he s̷p̷ea̷k̷s̷       in      th-th-the hush                        b̷e̷f̷or̷e̷ c͟o͟m͟m͟a͟n͟d

bɑ̶r̶e̶-̶c̶h̶e̶s̶t̶e̶d̶ // b̷r̷a̷c̷e̷d̷                 f͝o͝r͠ the̴ se͞n͞t͞e͞n͞ce͞                     to                        L̸̡̫̮͊̿͠͝Ą̵̜̥̎̾N̷̦̳̤͝ͅD̷̳͚̈̐͌

h͎i͍s͍ ͔n͎a͔m͍e̳                      cu̸r̷l̷s̷                 b̶e̶h̶i̶n̶d̶ their     t̶̵̻̻e̴̞̼̻͐̽e̸͖͒͜ẗ̶͈̲́̓h̴͝­̳͓̓

a wreck—                 soft                     r̸e̴a̷d̴y̷                        f̶or͞             c̷ol̷lis̷i̷o̶n̸_

they move                     like               thund̴e̶r̷—holding—                 back

drawn       tight         į̵͈͔̫̄̈́̈́͝n̵̦̺̼̄t̴̢͉̪̥̽í̴̯̈́m̴̙͊a̶̞̙̕ẗ̸̛̼̬́͂͐e             d̷̞͗̍̈́e̷̪͈̫̬͊ḻ̸̘͒̅i̷͈̖̖͊̈́̒b̶̯͔̥̹͝e̷̡̛͎̳̥̔͠r̴͓͐ą̴̛̅͘­̡ţ̸̂̓e̸̼̞̎̓͘

he / d̷̲̝̖ͅo̵̢̘̠̰e̶̼̤s̴̮̤̰̳n̴̢͔̼̹’̶̢͍͕̦t̴͇̹̦ / run         he   r̴̨̯̯̋͝i̷̩̟̠̯͘s̵̲̼̖̾̊͌ė̴̢̺̩̞̅s̸̘̜̬̐̎̋

not broken       b̴̡̮̎̓e̶̳̮̓͝n̶͎̞̿̓t̶̺͒͘         toward          becoming…

by Geof the cheeky breakfast bard

I sat beside the toaster’s hum,
Philosophy with buttered crumb.
Each slice, a lecture crisp and clear,
On failure, heat, and reappear.

First lesson came when bread got stuck,
“Sometimes you rise, sometimes you’re luck.”
Second was a smoky tale:
“Don’t linger when the signs turn pale.”

The jam, a sticky paradox,
It clings but sweetly bends the box.
And don’t forget the marmalade,
It taught me risk, with zest and shade.

I took a bite of burnt regret,
The charcoal edge I won’t forget.
Yet even ash has taste to lend,
When bitter sparks begin to mend.

Now every morning, plate in hand,
I heed the toast, I understand:
Life’s not served neat; it’s scorched, it’s slow,
But butter makes it mostly so.

I’ve been dead only an hour
And yet my body feels so cold
My soul has left this world so sour
With no one’s hand for me to hold

I’ve been dead for just one day,
Yesterday my world fell flat.
Honestly, I died a year beforehand,
But now you’ll never know that.

I think I died the day you left
And in the time that followed so
Back in March, the month of luck
I think I died a year ago

And here I stay, resting at last
Finally, I’m free to roam
My heart is stone, my eyes are glass
Truly now just skin and bone

I'm trying not to let
my oblivous parents know
how horrid I've been doing
as to not ruin the image
they've always seen me through
as to not break the trust
they have put into my sanity
while simultaneously trying
to get the help needed
to not leave said parents, ruined
as I lay seven feet below fresh soil

and yet they have the audacity
to pick and ****
at my failing grades
and "attitudes"
saying I'm
not doing
enough


seriously?