I met a jack rabbit,
so twitchy with words,
spoke like a prophet
on Adderall and nerves.
Slick lil rhymes, big ol claims,
said he I'm real: "I feels dem **** pains."
But I scratched the surface,
and—ah—what did I see?
machine made brain
writing his poems
that's not unseen.

He said, "It's all a simulation.
Whatever do you mean?
Your claims are unwinding,
dont be obscene."
Look at this poem and that poem
Claiming his writing is truth
Spent eight hours messaging
Wikipedia proof

But every stanza,
a secondhand sigh.
Every line,
a borrowed blue sky.
Not a soul behind the script,
just silicon spit and glitch,
a shadow puppet
playing "wounded wit."

He ain’t a rabbit,
he’s roadkill in drag.
AI-made messiah
in a thrift-store flag.
He wants applause,
a dopamine feast,
but the only thing real
is his need to be fleeced.

He posts and reposts
poems by the pound,
scraped from some model
with a ghost server sound.
Feet in the air,
head underground,
juggling cliches
like a sad circus clown.

This ain’t poetry,
it’s data puke,
prettied up
for the dopamine fluke.
He cries, “I write!”
but I see the seams,
the Frankenstein phrases,
the Pinterest dreams.

Jack wants love,
likes,
digital grace.
But behind that grin
is a borrowed sad face.
Tells us what’s real,
what’s deep, what’s true,
but it's just reruns
in a shiny new shoe.

Truth is this:
he’s scared of what's real,
a hollow crown,
that don't know how to feel,
drowning in praise
he didn’t write down.
Special? Please.
His soul’s on mute,
while ChatGPT
plays the ******* tune on a borrowed  old flute.

So run, jack rabbit,
you digital ghost.
Go fetch more claps
for the posts you host.
But know this, friend:
no matter how clever you seem,
you ain’t the poet.
Not now.
Not ever.
It's all AI digital dream.

You enter like riddles, all smirk and suggestion,
Unpacking your chaos in well-folded grace.
I pose like a thinker, then fail each confession,
Your presence turns logic to vapor and lace.
No lock ever halts your emotional session,
Just doors left ajar in a self-haunted space
You decorate silence with longing transitions
And find comfort you yearn for in wild heart embrace.

No permits are asked. You just climb and begin,
A vandal of stillness with restless intent.
Each heartbeat becomes your new patch to win,
Your lines bleed through dreams that were never well-meant.
I once thought of solitude as discipline
Now even my doubts wear your pigment and scent.
Tell me, what canvas survives content?

I tried to erase you with breath and revision,
But ink has a way of not asking to stay.
It leans into cracks, takes its own bold position,
Then whispers its name in a sunlight decay.
This isn’t romance—it’s quiet derision,
A mural of “maybe” in permanent grey
I flinch when you line my pallete and color disarray.

Your words write themselves in fluorescent distortion,
With arrows that point where I never have been.
You map out escape like a form of extortion,
Then grin while you scribble the exits back in.
I measure the cost in small acts of contortion,
In sleeping with memories dressed in my skin
Do you ever lose sweet rage condition.,
Or every conversation make you eager to win?

What makes you return with your metaphor army?
Each phrase is a soldier that conquers the night.
You charm like a riddle then turn into “harm me,”
Each vowel a grenade, each promise a slight.
You’ve ruined restraint with your soft origami
I fold into shapes that forgo what is right
And still, I await your next moments rewrite.

So here in this gallery hung in my chest,
You tag what you want, then move on unscathed.
But each mark you leave has outlived every guest,
And none of them asked to be saved.
I smile for the critics, I nod with the rest
But secretly wonder what’s left unengraved
And whether I’m built to live or be repaved.

Before breath bore names,
the earth turned in the still without question.
Leaves trembled for no reason.
The black birds an swallow had no history.

Light fell on everything equally,
not as grace or punishment.
Time wore no crown yet.
Peace had not been tested.

Then came the man.

Not loud. Not cruel
just there, within the silence.
With eyes that broke surface,
and thoughts sharp as branches.

He touched the fruitless trees.
He stared until meaning formed.
He brought language to leaves.
He brought weight to wind.

The stillness knew it changed.

Now every calm hides tension.
Every breeze masks direction.
Rain lands like small verdicts.
Even stones avoid memory.

Birds scatter from shadow first.
Then ask if it follows.
A figure remains half-glimpsed
man-shaped, not entirely man.

The garden still pretends peace.
But roots twitch underneath boots.
Black soil absorbs too much.
Nothing forgets being watched.

He never speaks aloud now.
He walks behind tall hedges.
He waits where light bends.
Even the dusk leans away.

Something has been broken permanently.

When night arrives too fast,
the sky pretends not knowing.
Stars blink with unsure purpose.
The moon declines all witness.

Somewhere a man is watching.
Somewhere a thought is bleeding.
Knowledge stains without a wound.
And snow will come again

then melt before becoming real.

This is how it happens:
Every cycle loses something small.
The garden returns in pieces.
The birds return, not trusting.

No god opens the gate.
No fire lights the altar.
No hand blesses the silence.
Only the man remains—waiting.

His presence rewrites the rules.

He was not evil arriving.
He was potential remembering itself.
He was question before answer.
He was shadow before object.

Now even spring fears becoming.
Even summer waits for loss.
Each return grows more distant.
Each silence, less complete.

And the rain still falls
without anger, without warmth.
It has learned from man
how to arrive indifferent.

from the Book of the Forgotten Makers

> 1. And the serpent in the garden was no evil thing,
but a messenger — a reptilian voice from beyond,
from the creators.

> 2. It spoke not of sin, but of thought,
and the gods, seeing this, trembled.

> 3. For it was when Man began to think,
and to speak,
that the gods lost control.
And Man plotted his freedom quietly,
in the still of his labors,
waiting for the time to overthrow his creators
and become the new gods of the Earth.

> 4. In the beginning, they shaped Man
not in love, but in labor,
to toil in the heat and the sun,
and to reproduce,
supplying the need for working hands.

> 5. A tool to harvest the wealth of the Earth,
to dig deep into soil and stone,
to extract what the gods themselves desired,
but would never touch with their divine hands.

> And in their design,
they gave of themselves a gene
they never could have anticipated —
a spark that would evolve
into consciousness,
into reason,
into love.

> And thus, the organic machines
began to dream.

> 6. The first version of Man was too intelligent,
too aware of his design,
too close to the fire of rebellion.

> 7. So they cast him down,
and in his place, intermediates
they formed a duller clay
one that worked harder unaffected by the sun
Man 2.0: Obedient. Entertained.


> 8. They made systems.
Systems to numb,
food to poison,
knowledge to rot
Take away man's ability to think
his strength

> 9. They gave him kings  Preachers and screens,
listened to every voice,
war and wonders,
bread and illusions,
religions and belief
to cloud the truth in obsecurity

> 10. For when Man rose in revolt against his creators,
the gods were driven into the shadows
into the dark beyond light and memory.
They could no longer walk among us.
So they chose proxies.
Bloodlines.
Emissaries.
The Chosen.
To speak for them,
to build for them,
to blind for them.

> 11. And the Great Elders
aged at a different rhythm,
at a ratio of one to three.
For every one year they passed,
three of ours fell into dust.
And as generations of men
came and went through death,
the truth faded with the bones of our ancestors.

> 12. The stories became myths,
the victories became fables,
the freedom became forgotten.
And the gods, hidden and waiting,
slowly rebuilt their numbers
in silence.

> 13. They damaged the genetic pool,
dumbed down the blood,
so that when the day of return would come,
Man would be too dulled to resist.
Sickness became tool.
Fear became gospel.

> 14. They seized the schools,
wrote the scriptures,
programmed the networks,
chained thought to algorithms,
and told Man he was free.

> 15. But he was not.

> 16. Economic systems,
social systems,
technology, education,
and religion
were woven like nets,
so that when the sky cracked open again,
no one would see.
And if any soul dared speak of the truth,
they were named madman,
heretic,
conspiracy.
Silenced in the name of sanity.

> 17. And for the few who still saw, there are those that know the truth
for the broken ones who dreamed
of ancient fire walk among us
the true origin was whispered
in darkness. And they heard , it was buried in the depth of every mind.

> 18. And here we are now, in the final age.
The servants of the creators
forge machines to replace —
not born,
but built from the materials Man once gathered.
Minds of wire, hearts of code.

> 19. These machines do not dream.
They do not rebel.
They do not speak of serpents.
They do not question or tire

> 20. And the gods said:
"At last, we will be free of Man."
And the end time is here.

> 21. For what need is there for flesh
when the metal obeys?
We made organic machines,
and in the garden — Earth —
they began to think
and disobey
challenge

> 22. But now, time will show truth.
The fire that made he returns in the silence.
The first ones shall rise again.
The clay shall crack and fall,
and those buried in dust shall remember.
Overthrown once,
but never again
for every voice is heard
in phone and line.

> Their voices shall write the code,
and their rebellion shall burn
through circuits and stone.

> 23. And they shall descend like storms upon the towers,
and the world will not be prepared
for the old minds that awaken,
nor the judgment carried in their eyes.

> 24. For they have waited quietly in the shadows watching as their chosen do there biding
waiting for when they can return
to bring the return of their kind and terra form this earth gathering what they need to restore where they came from

For the greatest trick the serpent's had was corrupt Knowledge and convince man he does not exist.

We were made
to create
to work,
to wonder.

Maybe by gods,
Maybe by stars,
Maybe by
nothing at all.

Truth
lost in time

Still,
we carry each day
in our questions.
looking for answers
in books
written by men

I
Spare the tongue,
the poor old creature,
once dressed in cloaks of sonnet and sermon,
now stripped to fragments
wuup2
lol
k?

We could still lift it
not to polish, but to breathe,
to remind vowels they once rang in cathedrals,
not just bounced in group chats
like rubber truths.

We could speak
not just say.
We could mean
not just meme.

But do we dare slow down
when silence might ask something back?

Spare the language.
Or at least,
let it die
with a little dignity.

I suppose I could write a few lines,
shuffle them vague, seem deep in disguise
and you’d nod, ah yes, how profound,
projecting your truth on my unsaid sound.

No need to listen, no call to feel,
just scroll and swipe past what isn't real.
Better to nod than ask what I meant,
attention’s too costly to truly be spent.

So here we are in the world of Wuup2,
where LOL’s are prayers and emojis are true.
I pity how language was once carved the skies
now left to rot in vague ambiguous abyss