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Elo Franklyn Sep 19
So, I wrote a book, a novel so long,
One hundred and sixty K words.
My heroine’s fierce, immortal, and strong,
Hates humans so much that it hurts.

5000 years old, and Aria's done!
Wants to kick the bucket - just die!
Living forever has long lost its fun,
She’s worn of the ancient lie.

With stress piled up, she goes to a shrink,
And rants for an hour straight.
She paces his office, sour, on the brink,
Mood split between rage and hate.

But Jacob (the shrink) believes her somehow,
A miracle, strange and new!
So off they journey together now
To an oracle - their only clue.

The oracle whispers the cure is found
Within "The Book Of Life,"
They learn it’s kept on sacred ground,
Guarded by a nun with a knife.

The book reveals there’s a curse to reverse,
And relics they’ll need to find.
But things keep sliding from odd to worse,
And Jacob unsettles her mind...

The pile of artifacts grows quite insane,
New travelers join the group.
They share the laughter and the pain;
All over dried noodle soup.

Jacob falls first, and he falls hard,
Knowing there’s no real chance:
Aria’s immortal, he is scarred,
And his shyness blocks the romance.

Will she fall as well, or keep up the wall?
And will she go through with the curse?
Will she go on and end it all?
Would it be better or worse?

If this teaser worked and you’re on the hook,
It would mean a lot to me,
If you’d take a look at my snarling book:
Named "How to End Eternity."

The book brings romance that sneaks up slow,
Adventure in every scene,
People from a long time ago,
And more for the in-between:

Action ignites, with relics and quests,
The secrets of archaeology.
No **** - the scenes in locked up chests,
But humor - I guarantee!

And best of all: it’s free to read,
No cost, no, nothing to pay.
Just send a DM, I’ll take the lead,
And send the link your way.
HA!
Yes, I wrote a poem about a book I also wrote.
Shameless self-promo!

Okay, a tad bit of shame, but hey - I'm honestly proud of that book!
Elo Franklyn Sep 10
They whispered first, "The danger’s near,
Protect the flag, protect the land."
With trembling hands and stoked-up fear
They crowned a tyrant, fierce and grand.

The papers screamed of foes within,
While neighbors nodded, played along.
They dressed up cruelty as win,
And taught the children right was wrong.

Laws were penned with sly disguise,
Freedom shrank with each decree.
They jailed the truth and fed the lies,
And sold it all as liberty.

They bragged about the one pure race,
Right arms outstretched, their hate aflame.
While camps were built - a brutal place
For those they marked with ruthless shame.

The laws got sharper, paper-thin,
"Protect traditions!" they proclaimed,
But what they meant was: purge the sin
Of every soul they tagged and named.

It grew not fast, no, slow, routine,
A creeping dread behind the cheer,
But hate was polished - sharp, obscene,
And marching boots drowned out the fear.

They taught the crowd to praise each lie,
To hail the fiend disguised as saint.
And if one dared to ask them why;
They'd brand the voice as treason's taint.

The jackboots marched, elections gone,
Press was muzzled, chained, and whipped.
The terror just kept marching on,
And people's freedom cleanly stripped.

A flag was waved, the crowd obeyed,
To chants of order, pride, and might,
While cages filled with those they’d preyed,
And mercy withered from their sight.


But wait - this doesn’t echo past,
Not Berlin’s streets, not Auschwitz’s gates,
It’s in the headlines, crisp and fast;
It's happening now in the States.


See, silence writes the tyrant’s song!
Don’t wait for others, YOU'RE the fight,
So here’s your call: be loud, be strong,
So march, and shout, and claim the night.

It’s not just borders, flags, or pride,
This fight is one this world must share,
If freedom falls and truth has died,
No corner’s safe, not anywhere.

Don’t wait, don’t whisper; shout it clear!
Spread truth so none believe the lies;
Unite the world, let all ears hear!
We fight as one, as one we rise.


As Auschwitz whispers through the years,
A million voices etched in flame.
Their souls demand our rage, our tears,
So history won't repeat its shame!
I know, I know - I'm usually the funny one, so this one might sting and be unexpected.

See... All my life, I’ve carried two questions: How could the Holocaust happen? And why did no one stop it?

Growing up in Germany, those questions were never far away. I learned about the Holocaust pretty early. I visited the camps.
Neuengamme.
Bergen-Belsen.
Dachau.
Mauthausen.
And the one that scorched itself into my whole being - Auschwitz.

The gas chamber still stands. The place where Jews were led in, told they were going to take a shower.

But there was no water.
Only gas.

The walls are brick and stone; cold, and unforgetting. And on those walls are deep scratches. Not made by tools. Made by human fingernails. I traced them with my own fingers, trying to understand the panic, the terror, the desperate fight for breath that left marks on stone.

In school, we spent hours in those lessons. Because Germany refuses to let history repeat itself. We don’t sugarcoat. We don’t hide it behind excuses about protecting kids from TrAuMa.

By ninth grade, we were reading Anne Frank’s diary. We watched Schindler's List. Did it traumatize me? No. It BROKE me. It made me cry. And it made me ask: How? Why? Why did no one act until it was too late?

At first, I told myself it must have been the media. It was wartime. The world didn’t know. There was no internet. Information wasn't spread as fast as it is today.

But looking around now, watching history echo in real time, watching governments bend to tariffs, corporations bow for profit, and leaders stay silent - I can no longer believe that excuse.

The world DID know back then.

The world DOES know today.

And still it looks away.

Why don’t the governments of the world stand together and say, "Not again. Not with us." Why do they tremble instead of act? Why do they cower before consequences instead of leading with courage?

The answer is as terrifying as it is simple.
No one acts because everyone is waiting for someone else to act first.

They’re afraid to face it alone.
So they stay silent.

But we are not alone.

Here I am.
Just one voice.

But there are over eight billion of us. And every single voice matters.

So I am asking you: add yours.

Be loud.
Be unafraid.
Not for me.
Not just for them.
But for all of us.

For freedom.
For justice.

Let our voices be loud enough to drown his lies, to shatter his throne, to break his chains, and to write a peaceful future.

Do not let silence write the tyrant's song.
Not again.
Elo Franklyn Aug 30
A week ago, I saw the doc,
He sighed and said, "You're done."
His gaze was sharp, his mood was stock
Of doom that weighs a ton.

According to the doctor, who
Did the tests - left me in rage -
And I can say, he did a few,
I now have reached a certain age.

"Congratulations! To the grave!
Your warranty's expired."
He squinted, acting bold and brave,
And jotted, uninspired.

Now, I'm not old, I'm still alive,
Mid-thirties, barely used!
He acts like I cannot survive
And I'm not even bruised.

"This number's grim," he softly spoke,
And slid the labs my way.
"Prepare for cracks and brittle smoke,
The slow decline's display."

This sentence left me in a rage,
It brought me close to tears.
If I have NOW a certain age?
What am I in ten years?

Will I then be fossil folk?
Geriatric garbage, yes?
A day away from my first stroke?
A muddled medical mess?

A certain age? What does that mean?
I am just mid-thirty!
Yes, I know, I'm not eighteen,
But I'm still strong and sturdy!

A certain age, what does it say?
I'm only halfway through.
A ticking clock that won't obey?
A joke I never knew?

A certain age! - Oh, should I laugh?
Who was I consulting?
I am more than just a graph
Or number! That's insulting!

A certain age! Doc, **** yourself!
I count myself as young,
Now go, read books from your big shelf,
While I show you my tongue!

As long as I don't smell of mold,
Nor creak with every step,
I'll dance defiant, young and bold,
Not ready for death's debt.
When did this nonsense take hold? When did thirty become the new sixty?

Forty is still young.
Hell, fifty doesn’t automatically mean you’re ready for the grave.

Thirties is barely halfway through the chaos. Not old. And absolutely not 'a certain age' - whatever the hell that even means!
Elo Franklyn Aug 23
Last night I dreamed about a man
I've never met before.
He held fresh flowers, smiled then,
Right there, at my door.

We spoke a bit, then I woke up,
The morning cut the scene.
But questions overflow my cup:
Who was that man I’d seen?

So, I am now pondering
The strangers in my dreams,
And why they are conquering
My thoughts - that's how it seems.

But are these strangers in my visions
Really strangers though?
Or did we have short collisions
A long, long time ago?

Maybe we have met before?
A passenger on the train?
A customer in a grocery store?
Profiles saved in my brain?

Does my mind perhaps contain
A secret store of faces?
Of people passing through my lane,
Leaving unseen traces?

What if we dreamed the same strange dream,
At once, in secret time?
He saw me drift upon the stream,
As I saw him in mine?

Neither of us will ever know,
‘Cause we have never met,
And we can’t talk about the show;
How interesting is that?

And one last question chills my mind,
The thought just makes me scream:
How often have I been assigned
A role in someone’s dream?
Ever get those surreal dream cameos? Like, your brain randomly casts a total stranger as if they’re the star of your personal midnight soap opera?

Makes me wonder - do we secretly have a mental ‘face archive,’ and our brain just scrolls through it like: "You, grocery store guy from March 2019, congrats, you’re starring in tonight’s dream!" or, "You, guy who sat across in the bus in November 2012, you're live in three, two, one...."
Elo Franklyn Aug 20
Goethe's ballad - spooky and weird,
About a dad and his feverish kid.
They’re riding through forests, boy pretty scared
Of a ghost king who won’t stay hid.

The boy sees the Erlking, all creepy and such,
Dad: “It’s fog, you *****, just sleep!”
But the spirit keeps talking, a bit too much,
Oh, what a sly little creep.

“Come play!” says the ghost, “I’ve got cool stuff!”
The kid’s like, “Dad, he’s being weird!”
Dad’s still in denial, acting all tough,
While his son’s getting more and more scared.

The Erlking’s persistence is quite absurd,
Lures the boy with his daughters and more.
The dad keeps on riding, not hearing a word,
Kid is shaken right to the core.

Dad blames the nature, keeps talking crap,
For him - the story needs proof.
Eventually, they make it home, but oh snap!
The kid’s kicked the bucket, gone ****!

So what did we learn from this creepy tale
Besides, "don’t ride sick through the night?"
That Goethe loved drama on an epic scale,
And making dads look not so bright.

In short: It’s a story of fever and fails,
Denial, and a ride through the night.
The forest plays tricks, the creepy prevails,
And a kid giving up the fight.
Elo Franklyn Aug 17
Philippa Foot, a thinker wise,
Proposed a moral game:
A twist designed to make you rise,
And act to earn your name.

A train runs wild; it will collide,
With five doomed on the track.
You're standing - watching from the side,
No way to call them back.

But near your hand, a lever waits:
One pull will shift the rail.
You change the train’s relentless fate,
But is this choice a fail?

It now will strike a single man,
But leave the group alive.
Yet he was safe before your plan,
Now HE will not survive.

To save the five, you claimed his life,
Was that the better plan?
A noble act, or something rife?
A group against one man?

So ask yourself: are five worth more
Than sacrificing one?
Or would it haunt you at your core,
No matter what was done?

If you had simply walked away,
The five would surely fall.
Yet choosing death for him that day
Still leaves you bearing all.

The lesson is no verdict clear,
No answer cast in stone:
The trolley’s track runs ever near,
And leaves the choice your own.

Doing nothing is not right
But neither is intervening,
You're always the killer - and the knight,
And THAT is the only true meaning.
Would you pull the lever? Why or why not?
Elo Franklyn Aug 17
A poem for the men out there,
Those making jokes without a care,
'Bout bears and women - why we choose
The bear; not possible abuse.

You see, ten guns here, in a row,
Pick one out, and then, you know,
Put the gun right to your head,
Pull the trigger... are you mad?

What do you mean, not reassured?
Most guns are usually secured!
Most are empty; just one is loaded.
I'm sure no guns have yet exploded.

What do you mean - you don’t know
Which ones are safe? Really, though?
"NoT aLl GuNs" - I just said that,
The chances here are pretty flat.

Oh, you had an uncle who
Got shot while handling guns? You do?
Your grandpa, brother, friends, and dad?
All of them? Oh, that is sad.

Some are dead? In a grave?
But still... most guns are pretty safe!
It doesn't mean you'll end up dead,
So put the gun right to your head.

Pull the trigger, it's not bad,
And if it is, you should have had
Thought about what you wear!
And that's why women choose the bear!
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