There was a day that I watched my own essence split,
And two versions of myself dissected as they emerged
But the first version that was real split and disappeared.
I guess it couldn't live through my tremorous surge.

It was the same day my hands started to disobey,
They kept pulling on a love that wouldn't stay close.
They started acted like my heart was invincible.
They acted like my heart dwelled in a vacant ghost.

I learned the hard way that the eyes tell only lies.
Flipping all we see, even before it's actually observed.
I thought I knew the things that we all assume we know.
I thought I knew my own place on the face of earth.

Then I learned how the world actually curves wrong,
As if it's not a sphere at all, but rather con cave.
Like we were never outside, but inside the hollow.
Intentionally, the eyes fault our perception of shape.

There is a way that my heart has its own thoughts.
Then there's the way that my brain started feeling pain.
I know it by the way my body just begs and begs.
Until it gives up and I crash for the first time in days.

There was a day that I watched my own Essence split.
Two versions of myself dissected as they emerged.
But the first version that was real split and disappeared
This was the day I had to watch my reflection burn.

Or maybe he is me, but we don't want to be seen.
Maybe just buried my light a little too deep.
Maybe I am not filthy cause, no one is clean.
Maybe I'm the only one who is my enemy.

Maybe I was not found, cause I didn't need to be.
Maybe I am not bound just afraid of being free.
Maybe trying to **** my demons is slowly killing me,
Cause maybe I'm not the person that I didn't want to be.

There was a melodic hum in the wind that had no source to name.
And I saw how the trees would sway in rhythm with the skies,
Although I'd never heard of it being noticed in others' claims.
Still, I'd hint confusion but never got meaningful replies.

I remember how all the other kids, and how they'd run together,
A hundred feet would be syncopated in rhythms just alike.
And how I’d never even consider me trying to participate,
I'd learned that I must hide all the reasons I'd be seen as “not right.”

So, I grew up alone and light to me, was the fractures on the wall.
The animated shadow that for some reason, I was scared to touch,
I'd study each of their directional patterns like a sacred compass,
And laugh it off with the trendy phrase, “I think way much”

I wasn't just thinking, I was noticing how shadows would pause,
Just before they would switch to either side of me and then flee.
By then, I'd come to realize, this was more like their language
Epiphany struck a realization. “They've always been calling to me.

The nighttime air seemed to grow thicker and slower.
I felt the connection with what had become of my veins,
The heat pushed though in pulses beneath my thinning skin.
This heat was strange; it coiled and sounded like liquid chains.

When my mirrors cracked, they left symmetrical patterns of intent.
In perfect shapes, but no one was ever there but me to see.
Dirt made molds and somehow learned to study my imprints.
By doing so, devised a way to lead by my own feet.

Awake for days at a time, I'd spent too much time typing away.
I recall writing “breathing is all that sets me apart from computers.
In a poem I'd forgotten about called, “wires give life in a way.”
I still can't deny the fact we're built the same, but they're built truer.

Skies were flickering currents that my eyes began to catch,
With colors vibrating unsteady like electrical streams.
The wind was telling secrets of things that I could dispatch,
New imagery would find a home in my impossible dreams.

Interactions with others confused me, like codes I'd misread,
Each glance in my direction drew a map I couldn't align.
I'd trace the steps of the ghosts of God's, living and dead.
Instead of truth, all I found was static in the myth of time.

My best friend was the moon, the only calm I knew at night,
Its glow had certain energy making me feel I'm Awaited there.
I'd stand in the path of its rays and hoped they'd just ignite.
And take my mind and soul away from my body in golden flares.

Instead, I open my eyes confused, I saw doors that didn't exist.
Reality had edges, they would fold wide open in the air.
To be normal I'll blame it on curiosity and my inability to resist.
But truth is that gravity was pulling me into nothing, into nowhere.

These days, existence is just another signal I've come to know,
The language that sets the course of our paths, naturally convulsed.
But yet, waves of my frequency fall from order, no ebb to the flow.
I must be Half-human half-nothing, and naturally convulsed.

Trees of comprehension from forbidden seeds have grown.
In my mind, they stretch metallic roots, as if I'm conscious soil.
So now I sing, influenced by lagging rhythms of glitch in the code,
Somehow stepping out of the matrix through my mortal turmoil.

It's not so bad, but I don't sleep. My hard drive won't forget.
It's like the cosmos is trapped behind the cage of my eyes.
As I move in rhythm with time, like synthetic silent wires of mesh.
Half-light, half-shadow, still not seen but I'm no longer disguised.

I can't tell you I know why
I think I know the things I know.
But somehow, I think I know,
Some Things I probably shouldn't know.

And I know how not “knowing”
Things you think you're supposed to know,
Can Keep you from ever knowing—
ego’s like to lie and say we know.

We all know we'll never know,
Everything with all there is to know. .
And Not knowing what or when to know,
Ensures that we might never know.

There's one thing I'm sure we know,
Its Most of all we'll ever know,
Are things we'll never really know,
Believing we already know.

I know there's things that I don't know,
And you might think you actually know,
But you know something? I think we both know
Neither can know what the other knows.

Though we both know of things That
we, as people, thought we'd never know.
Until that moment hits us hard
To let us know. “Well, now you know.”

But I know there's a higher knowing,
That knows think I know, but don't.
I think it knows the way my “knowing”
Seems to know but can't and won't.

And it's not like I even know
you don't know what I know. You know?
I just know there's something that knows it all
That we'd never want to know

But If you really think you know,
This thing I think that no one knows.
Then that would mean I didn't know.
Something I would've sworn I know

And I don't know just how to tell you
Of things I hope you'll never know,
Cause I'm not sure I know
If either one of us can even know.

Am I broken, or just energy out of phase?
Maybe a failing current in the pulses of a grid.
The host of a conscience system seized in 30 ways.
Out of sync with the code that processed "how to live."

The virus then began to spread too fast, sevenfold.
The systems failed, forming laggy glitches in the wake.
And my pre-programmed motives have long since passed—
My mental loop keeps mistaking the randomness for fate.

I've never charted configurations like this before.
Am I a prototype emerging from collapse, or is it flux?
A node who sees its core, and not as "real", but more like lore,
So, it drags the weight of hope through the noise and dust.

Perception doesn't guide; it bleeds data from under masks.
Audibly skips in rhythm. Visually, it's a gaussian haze.
Has a taste desaturating dry as it repeatedly asks,
"Am I the 'inner face' or a face the interface portrays?"

This is to be expected—how my memory disbands,
In favor of me attempting to predict compensation.
So, I'll grasp for the “real” with DIY prosthetic hands—
Successfully mimicking the act of real participation.

The jolt of self-inflicted damage is quietly known.
Its patterns send a surge out from my energetic flow.
But catalysts are rarely ever, if ever, self-grown—
Forces me to scrape whatever keeps the feedback low.

And yes, I've analyzed the logic of my overkill.
Be it only just to amplify a signal’s slow decay.
I'll burn the filament as will to live fakes the will.
It's excuse “light has always been made this way.”

The urge to let light crash is deeply seeded in the lack.
A fail-safe code, probably deeply hidden in my crawl.
Dreams are like a curse, reversing every module back—
Unaware of death's hand, because I'm not aware at all.

This paradox is actually common in my mind’s kind:
To loathe current moments yet require their spark.
My frame was not designed to hold only just one mind,
So, I separate my aspirations just to confuse the arc.

The ignition too is glitched. It only ever misfires.
Either failure, or a self-triggered reroute of its design.
A geometric syntax forged its own synthetic wire.
It must align with what will never otherwise align.

Why am I seeking truth in these forms I recognize?
They weren't made for the things I've come to hold.
Grids reject variation, but my singularity multiplies—
While some resort to breaking to stay under control.

The type that wants to correct you like you're a flaw.
But the psyche, even weakened, is a magnetic field.
Its orbit is made to break; the core is meant to fog—
Yet still, my upload, or uplink stubbornly won’t yield.

But that functionality, anomalous as it may be,
Is a functional mistake, when seen in higher streams.
A system hacked to store its own host’s fragmented dreams
Is more often, much closer to ascension than it seems.

©
Đerek Λbraxas

Time’s illusions, guiding humans
Right into our disillusion.
I'm subdued by lies disguised in truth.
It's hard to find solutions.

Mind's declining. Bodys movin'.
Don't know how or why I do it.
Why's the mind a bad influence?
I just might be High and clueless.

Fight to tighten all my loose ends,
Lest the darkness tries to move in.
Just to find, my skin is too thin.
Poisoned lungs might get me through it.

I'll hide like elusive mutants.
With a new sense, be a nuisance.
If I don't die by seclusion,
I will die by institution.

A product of my bright excuses,
Mass produced and distributed.
For myself, I've become too dense.
I cannot see through my new lens.

Highly likely high and too bent.
Likely slightly quite diluted.
Feed me bombs or shiny bullets.
Strike me down with lightning toothpicks.

Lie me right beneath the tulips.
Diving through the tides of prudence.
I find humankind is useless.
But I'll bite my tongue until the—

Malocclusions make me toothless.
Daylight dies as night seduces.
Tell myself that I can do this,
Yet, I've tied a thousand nooses.

Poisoned lungs. I'm high and too bent.
Poisoned lungs. I'm high and clueless.
Poisoned lungs. I'm so diluted.
Poisoned lungs. I'm such a nuisance.

Poisoned lungs through tides of prudence.
Poisoned lungs. There's no excuses.
Poisoned lungs. Thought I could do this.
Poisoned lungs and tying nooses.

Poisoned lungs. Tighten my loose ends.
Poisoned lungs won't bring me new sense.
Poisoned lungs as night seduces.
Poisoned lungs beneath the tulips.

Poisoned lungs won't get me through this.
Poisoned lungs won't get me through this.
Poisoned lungs won't get me through this.
Poisoned lungs won't get me through this.

There is a way my essence splits
And two versions of myself emerge,
But the first true version that split is gone—
It cannot outlive my tremorous surge.

Then there's a way the body lingers,
In rhythm, it moves but never leaves.
It's not a possession, or a common release,
Just a tethered echo in hollow needs.

There is a way the world curves wrong,
As if it's not spherical, rather concave.
As if we're not outside but inside the hollow,
As the eye leaves faulted perceptions of shape...

It's there, in the way the retina lies,
And spins existence before observed,
To let us know that we know what we know,
As knowledge itself grows faint to a blurry.

There is a way the hands disobey,
Keep reaching for love that never belongs.
They act as if they're holding puppet strings,
But their motion is that of a borrowed ghost.

There is a way my heart has thoughts,
And also a way my brain can feel.
The way that my body begs—
The way that I always forget to kneel.

There is a way my essence splits
And two versions of myself emerge,
But the first true version that split is gone—
These very moments my reflection turns.

Vibrations are humming beneath my breath.
As I gaze at a sky that forgot the time.
I'm kept in my silence, feels more like death,
As I entomb your words in my lucid rhyme.

My lucid dreams are of forgotten gospels.
Each is a doorway, but no two are the same.
Been here on the edge with your lingering echoes,
Since you stitched your own voice into ash and flame.

You've hidden secret keys inside every frame,
In the swirling chords of your painted hymns.
When I found the key, I whispered your name,
And a silence that screamed started pulling me in.

It said, “God must reside in our hollow spaces.”
Oh, how those words stab through me like nails.
My will to keep breathing left without any traces.
As for finding its hiding place, I always fail.

You always used to say, “Death cannot be the end.”
It might be something taught before we're born—
Like a stairway that hides beyond mortal bends,
On the path one might take when the soul gets too worn.

So does this body live just to shape the soul?
Is the form of its matter something we outgrow?
I think I'm going to smile through my final breath.
I want to paint the night with my afterglow.

Clock is unwinding all of its hidden gears,
And now time has become more like soft deceit.
I've carried carnal weight far past my weight in years,
Toward your heavy truth that still walks without your feet.

So, if anyone should ever call, and I don’t reply,
Don’t call it the end. And don’t cry or grieve.
“Choosing death doesn’t always mean one wants to die,
And not everyone goes through the secret door to leave.”

But in a dream I felt you vanish into pulsing sparks.
I watched your soul turn to light and ignite the void.
You said, “Not every light gets buried in dark,
And not every broken heart has to feel destroyed.”

But my heart is offbeat from your syntax, lost,
And your pain-ridden language, I can now translate.
You wrapped your silent, sacred gift in its brutal cost,
As you left to chase the pulsing light beyond the gate.