How do you stop a nation thinking?
Build a machine and keep it blinking
TV and screens that flood with shallow noise,
notifications steal our focused voice.
Drowning in quantum's, scattered in feeds,
Twitters, Facebooks, X's and unholy tweets, starving minds of everything deeper than needs.

Distraction refractions grab minds in a trance,
dopamine hits, looking for likes in numb glance.
Flip and scroll we hunger for art
Education drills facts but crush every spark,
Zombie minds are immandated
turning bright minds into dim dark thoughts unrelated

Buy this, click here, consume, be happy fast
the instant fix, lost in dull, a hollow won't last
Media spins its tangled false lies,
truth drowned out while burning our eyes.

Stress grinds souls to nothing in nine-to-five,
crushing our dreams just to survive.
Tech becomes a crutch and a chain,
thinking outsourced, it seems—remorse lost in the brain.

Newsrooms and disasters build walls, divide and claim, echo chambers stoke the dull flame.
But beneath this storm, this endless grind,
the other ninety-five waits left behind.

Unlock the pineal’s ancient gate,
the third eye’s glow to navigate,
hidden realms beyond the sight,
powers born of inner light.

Imagine mindwaves yet all unseen,
visions sharp and senses keen.
What if we spoke with thought, not tongue
just a pulse of the mind, pure and young?

Remember the moment
you thought of a friend, and suddenly, they called, like some psychic send.
That wasn’t chance, that wasn’t luck, it’s the link they’ve buried in media muck.

They’re dumbing down the gene pool's stream,
killing the edge, dulling the dream.
Don’t you see? It’s fear that drives
their effort to dull the ones who thrive.

What if hands could heal the sick,
and thoughts could move the stone, the stick?
If minds could bend what steel defies,
and bodies bloomed beneath clear skies?

How hard to believe, when you really know
your body runs on electric flow?
An organic machine of current and code,
neurons pulsing down every road.

The brain’s a circuit, alive, awake,
not just meat behind a skull to break.
So why dismiss electromagnetism’s truth
when it fuels your thoughts since primal youth?

Look at what the brain has made
cities, ships, vaccines, space-grade.
Yet we believe we’re capped, defined,
as if the divine was left behind.

But here’s the turn — the truth, the key:
We must unlock this mind to see
not just escape, but forge, create
our chance to shape a bolder fate.

When we block out the noise, ignite the flame,
awaken our souls to break the frame,
the brain’s not a cage but cosmic key,
to realms of infinite possibility.

The fire waits inside the mind,
not dormant, lazy, or confined.
It’s time to break the old design
unlock, unleash, and truly shine.

The gall ink slid slow across the grain
not just black, but silent breathing.
It curled where silence might remain,
where truth lay soft and seething.

It danced in fibers, not for show,
but for the ache of meaning
each line a pulse, a moment letting go,
each word a quiet keening.

The letter held no voice or name,
just petals and a thread.
But still the ink remembered flickering flame
long after it was said.

And when the lamp gave one last sigh,
its breath a final stain
the ink still moved, too bold to die,
alive upon the grain.

Living Poetry isn’t just the pulse
it’s the shiver in the silence,
the breath that bends ever so slightly between chaos and clarity,
It's where rhythm forgets the rules
and emotion takes its own path through the wreck-stained longing.
It’s the shape of every buried cry,
and the stillness after that scream.

It doesn’t wear banners or declare itself aloud,
but spills from the wound unbandaged,
seeping quietly as whispers, warm as breath,
born screaming from every sinew wound scar you swore you'd never show,
when your entire body trembles beneath beauty’s weight,
scars and longing, those thoughts
and still, you write.

Originality isn’t invention you know but return
to the place in you no one else has lived,
no one else has felt,
no one knows
it's the place
where memory blooms like orchids in May or roses in June,
and each word steps soft into its own quiet ruin.
The page is no mere sanctuary,
only a looking glass,
reflecting the you inside the you,
and even that with light’s refraction distorts under truth.

You follow a resonance, not linear, but alive,
it breathes
woven through old hurts and the flash of joy, love, or pain
a rhythm that forgets its tempo just to feel.
Sometimes it bleeds.
Sometimes it sings.
Sometimes it does both in the same breath,
sometimes it’s a storm in your chest
or a lullaby no one else can hear.

Here, in this space
the poem doesn’t ask to be liked,
doesn’t need to be loved,
it doesn't even need to be read
it just asks to be real,
to come from where it's real
no matter if it's filled with butterflies
or a wreckage-drenched kiss,
To stand unguarded in the room, alive in essence
to hum beneath the colossal static of the world,
the fluttering of black ravens and white dove,
and remind you: this is not just art
it’s the aftermath of being human.
It’s what binds you back to the raw nerve of now,
It’s the filament that flickers when no one is watching.

Sharp while caring, always real
Like every morning sun
and first star in the evening sky
that sings truth to the moon.

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.