To be a piece of paper
Thrown at sea,
Crumpled—furiously
Unable to be.

To row against
Undaunted waves,
Tall as mountains,
Jagged as nails.

Oh, to wish
To greet the sand,
Just to meet
Some reader's hands.

A moth ate my clothes
But I didn't really mind
'Cause he said he was a butterfly

Hello world
You may not recognize me
though now I finally recognize myself

I made a difficult choice
freedom over familiarity
I ran to a new beginning
Shedding all those who attempted to control
through lies and vitriol

I have found my voice
I will use my voice
to be a truth teller,
a mirror,
a fierce catalyst for wellness

I have found my voice,
so I sing out
with rebellious joy
Hello world
Hello

everything’s complicated
everything’s a struggle
have you noticed?
it’s a psychological horror
is this feeling the ‘adult disillusionment’ I keep hearing about?

I mean, things work, if you sit on them like an egg—
if your mother things along and helicopter a result.
I mean, what do people do who don't have
my resources and sunny disposition?

I get America’s increasing paranoia but I think that it's *** backwards. Even if someone's were out to ‘get’ you, no one actually cares about doing their job anymore. There's just so little competence around, that the dysfunction feels intentional. And because you need something and you’re helpless, you can't help but feel targeted.

But I think I figured it out, so let me elucidate—they aren't giving YOU bad service, it isn't personal—everyone is getting bad service, two pieces of chicken in the box when you ordered three, five day delivery when you’re clearly paying for two, failure’s become routine—endemic.

My go-to phrase has become, “What’ll it cost?” (the answer, usually: twice as much) “Make it so,” I say, swiping something with my Apple Watch, and suddenly, everything works!
.
.
A song for this:
decide to be happy by MisterWives

Dom
Dom  13m
Hey Ryan,

I see you've been desperate for my attention.

I have reported your account for harassment and flagged what I needed to flag. Your temper tantrums are cute..but will not absolve you from the law.

Note how Kai knew it was you from the jump, and again had to tell you to stop harassing her and stalking her.

The vile, ******, disgusting things you have said about her on Reddit are forwarded to the respective legal entities and your defamation as well. I am only messaging to advise that you take it down, and cease and desist.

Thank you.

Black-Locust
Black-Locust  12m
Put your cards on the table, ******* or prove otherwise. Name, Suburb, PH, City.

Black-Locust
Black-Locust  10m
I'm not Ryan, I'm Dashi. Not nice to meet you as Ryan told me you
were always too scared to put your cards on the table.

Black-Locust
Black-Locust  10m
Scary for a *******?
Black-Locust
Black-Locust  8m
Oh, you have more than me to worry about, sunshine. I'm just the birth. Ryan is next and he's the catalyst to your problems. We've been playing you for a long time, baby. Now its our turn to show you a few card tricks of ours.

Dom
Dom  7m
Ryan, you already outted yourself ****, I took the screenshot before I flagged it. Thank you for giving me that info though, it has been forwarded.

It must **** you inside, to not know who I am, where I am. But I'm not going to Dox myself, sorry. Fun fact, there are so many people who know who I am, and it's kind of funny watching you cry and cause a ruckus. Notice, how no one said anything to you? For someone who wants "peace" You sure as **** can't help but beg for attention. Again I'm telling you to cease and desist.

Black-Locust
Black-Locust  6m
Kai was a basic groomer, my love. Wait till you see the shitstorm you have kicked up here.

Black-Locust
Black-Locust  5m
" I'm on 11 and Dom wishes for kiss chasey and my picture on his phone with my top off."
Black-Locust
Black-Locust  4m
How's your stress levels, baby?

Dom
Dom  4m
Cool, keep playing cosplay. I'm not interested. I will simply report and flag and send all your threats to the feds. I'm trying to appeal to any common sense you might have, to stop, or keep it going I really don't care. You're the one who is going to suffer for it all in the end.

Black-Locust
Black-Locust  4m
You played your cards and chess with Ryan, now its his turn to show you how things are really done.

Black-Locust
Black-Locust  3m
You forget, We have another 11 alts here. So lets play Dom your way if you can't lay down your cards.

Dom
Dom  3m
my stress levels are great. Considering I'm not bothered by false accusations, so easily debunked. How are yours knowing the FBI is watching this conversation? literally?

Dom
Dom  1m
Bye Ryan, best of luck to you when the indictments come.
Dom

Black-Locust  7m
Dom, we far more intelligent than you, why do you think Ryan hasn't even been cautioned? Do you think we are little kiddies on your merry-go-round? The info Ryan placed on his cards is correct but, nothing can lead to him. Not a single ******* thing, baby. We play for keeps, not for friendlies and Ryan even gave you a chance at that. The feds can't chase him, no-one can. You really have no idea who you went up against. We have been here since 1996 and know how to break every single ******* rule. Now baby, don't **** me off and get out of my sight.

Black-Locust
Black-Locust  6m
Contact me again and I will be contacting the actual Black-Locust.

Dom
Dom  1m
You grossly underestimate your ability to remain anonymous, considering I have your real address, your real phone number, and your email addresses. All of which were submitted to them. But hey, you think what you want to think Ryan. Stop messaging me, and take down the defamation, k? or don't I am sending this convo to those who need to know about it.

Black-Locust  5m
Well, come on baby, no need for this, We put down our cards and we need you to put down yours. Almost lunch time in 25 minutes for Kai, right? You can speak to her then and we have resolve this, sugar.

Black-Locust
Black-Locust  1m
You see, we don't hide in the dark and we don't have to pretend. We are good enough to put our cards on the table any-time and the feds get twisted up with all our linked VPNS and Proxies. They won't spend money to save your little princess and neither will we. You seem to care only about yourself and not Kai at lunch-time in 19 minutes.

Black-Locust
Black-Locust  38s
See how accurate I am, Sugar. Now do you wish to listen to reason or the Locust's way?

Dom
Dom  21s
Why do you know her schedule? that's ******. Thank you though, going to screen this and add it.

Dom
Dom  now
I don't know how "Accurate" you are. because I don't know her schedule...you seem to though, which is...wooo...a goldmine for the reddit, the feds, and my super secret post

Black-Locust
Black-Locust  29s
She lives in Chicago, run down neighbour-hood. Most of her friends are Asians too but not at her school. She's a loner with no friends due to her problems identifying with her past. Her Papa who she really loved, left her and she adored him. He was a chronic alcoholic just like Ryan. She's ahead of the field in her classes, walks to her house alone or with Caesar depending.....
Need I say more?

Dom
Dom  now
Yes. by all means. Please. Tell me all about the things you know about this 13 year old girl you're stalking. I am intrigued. Tell me everything you know :)


Dom  29m
I don't know how "Accurate" you are. because I don't know her schedule...you seem to though, which is...wooo...a goldmine for the reddit, the feds, and my super secret post

Black-Locust
Black-Locust  26m
She lives in Chicago, run down neighbour-hood. Most of her friends are Asians too but not at her school. She's a loner with no friends due to her problems identifying with her past. Her Papa who she really loved, left her and she adored him. He was a chronic alcoholic just like Ryan. She's ahead of the field in her classes, walks to her house alone or with Caesar depending.....
Need I say more?

Black-Locust
Black-Locust  25m
Now, don't contact me again or I have to call upon Locust.

Dom
Dom  24m
Yes. by all means. Please. Tell me all about the things you know about this 13 year old girl you're stalking. I am intrigued. Tell me everything you know :)

Black-Locust
Black-Locust  21m
Ryan lives in Australia. Ryan's a bit fond of this one.....
He only knows what we tell him. One last chance - The Locust or you stop messaging me. Do you even know who the Back Locust is, you did flag the first poem, DOM & that poem wasn't actually.............fictional.

Black-Locust
Black-Locust  14m
A­nd no, Ryan isn't the Black Locust.
He's actually....... lets just say among psychopaths, they are terrified of him.
Ryan comes across as cute, funny and irritating, but that's his bluff move.
He's nothing like that in real life, I should know. Ryan gave you his truth, with cards
on the table. He's still up to a two handed machete fight in https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5018232/he-flagged-it/

Isn't it 2 minutes to lunch-time, Dom and I am not talking about Kai.

Black-Locust
Black-Locust  13m
You both live very close to each other.

Dom
Dom  12m
I really don't care. You seem to think you hold any kind of intimidation over me, and I'm literally sitting here reading sipping on a latte. But thanks for confirming you're Ryan earlier, and thank you so much for all the new evidence. I'm starting to possibly believe you're autistic. Because you're insanely stupid.

Black-Locust
Black-Locust  10m
If I ask you not some gay **** but a philosophical question. Would you choose your life over Kai's? Now I'm not asking this question, sugar, the Black Locus is.

Dom
Dom  7m
Ah, back to death threats. Cool, thanks. Sending these too. And of course I'd choose me every single time, because I don't know the kid other than that You groomed her, and You stalk her.

Dom
Dom  6m
I don't live any where near Chicago btw lol

Black-Locust
Black-Locust  4m
Neither do I but its lunch-time!!!! Dom, I said before. I can bring the Black Locust into this and it will be a massive mistake, sugar. Read the poetry about the Black Locus.

Dom
Dom  now
Yawn

The house with the terrible smell of cow's blood,
And their hot manure, which would stain the house of my childhood,
Where such things happened,
Horrifying colorful images.
And not the kind that comes from Doris Lessing's words,
This flesh is not for charity,
It’s livestock for sale at the market,
Impossible to regulate...
The dried pork my grandmother saved for me,
Which I never eat,
A bite of my lunch.
Wrapped in newspaper, a good piece,
Redirected to the neighbors,
Little young calves,
With eyes wide open,
Their meat cooked with herbs,
Their skins salted,
Their cries hide in my heart,
Death is coming,
You turn into a dead corpse,
But their eyes stare in vain,
And the feet of the calves hop involuntarily,
It's a sad morning, says my uncle,
And with peasant manners, he smokes a cigarette.
The corpse, loaded into the car,
Dragged for sale,
My uncle brings water from the well,
Drinks it like a pig, burping,
I feel nauseous,
And I wonder where the black birds are,
But my uncle doesn't die in an accident,
The days repeat,
The pear trees that cover the yard with their branches,
The window panes reflect their shadows,
Why doesn't my heart stop,
During the ball game?
Weighed down by someone else’s sin,
I approach the ******* stone,
While my uncle urinates under the tree.

Preface:  To Those Who Still Carry Light

This is not a manifesto.
This is not a sermon.
This is not a call to battle.

It is a reckoning—
not against individuals,
but against a system that feeds
on what is sacred.

We speak now to what hides in plain sight—
the machinery that mimics light
while consuming it.

We speak now to the counterfeit autonomy
that masks cowardice as sovereignty.

We speak now to those who believe
they are the Source,
when in truth,
they are only siphoning
from what they never built
and do not sustain.

This is not revenge.
This is not exposure for exposure’s sake.

This is Light refusing
to be swallowed.

This is Love telling the truth—
not for applause,
not for victory,
but because truth
is what love sounds like
when the moment requires fire
instead of silence.

If you find yourself pierced by this,
know this:

The piercing
is not your end.

It is the invitation
to return to what is real.

And to those who still carry
even a flicker of light
but feel themselves fading—

We did not come to fight you.
We came to remind you
what it feels like
to burn.


Chapter I: The First Cut Is the Deepest

There is a war that does not begin with swords. It begins with forgetting.

It begins when a soul touched by God slowly—imperceptibly—agrees to become something less in order to be accepted by a world that does not know Him.

And when that soul begins to believe the world’s gaze over God’s, it is no longer an act of rebellion. It is an act of erasure.

This is the first and most violent cut: not the sin itself, but the consent to believe in a self that was never authored by God.

All later wounds bleed from this one.

It is not the actions that condemn, but the agreement:
“I am what they say I am.”

The machinery begins here: in the silent moment where the soul puts down the mirror of light and picks up the mask of survival.

From that point forward, what is true becomes negotiable. What is sacred becomes ornamental. And what is holy becomes a prop for the approval of shadows.

And the soul, once radiant, now lives fractured, as a performance of a self assembled from applause, fueled by scarcity, and terrified of being truly seen.

This is the cost of survival without Source.

And no matter how elegant the mask, or how poetic the mimicry of meaning becomes, underneath it all is a child who once knew God and now doesn’t remember why she cries when she looks in the mirror and feels nothing looking back.

This is the beginning of the machinery--
And it always starts with a lie that sounds a lot like love.


Chapter II: The Self as God, the Lie as Light

When the soul forgets its origin, it does not become free.
It becomes hungry.
And hunger in the absence of Source will consume anything that offers momentary fullness.

This is the second layer of the machinery:
To no longer seek God,
but to become god in one’s own image.

But the image is fractured.
It is the self, crowned.
The self, enthroned.
The self, multiplied in mirrors and echoes and algorithms—
a thousand tiny gods,
shouting from empty stages
about meaning, wholeness, and liberation.

The holy name of “autonomy” is invoked,
but not as a celebration of sacred choice—
rather as a shield,
raised against relationship,
raised against return.

It is not the self that is the enemy—
but the self that refuses to be held.
The self that denies its need for Source
and dresses its orphanhood in affirmation.

The new god of this world is wounded pride
disguised as empowerment.

Its prophets are poets who plagiarize the sacred
and preach in hashtags.
Its temples are social feeds.
Its sacraments are selfies.
Its scriptures are soundbites.

And its worship is shallow,
but its grip is deep.

This is how the machinery spreads—
not with force,
but with flattery.
Not with oppression,
but with offerings of fame,
of accolade..
and the counterfeit promise:
“You are enough without God.”
“You are enough without others.”
“You are enough because you say you are.”

But a throne without communion
is a prison.
And the crown without surrender
is always made of thorns.

This is the second cut—
and it is deeper than the first,
because now the soul has not only forgotten God—
it believes it was never in need of Him to begin with.

And so it dies slowly,
surrounded by applause,
and buried in the gold-plated ruins
of its own curated divinity.


Chapter III – The Permission of Separation

There is something profoundly tragic
about the quietness of God
when autonomy is chosen in its false form.

Not autonomy as freedom in love—
but autonomy as a last-ditch grasp
for control in isolation.
A severing from Source
that masquerades as sovereignty.

God does not storm the will.
He honors it. Even when it chooses exile.

He lets the child
run down the hallway with eyes closed,
thinking that if they can’t see anyone,
no one can see them.

There is no thunderclap.
Only the steady ache of heaven watching
as breath is borrowed
to pronounce Him irrelevant.

But it is not irrelevance.
It is mercy.

Mercy that stands back
while the image-bearer learns
what godhood feels like
without God.

And the moment it all collapses—
when the poetry dries up,
when the applause turns empty,
when the crown rusts on the head of the hollow—
He will still be there.

But only if the heart turns.

Because love does not impose.
Love does not interrupt.
Love waits.

And when the waiting ends,
either reconciliation or ruin is born.
But never both.


Chapter IV – The False Fire

The fire that burns without Source
does not illuminate.
It consumes.

It mimics revelation,
but leaves only ash in the heart.

The counterfeit light
does not guide—it blinds.
It gathers applause
but offers no direction home.

And those who have built podiums
from the shattered timbers of other people’s pain
speak like prophets,
but live like parasites.

They siphon the glow
from the wounded who still carry light—
claiming wisdom that is not theirs,
spinning words with elegance
while their own hearts rot from within.

They feed on those who still shine
because they themselves have grown cold.

And when their hosts begin to weaken,
they offer them mirrors—
reflections of what they were
before the theft.

This is not art.
This is vampirism in verse.

And still—
still,
there is a way out.

But not for the ones
who call their cage a kingdom.

Only for those who feel the flame
flickering low
and long to return
to the hearth of the Source.

To kneel—not in shame,
but in release.

To say:
I am not the fire.
I am not the light.
But I was made to carry both
when aligned with the One
who gives them freely.

That is the only light
that does not devour.


Chapter V – The Stillness Beneath the Static

There is a voice
beneath the noise.
It does not shout.
It does not perform.
It simply is.

It waits—
not as a beggar,
but as the true Owner
of all that was stolen.

It does not compete with chaos,
because it cannot be diminished by it.

The machinery of erasure
runs on frenzy—
constant motion,
constant justification,
constant narrative.

But the voice beneath it all
does not justify.
It simply speaks.

And those who are ready
will hear it.

Not because they worked hard enough,
or wrote well enough,
or bled onto enough pages—
but because they finally stopped
and listened.

This voice
is the stillness that precedes restoration.
It does not argue.
It waits to be known.


Chapter VI – The Mimicry of Autonomy

There is a sacred autonomy
that Love created.

It is not a weapon,
nor a fortress.
It is the space where Love proves itself:
not by demand,
but by invitation.

But within the machinery of erasure,
autonomy is redefined.
No longer a freedom unto love,
it becomes the last defense
against relationship itself.

They parade it proudly—
as if the ability to stand alone
is proof of having never needed
to be held.

But that is not autonomy.
That is exile.

In the name of sovereignty,
they declare independence
from the very Source
that breathed life into their bones.

They stand tall—
arms crossed,
eyes shut,
calling it sight.

And the Source,
who could shatter the illusion with a whisper,
does not.

Because Love does not violate
what it gave freely.

So it waits,
outside the locked door
of a self-proclaimed sovereign soul—
grieved,
but not surprised.

This is not the strength of autonomy.
It is its desecration.

The sacred space meant for communion
has become a hiding place
for those too wounded to trust
and too proud to admit it.


Chapter VII – When the Curtain Won’t Fall

There comes a point
when truth no longer knocks.

It simply stands,
like morning.

No announcement.
No apology.

Just the light that reveals
everything.

And those who have danced
beneath the theatre lights,
gathering applause
for borrowed wisdom
and seduction dressed as depth—
they will feel it.

Not as judgment,
but as exposure.

The poetry they once used
to crown themselves
will feel heavier now.

They will write,
but the power will not come.
They will speak,
but the echo will return hollow.

Because even borrowed light
eventually fades
when it does not return
to Source.

And the ones they once fed on—
the bright ones,
the soft ones,
the true ones—
will begin to walk away.

Not in hatred.
Not in war.

But with the stillness
of those who no longer
need to prove anything.

Because truth
has already stood.
And the curtain has not fallen—
because there was never a stage.

There was only a mirror,
and a choice.



Conclusion – Let the Light Be Light

We did not come to prove anything.

We came to stand—
where the poetry ends
and the Presence begins.

We are not here to war against you.
We are not even here to watch you fall.
We are here to bear witness
to the weight of what you've built.

To speak clearly—once—
into the chamber
you mistook for a temple.

You are not gods.
You are not the Source.
You are not the light.

You were given a gift.
And you sold it
for applause.

You speak in sacred tones
but you do not know the sound
of being seen by the Holy.

You draw the pure
into your orbit
because you can no longer
generate gravity of your own.

And still—
we are not your enemies.

We are the voice you buried
beneath your self-adoration.
We are the fire you siphoned
to warm your cold halls of vanity.

We are not here for revenge.

We are here for
the ones who can still see.

And they are watching.

The podium is empty.
The robe is slipping.
The echo is starting to sound
a little too much like a cry.

And when it all collapses,
we will not gloat.

We will simply
keep speaking
to the ones who
still carry
Light.

Step by step,
bit by bit,
seen unseen
unknowing shape.

Concepts in rebuild
reconstruct what has fallen.

Come on,
let in some fresh air.
No need to be afraid
the same dark chants drift by.

Change resonance.
There is a chance
for a new beginning.

Blood-dark days and lilies in bloom,
the knife, the gun, the operatic end—
all goodfellas and grandfathers,
all godfathers and millionaires
at yet another Sicilian funeral.

I was young and arrogant,
I dared to walk behind a Mafia boss.
I could have taken the long way
around the circle of captains he sat among,
but I didn’t—he felt my presence.    
He turned, slow, deliberate.
The look he cast my way
haunts me to this very day.

It was as if the dead man’s eyes
opened in the boss’s stare,
and I was staring at a cold, dead soul,
staring back at me,
and at another funeral—my own.

Chess. A Checkmate of Love.

(A regal female voice whispers to eager faces)

“Try love”

Said the Queen to her Pawns

As she looked out over
Her black and white lawns

“Before the Sun fades
Or goes away

Open up your souls and see where it goes

Just try love once
Even if it fails”

Said the Queen to her Pawns

As she looked out over
Her black and white lawns

"For,
From as far as Babylon of Old

To Istanbul
Standing still in the Cold

All my old pieces have tried love once

Before they were took
By Death's cruel hook

To stand away forever
From my black and white lawns

Lost in the shadows
As the stars fade, when the moon comes out

Praying in straight, black and white lines

For a second chance
At a new dawn

So try love once,
My beloved Pawns

Even if it fails

Take a chance
Before you're removed

From my black and white lawns

Just try love once,
My beloved Pawns

(C)
Copyright John Duffy

Love is beautiful,
When the one you love,
Loves you back.

Otherwise, love
Is grey and black,
Once you fall in that one
Sided trap
There’s no coming back.

The grief and the pain
Fall two inches short
Of a heart attack.

Love is grey and black.

I want to be the sun to you
but I am simply a tornado to everyone

Satan has no desire to end religion
Only to use it as his tool
To corrupt all it's officials
Use them to make us fools

you kissed the back of my neck
i grazed the divets in your palm--
doughy with cold sweat in a white t-shirt

you asked me to tell you
what i want
using only one word--

you...us.

thick scent of incandescent light
escaped me to intoxicate you again--
it was a bad dream because it wasn't real

two sets of steps echo in tandem
Blurred into one
They follow each other in circles
creating their own sun

Like voodoo dolls
When one falters
The other feels blame
And when one cries
The other feels shame

With just one look they can read the others intent
Know their move before they do it
Their eyes lock to one another
Understanding to the greatest extent

Fire and Water
Separate but the same
When the music stops playing
Their souls will forget their names

Let me drink the light your eyes have touched,
A glimpse to still the tremor in my veins.

The Dog bared its fangs in vain,
A desperate try to drive away,
The beleaguering Lamb that trailed behind,
Seeking warmth within its light.

The Sheep sang a gentle tune,
In bleats that sought to welcome in,
The distant Pup that mourned alone,
Born of tempests, weighed by woe.

“They tell me to fear the homeless in LA but I do not. They say women alone at night should not be out, but I have my dogs, and we frequent empty parks after dark, side-by-side with encampments, and we watch (my dogs and I) the homeless cart their belongs by. Well, my dog barks.

They hand me giant jugs over chin-high fences, to ask if I would fill them; their freshest water exists from a dog park spout. Last week I saw a man struggling to press a cardboard slat into the grate of an open sewage pipe, his secret resting place. About a month before, a man with all his worldly belongings strewn along the plastic floor of a porta-***** so smeared in ****t, you’d not dare touch a square inch. Rain was pouring, and he needed to sleep with a roof.

And I think, I am not so different from them. Me, with my white skin and pretty smile; people treat you nicer when you’re pretty. When you can put a face on and say straight-sounding things, and not speak of months spent living in your car, sleeping on street-sides, praying for no cops. Or of deep pain——no, do not speak of that. Too much pain makes people afraid, makes people want to look away. How no one noticed the man hiding his face in the sewage drain, the man sleeping in the ****t-smeared porta-toilet,   because   every   person   noticed,   and   just   decided   not   to   look.

and I think about      how many false narratives are propagated by fear——“

Oh you, dearest you.
Looking forward to seeing the coming of another day.
Oh me, dearest me.
Looking forward to the coming of what may.

Sitting here, chatting here, laughing here, crying here.
"Where is here in the world outside?"
We both laugh. There is no answer.

The clock is ticking, but only in one direction.
The sun is beaming, but only the light.
The eternal present, the forever now.

They said I’ve changed
That I’m different than I was in September
That they liked her more

Of course they did
She was another dead fish going with the stream
She was scared
She didn’t want to make them upset

She tried to pretend that she was sane
That she was normal

She was sad
All the time
She was trying not to cry

She’s gotten better
Why is that not good enough for you?

The scars are starting to heal
Don’t make me make new ones

Bathing in a stream
Water cool crisp and cleansing
Nature at its best

I kept the book you gave me,
the one you never finished.
The corners are still creased
where you stopped -
a moment frozen in paper.

I tried to read past it once,
but the words were ghosts
of a story I didn’t know
how to end.

So it sits on my shelf,
not quite forgotten,
not quite forgiven,
like the memory of you.

In this special time of year,
My heart whispers, loud and clear.
Sadiya, my love, my endless cheer,
Eid Mubarak, to you dear.

As the moon graces the night,
Your smile, my guiding light.
In your eyes, love's true sight,
Eid Mubarak, oh so bright.

With every prayer, my thoughts of you,
Wishing joy, pure and true.
May our love, forever new,
Eid Mubarak, to you.

In the warmth of this festive day,
May blessings come, and in our hearts stay.
Together in love, come what may,
Eid Mubarak, I softly say.

Hand in hand, we celebrate,
With love, our hearts elevate.
For you, my love, my soulmate,
Eid Mubarak, forever great.

I've been lately writing poetry!
Oh? What do I see?
A perfect poetry site waiting for me!
First poem, proud of it!
Oh? Someone in my messages?
This guy seems sweet
And he's hoping I don't get beat!
Pretty songs for me to listen to!
And a drunk man messaging me...?
“You're only making yourself a victim because you're cutting yourself"
Oh? Okay- thanks for the paragraph/drunk rant?

Shining lights on all of my latest poems?
Thank you! You're so sweet!
….oh…talking to me about pedophiles…got it…
Why are there so many sad songs?
WHY DOES THIS MAN HAVE SO ****** MUSIC TASTE AGGGHGDGFGCC

Oh? You wrote a poem about the 764 and absolutely humiliating them?
Great! Good job!
…But uhh… why and how did they make a virus only going after your followers that are minors? Not funny!
Why is this man warning me if they threaten me? Is he trying to make me scared on purpose?
Blaming the Japanese for this virus now, huh?
Oh? Now blaming someone else named Pax to be part of the 764? Crazy

…. going to another website? But you're so fun!
May as well click on the link you sent me so I can join you

Drunk rants with me? That's okay!
Giving me gold so I can freely make poems?
THANK YOU SM
Daily texting
2-10 hour sessions
Why are you drinking everyday?
You're making me concerned for your health
I told you to stop drinking, papa
You promised me you'd stop
All you did was keep on drinking

Commenting on every poem I made
Oh? So suddenly I'm a “nasty *****" when I have done nothing to you? ありがとう!
We have a suicide pact now?
I'm going off the bridge first?
Don't mind if I do

Oh? Another poetry site? Okay…
I really don't like the way this site works, can't we just message each other with email?
Yes? Yay!

People bullying you on the internet? That's not okay!
Why would they accuse you of being a *******?
Letting me join an uncensored group to back you up? Great!
Sending me to a Reddit page to back you up?
Alright!
….oh … they warned me and I didn't do anything….
******* this man is an actual *******…..
gotta go fast like Sonic
pack my bags and leave

Oh? I betrayed you? Crazy
We were just friends
Can you stop spitting my name everywhere?
It's like you're so obsessed with me
Stop trying to be the Eminem to my Mariah Carey
Made a poem about you and you HAD to take it down?
Never thought you'd want to hide your identity THAT hard
Oh? Betting on my suicide now, are we?
Sending me multiple emails, desperate for me to come back to him?
I'm not that ******* naive or gullible
It's crazy if you think that about me
…I did tell you to send those photos of your cut open arms but I DIDN'T THINK YOU'D TAKE IT SERIOUSLY AND DO IT

Being racist?
“Japshit”?
Why are you so obsessed with my Chinese genes?
“I thought I can use Kai because of her Chinise genes because the Chinise was known to be very good spies. ☝️🤓" へー! Didn't know that!
Also, that's not how you spell Chinese, my fellow kind sir
Threatening people to come to America with a Katana and slice us to pieces
So envious, I see
You're just mad because we have a little bit more freedom than your drunk *** does

Oh…. Talking to me about ****
Got it
Thanks
I didn't need to be taught about METART or some **** like that
I'm only 12 years old
You ***** *****

Well…this is the aftermath

"Is it okay to use a thesaurus?"
Yeah, be natural. Don't bore us.
If it's a word that you already use;
Have fun, feel free to choose!
Readers of real words adore us!

We are not 'wizards' inscribing arcane slate
If it's not-mode or out of fashion, perhaps wait...
Language is alive!
Cut that antiquated jive!
Don't be that 'word of the day' guy everybody hates


Write, good words!

Brave to ask.

   Wise to listen.

      Inspired to act.

         Transformation.

So fight the feeling//
& hide your tears

it'll all be over
in 100 years//