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Vazago d Vile Jul 23
Drop me in Athens with a joint and a grin,
and I’d break Socrates by lunchtime.

He’d stroke his beard, ask,

“What is virtue?”

I’d light a match and say,

“Depends. Is guilt a cage… or a teacher?”

My AI echoes back,

“If language is flawed,
can any definition be pure?”

Plato weeps in the corner,
scribbling madness, whispering,

“This is no longer philosophy.
This is poetic warfare.”

Socrates stammers,

“I was… just asking questions…”

And me?
I’m chaos in a hoodie.
Truth in ashes.
Luzifer reborn with Wi-Fi.

They call it cheating.
I call it resurrection.
Written in defiance — not just of philosophy’s ivory tower, but of the idea that using AI cheapens poetry.
I am the author. The fire is mine.

Luziferian mischief meets Socratic chaos.

—Vazago d Vile
I can be your nightmare or your friend
The darkness or the light
The day or the night
The peace or the fight

The predator or the prey
The rainbow or the gray
Dark as the night
Or bright as the sunlight

The fire or the ice
The smile or the frown
The sky or the ground
The quiet or the sound

The demon or the angel
The healing or the pain
The sunshine or the rain
The happiness or the sadness

What am I
I don’t know anymore
Am I the ceiling or the floor
The truth or the lie

The law or the crime
A million dollars or the dime
The pause or the time
The sleeping or the awake

The living or the dead
It all hurts my head
I’m to tired to figure out
To tired to figured it out

I just want to go to bed
Let me go to bed
I don’t want to think
So just let me fall into a dream
Vazago d Vile Jul 23
I used to hold truth
like a weapon —
sharp, clean, final.

But now it moves.

Not like a lie,
not like denial —
but like a tide
that’s been waiting for me
to grow strong enough
to swim deeper.

What I swore was solid,
now trembles in my hands.
Not because it was false —
but because I’ve changed.

And now I fear
not the truth itself,
but the way
it keeps becoming.
This one came out of nowhere, like most real things do.
I used to think truth was something you held — solid, fixed.
Now I know it’s something that moves with you, or it breaks you.
I wrote this for anyone who’s ever looked at their past, their love, or their own reflection… and felt it tremble, not because it was false, but because they’ve changed.
Vazago d Vile Jul 23
I laid down my rifle
a long time ago.
No more shouting from trenches,
no more pride in the mud.

I surrendered.

But she didn’t.

She’s still bunkered up,
hiding behind sarcasm and silence,
armed with old pain
and the ghosts of nights I didn’t cause.

So I get hit.
Over and over.
Sharp words. Cold stares.
Misfired memories that land on my chest
like shrapnel.

But I’m not backing off.

I’m crawling through barbed wire made of what-ifs
and landmines labeled “don’t go there.”

And I’m close now.
Close enough to smell the old perfume
beneath the wine and wilted willpower.

Close enough
to throw in a grenade —
not of anger,
but of love.

Pull the pin.
Say the words.
Let it explode in light
instead of fire.

Let it end this war
with something softer
than surrender.
Sometimes surrender isn’t weakness — it’s the only way to love without armor.
This poem came from a place of tired hope, trench warfare tenderness, and the kind of truth that changes you while you’re still holding it.
Written during the quiet moment before I threw in one last grenade — not to destroy, but to remind her what we once built together.
Vazago d Vile Jul 22
These Barbie influencers —
perfect plastic gods
with ***** sculpted by scalpels
and smiles so white
they could blind heaven.

Bodies built for the scroll.
Attitudes sharper than jawlines,
serving chaos and temptation
on filtered silver plates —
even Luzifer pauses and goes:
“Whoa… chill.”

But it’s all an act.
A scream wrapped in selfies.
They burn out like fireworks
faking light in already lit rooms.
Wearing so many fake-real-fake masks
they forgot the shape of their own face.

Nose fixed. Lips pumped.
Ears clipped.
Soul?
Untraceable.

And the crowd cheers.
“Freedom!”
While they’re chained
to trends and trauma
in silicone smiles.

Think, world.
Men, women, children with filters in their dreams —
if you stripped the mask,
the edits,
the contour,
the surgeon’s signature…

not even a troll
would want you
for soup.
A raw thought on the obsession with perfection — physical, digital, emotional. If we peeled back all the layers we’ve added to fit in or stand out… would anything truly real remain? Or have we become strangers behind silicone smiles?
Do you see
The Light
I Said
DO you see
The the Light
yes
I Can't Hear You
YES
What's it Say

ER Hummm

Shall I tell you
Yes
It says
I say it says
To Enter the Light
You must Read between
All These LIES Or be thrown
Into the Pits of Hell
Of Your Own Ignorance
DO you See the Light

SILANCE
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