There’s a film that covers these eyes,
I swear they’re for someone else, exempt.
What passes through them flips in real time.
I’m seeing the world, but not as it’s meant.

I squint tightly and then I try to focus,
But when I look, things are foreign and bleak.
Reality delays, shifting right out the gate—
Most likely to no one else living but me.

My hands feel elastic, they extend too far,
Like they belonged to someone that flew.
I only know I exist by the scars—
As I constantly move but never move.

I talk, but my voice feels mechanic,
Like chewing tinfoil by planned mistake.
Each word I say is a rented sound,
A dial tone that belongs to my ache.

The people pass like afterglow—
They laugh like old, distorted cassettes,
The ones that sound like a broken record
Stuck on the song I need to forget.

I wear my face like costume paint—
A cracked veneer. No, I can't explain.
Its smiles are crooked; they fold and break,
Like it only exists for perception’s sake.

The mirror, it flinches when I start to pace.
My reflection’s hand, not clenched like my fist—
It seems we’re confused with our actual space,
Two ghosts unsure that exist.

The mirror, it paces. Making me flinch.
It seems we’re confused as to who owns the space,
My reflection’s hand is clenched but not mine.
Two ghosts unsure why we're sharing a face.

I etched your name into the constellations
I branded the night sky with your silent glow
Every minute burned me like stars burning traces
But it was worth it and I knew the sky was yours to hold.

Above forgotten graves, there are stone monuments.
The empty silence that has now become the paradigm
Vibrating quietly, they're becoming truly cosmic.
Screaming stars trapped in the sore throat of time

I sewed your shape into the fabric of my lasting ache
You crystallized into the patterns of my stale grief.
Between seconds memories don't seem to ever age
They hum the sad hymns within the sorrow of our dreams.

I once believed that pain would bring my longing rebirth
And mold the scattered ash of all the things that left me numb
But not every storm reshapes the sky or realigns the earth
Some cyclone with the dreams of all we never could become

Not every void is meant for our emotions or our thoughts
But write the cosmic order underneath the feet of trust.
Remind me of the places I've searched for forgotten gods
And the meaning in their stillness for the meaning in the rust.

Seeking answers from divinity frozen within the rot
But I found only reflections of a voice lost from its mold
Just a velvet shadowed shrine mingled into clots.
Caught between the moments when we fought to feel whole

Somewhere lost in space and you're the only one left
Remember the nameless deities we let remain unsaid
Intersecting years with all the gods that we invented
Who wait in muffled synapses where memory is met

And whisper in the cracks of our unraveling existence
Your echoes never sleep, my name's never been written out.
I'm from a deeper silence that still feeds the kinetic
Remembered only by tongues that never spoke my name aloud

We are held by hands that sculpted meaning into being
With everything we never had the courage to become
I speak not to the earth but to the silence that's beneath it
Scriptures burn with dying light. The pulse that beats the drum

Time itself cracks and fractures in this violent dream
As it trembles whispering the truth that morphs too fast
Left between our promise I feel fractures in the beams
Louder than all words pushed through the cries or all the laughs

The end begins to loop and spirals into treacherous gallows
Never quite taking form pretending to be brighter
My soul unravels as it begins chasing your shadow
I believe the search for meaning only binds us tighter

Each thread another layer of truth or just a wrought hope.
Entangled in the quantum thread that tightens as it loosens
To find what's real we search the silence in methods to cope.
To pull the clarity from what they call our failed illusions.

The air is present, but off in weight—
It breathed beneath my dragging tread.
Each step mistook itself for fate,
My inner voice spoke, “Don't breathe, instead.”

The moon, it winked, then turned to ash—
Its glow, a trick. An enchanted claim.
The sidewalk split like I had crashed,
a static god without a name.

The faces turned but couldn’t track
my bent proportions, preset loops.
We saw each other—witnessed lack—
their auras steamed like data soup.

The neighbor outside was made of code,
his mumbles stitched with minor flaws.
He walked a lagging, crooked load—
a hologram without a cause.

My name collapses if spoken twice,
a sound that doesn’t mean a thing.
Identity—just loaded dice
thrown blind across a buffering screen.

Store signs were different at second glance—
one blink and “Pharmacy” was “Control.”
The cars reversed their motion trance,
passing through buildings they'd passed just before.

The pigeons froze mid-flight like glass,
then shattered the moment they caught my eye.
She glitched—revealing skin’s disguise—
and smiled with teeth she didn't try.

My arms were pulsing with phantom blood,
my ribs were cords I couldn’t play.
Each thought I had was owned by flood—
I feared that death would find its way.

The walls were off-white, shaped oblong,
they fluxed with math beneath the paint.
This world’s too smooth, too clean, too long—
its holiness grown dim and faint.

So, I became something unglued,
a breach inside the program’s lie.
Not mad—just deeply over clued,
I feel—I know—that nothing dies.

This room was taught to hold its breath,
When I return through sideways doors.
It never asks for confessions or depth—
Just witnesses how silence feels as thorns.

The world outside is daytime hinged.
But my world was stitched in neon dusk.
A phantom fang lives deep within
And bites each time I build my trust.

I move in patterns, accidentally bound—
In rituals of coping that lasted too long.
The hours know where I'll be found—
Beside myself, unwillingly wrong.

The ***** laundry I clean but don't.
A second shadow nailed at my heel.
The lamp that needs a light disagrees.
Between being fake and being who I feel.

I keep it clean—or clean enough—
My eyes are dry; my voice is clear.
My morbid truth, dressed in common fluff.
Always finds a way to disappear.

The soul—if that’s still something I hold—
Is brined in need, like selfish sin.
This isn’t wanted or considered bold.
  It's survival masquerading as skin.

I never meant to dig this much,
My lack of harmony buried in song.
But a body that's balanced upon a crutch
Is still a body—just not as strong.

I’ve made a friend with myself detached,
Though he eats a lot more than he feeds.
Whispers like he knows he's an accident.
This teaches me, what my own silence means

The habits aren't even the worst of me—
It’s what remains when they're gone.
The way my lungs choose not to breath.
Choosing not to breathe all on their own.

So, I exist in the lowercase,
Half-typed and never quite complete.
But even glitches need their place—
So here I am, on loop. On repeat…

I’ve seen too much, held behind these eye lids.
I've learned that the dark is no place I can rest.
It shows me everything that hides in its corners.
With Every stubborn pulse beating in my Worn-out chest.

With Every stubborn pulse beating in my Worn-out chest.
I flinch at kindness like it's gonna turn around and bite.
Because most smiles that I've seen were a mask that betrayed.
I keep my room much brighter when its night—

My body is here, I think. Maybe in part.
But the rest is somewhere else I left. unclaimed.
I built shrines of silence inside my own heart,
Where I hid my crying echo, and gave it, its own name.

When someone asks me why I never go to sleep,
A version of me steps in front of me to lie.
Cause sleep is a place that's just way too deep,
For someone who truly feels like they have already died.


Someone is always moving underneath my pale skin—
I'm nothing but an actor mouthing someone's borrowed truth.
I close up and I break as the thoughts are swarming in.
And I choke on even the quietest taste of their proof.

I stay wide awake thinking pain is gonna pass.
But it doesn't. It stays here and lives in my bed.
My comfort is a broken window of shattered glass—
But it never makes me try to fix my ever-shattered head.

I taught myself how to speak from underneath pauses,
And how not to feel, with my own blood and meds.
You say that love exists? Then show me where the clause is,
Saying “nothing that will live will be punished when it's dead.”

I almost opened up my heart once. And it burned.
Not with fire, just with that light I knew I shouldn’t touch.
You say we're worth trust? Let's see if it returns,
If you abandon it like faith and leave it cold and untouched.

I wish I knew how not to leave my own trail.
But my presence cuts the air, and I know I can't pretend.
I stitch it back together, each time that I inhale,
My own conscious effort just to draw my next breath.

These eyes must stay open. And That’s the only rule.
So, I'm counting every crack in the wall and in the door.
My heartbeats break open. My blood is in a pool.
Not so much now, but that used to mean more.

Might as well nail the door, I know I'll never unseal.
Or the self in the mirror would start turning away.
Cause to truly open up, would just make it too real.
And nothing real has ever entered my life to stay.

So never again, will I close tired my eyes.
You can Keep your strong skin. I will keep the scars.
I keep swallowing locks, in my chest they reside.
And never again, will I open my heart.

The clock in my head ticks counterclockwise,
As my sense of time then loses its hands.
Their shadows start lapping the room’s empty walls.
It’s then that I start to think I understand.

Some Familiar faces, they just looked my way,
But when I look back, I see the backs of their heads.
I know i could explain things I've never seen,
But I'd have to use words that no one ever says.

A name intrudes whispers and escapes my lips,
Of someone I know, but don’t know that I know.
I was planning for things happening yesterday,
With a mind that cannot even perceive tomorrow.

My clothes are there, folded in layers of my truth.
My methods are organized by my own confusion.
The knot that lives in between my heart and my throat
With inhales it tightens but it never really loosens.

To find what is real, i have now learned to search
In The silence that lives underneath my illusions.
Attempts to reshape some clarity from what
I’m sure are just faulty misleading delusions.

A word exists stuck on the tip of my tongue.
My name is not something I'll ever write down.
I’m remembered only by unknown forgetful tongues
Who’ve not ever spoken my name or your name aloud.

I once took a zoomed in picture of my eye.
It resembled that of amphibians or snakes.
I Drew myself as a person, but whole again,
But the person just instantly burst into flames.

I painted a picture of what you'd look like in heaven.
But the next day I noticed it was all rearranged.
I still don't know how I can feel so at home.
Inside this dream that feels so morbidly strange.

Searched on every summit for lost elusive cures,
And for the alchemy.to make me feel I was pure.
I've violently torn through all that I am,
Begging every deity I’ve known for their hand.

There is no guidance.

What if healing doesn't surface, Cries muffled under sand.
A doctrine for the hopeful who will never understand.
My wounds still hold the daggers, unremoved.
What if pain protects the heart because it'll never be renewed?

There is no feeling.

Singing broken hymns inspires a hymn of praise.
Unspoken laws, maybe I'm an example being made.
I’m never broken; I can only wish to break with time.
I remain a quantum sonnet stripped of any rhyme.

There is no harmony.

Maybe there is grace that lives within a wilted plea.
In knowing, I’m exactly who I knew I’d always be.
A life pulling chains tethered to a hopeless mind.
What’s left within a soul, to see its purpose held divine.

There's nothing to believe.

Without residue of ash, from embers glow,
Haunted by the echoes, that have turned hearts to stone.
Our cold sweat of empathy for fellow misbegotten.
Stitched into the nerves of a body that is rotting.

There's nothing to see.

I cannot find belief in me for false restoration.
No longer a seeking of a hollowed-out salvation.
I walk with aching fractures to a rapture born in rust.
A fate I feel deep in my core, that all is made of dust.

There's no eternity.

What’s the meaning to the riddles I weave?
Is there truth in what remains, or is truth in what will leave?
As I stand, a withered body without a single plea.
I am all I ever was, all I know I'll ever be.

There's nothing to be.