37 AM UTC

Heartbreaks Wound

Among heartbreak’s deepest wounds is this: not that they didn’t choose you, but that you let yourself believe they would. You opened the door just a sliver enough for hope to slip in and drag every soft, trembling part of you behind it. Redecorating your mind with what ifs and imagined futures. Now you wander through the aftermath, replaying each moment like a film you made searching for the frame where truth blurred, where fantasy dressed itself as possibility. It’s not regret that lingers. It’s betrayal. Not theirs. It's Yours. The betrayal of your own knowing. Of the whisper in your chest you shushed to sleep. Of the softness you offered like a gift to someone who never asked for it. Of the intuition you silenced When it was begging you to listen Realizing that You didn’t just want them. you wanted to be right about what it all meant.

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