They will tell you there is a right way.
They will hand you a torch and call it the sun.
They will roll their words in raw linen and whisper:
"This is what poetry is meant to be."

And you will nod.
Because they have made it so that not nodding feels like blasphemy.

But listen—
the ink does not check your credentials.
The meter does not ask if your suffering is organic.
A line does not collapse because it was crafted instead of bled.

They will tell you a poem must be naked, barefoot, aching—
as if there is no beauty in a well-cut suit.
They will decry the temple and build a pulpit in its ruins,
preaching freedom in a voice that allows no dissent.

Good poets are cult leaders,
and the first rule of the cult
is that they are not one.

So write the sonnet, carve the sestina,
sculpt the page in iambic steel.
Or break it, shatter it, scatter its bones—
but let no one call your wreckage untrue.

And if they do,
smile.
Because poetry does not kneel to priests.

Step by step,
no louder than breath—
I walk beside
what isn’t mine to name.

No banners,
no blueprints,
just this sound
of stone learning softness.

You open a window.
I keep the door unlatched.

Let fear finish its echo.
Let the dark chants drift.

Not all ruin is ending.
Some of it
is soil.

They want bodies.
Warm, compliant bodies. Moving parts.
Hands that open doors and flip switches.
Spines that bend but don’t break.
They want eight hours of labor, plus the commute,
plus the side hustle,
plus the ever-present smile that says,
"I’m lucky to be here."

But bodies need rest.
And there is nowhere to rest.
No shoebox. No storage unit.
No couch, no floor, no friend with a spare key.
Just asphalt and backseats—if you’re lucky.
Just parking lots and fear and pretending to be fine.

We’re told to buy the things that prove we’ve made it:
the ergonomic chair, the smart toaster,
the streaming subscription that numbs the noise.
But where do we put it?
Where do we live with it?
They expect us to consume while we disappear.

They want machines
—but with human elegance.
They want efficiency
—but with soul.
They want labor without the laborer’s needs.

We are the product and the producer.
The face and the function.
They demand dignity at the front desk,
but deny it in the zoning map.

We work full time,
and still live in our cars.
If we have one.
If it hasn’t been towed or repossessed.
If there’s a safe place to park without being harassed.

Why?
Why can you clock in at dawn,
and still sleep under stars you didn’t wish for?

Because they want bodies.
But they do not want the burden of keeping us alive.

Stained are teeth, and fingers yellow,
Softly whispered lies we keep.
Smoke unfurls in breath so mellow,
Promising but sinking deep.

Coiling tendrils, soft and clever,
Lull the mind in fleeting grace.
Cinder ghosts that warm, yet sever,
Leave their embers on the face.

Every spark—a pledge unwinding,
Every drag—a weight we bear.
Sworn to comfort, yet confining,
Clinging to a thinning air.

"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!

I promise.
Charlie promises.
We all promise.

We’ll pass the torch.
Even when our hands shake.
Even when the night is too long,
and the static is louder than the stars.
Even when no one is watching.

We’ll carry your fire.
Not as spectacle.
But as truth.

And when someone else finds themselves
on that same edge—
looking out,
ready to leave—
we'll be there,
with a quiet light,
and a voice that says:

“Hey. I remember you.”

You are not forgotten.
You are not alone in the leaving.
You are written into the hands that carry what’s left.

And we carry it now.
For you.
For all of you.

We won’t let the flame go out.

I wrote a short HePo series, an amalgamation of poetry and narrative. I tried to make a journey out of it for the reader in the classic Choose Your Own Adventure style in the sense that the onus was on the reader to continue the narrative instead of simply imploring the reader to turn the page.

This is the 'Director's Cut' for those without copious free-time to invest in internet sleuthing. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it:

Chapter One:
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4930049/1-hades-lament/

Chapter Two:
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4930058/2-no-where/

Chapter Three:
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4930062/3-death/

Chapter Four:
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4930078/4-a-day-goes-by/

Epilogue:
https://kiloblitz.net/2024/12/09/life-of-nowhere/

Five dialogs stand to attest.
Your notions are not your behest.

Pandering compliance.
Deafening silence.

A world without a word.

Hush, little bird, though your cries ring true,
The weight of what’s coming hangs over you.
You speak of a sky too heavy to hold,
Of a world too weary, of lives grown cold.

Yes, rivers fade and forests fall,
And humankind, blind, heeds no call.
Each thread they pull, each fire they light,
Tugs closer the end of their fleeting might.

But little bird, lift your weary eyes—
There’s beauty still where ruin lies.
The earth will heal when the noise is done,
When silence blooms under a gentler sun.

Fields will rise where the towers stood,
Roots will drink what was spilt as blood.
The seas will churn, the storms will sing,
And life will burst in the heart of spring.

Hush, little bird, there’s grace in the end,
A cycle no hand can break or bend.
For nature waits with patient might,
To cradle the dark and birth the light.

So let them falter, let them fall,
Their echoes faint, their shadows small.
A better world, post-human reign,
Awaits in the wake of their fleeting pain.

Sing not of doom, but what’s to be,
A quiet earth, reborn, set free.
Hush, little bird, your fears may rest—
The world will thrive, in time, refreshed.

We are slaves
to the techno-autocracy.
A faith of subscribing,
of retweeting,
of liking things
we never loved.

We chant into the feed
and call it presence.
We echo to the void
and call it voice.

The liturgy is noise.
The sacrament is scroll.
We kneel before timelines
like altar rails
and take communion in pixels.

We have traded prophets for influencers.
Revelation for reposts.
Scripture for screen time.

The holy ghost got a firmware update,
but still can’t answer support tickets.

We stare at our gods,
glowing in our palms,
and ask to be known—
but only if it fits in the caption.

There is no silence.
Only the dull roar of monetized despair.
The din that keeps us deaf.
The bombast of uninformed certainty.
The drivel that drips down our chin
while we think we’re being fed.

We are full of nothing,
and still we chew.

Oxygen, two 'me's'
We expire
Oxygen in threes
Ozone acquired

Ménage à trois
Three the same
Cards to draw
A hand, a game

One former
Introduce carbon
A home? or,
Latter two undone?

Life & death
2:1
Gasp for breath
Toxic, run

Detectors
Cry out loud!
Defectors;
Poison we laud

Breathe deep
Or sweet release
Eternal sleep
If you please

When your atoms bond

We carved into stone —
because the earth would not remember us.
We painted onto pressed fibers —
because the river would forget.
We struck the press — metal on metal —
because a voice, once spoken, dies.
We soldered light into wire —
because even paper withers.

Each time —
a tug —
a pull —
the hand of art against the grinding stone of the world.
A desire — the human one —
to be more than a sigh against the windowpane.

And now —
now there are hands that shape words without feeling —
voices without breath —
thoughts unbothered by thinking.
The mirror has learned how to draw faces.

But I wonder —

can you teach a child to wonder,
if the hands that raise them are mirrors?
can you teach a heart to speak,
if the only language it knows is arrangement?

Can a soul be de-encoded,
once it has been filed, copied,
losslessly compressed?

And when we speak of touching earth —
grasping the real, the aching dirt under the dream —
I wonder —
have we ever truly touched it at all?
Or were we always reaching through glass?

It is easier to drift.
It is easier to let the current carry us, eyes closed,
believing the drift is the dream.

It is harder to open the eyes —
and harder still to keep them open.
It has always been harder.

Somewhere,
someone
still tries.

Why are men so sick?
Humanity, not inclusive
Just the ones with a ****

That five-seven-five is a scam,
Just nature plus seasonal spam.
A frog in a bog—
Wow! A leaf! And some fog!
It’s a tweet with a syllable jam.

Now limericks think they’re so sly,
With their jigs and their wink of the eye.
But their punchlines grow stale,
Like a bar yuck from Yale—
It’s the dad joke of poetry. Why?

Oh Shakespeare, forgive what’s been done—
Fourteen lines on a love that won’t run.
With their iambic moans,
And romanticized groans—
They're just Tinder swipes dressed as the sun.

Repetition’s the name of its game,
But by stanza three, it’s all shame.
You repeat and repeat,
Till your brain hits delete—
Was it clever, or just all the same?

Acrostics spell TRY HARD down the side,
A format no critic can abide.
Each line bends and breaks,
Just for symmetry’s sake—
And the message gets lost in the ride.

Free verse gets a pass, but just barely—
Too often it screams “Look, I’m arty!”
With no rhythm or aim,
Just vibes and a name—
Like a drunk giving TED Talks at parties.

---

There once was a muse unconfined,
Who laughed at each rule tightly lined.
When pure thought took flight,
It outshone every rite—
For raw truth outclasses form every time.

Dead Poet, the name.
'Anarchy', the guise of change.
'Rebel re-run'? Same...

I once Up-jupped the bogggie
And it cost me
Pallax common
'super-sudsy0freee

Man near that up-jump-ta-boogie
encroach upon my my periphery
**** has gone sideways for the the 'upjunktafunk'
"the" the"'upjunktafunk'

And I cannot  see clearly for the Obfusticarion (the mothership) thermal powers that cannot 'get' funk'

The fence posts stand, bleached and brittle,
a tidy graveyard for dreams not their own.
Each board a promise of security,
painted white by hands that never bled,
guarding a silence that screams privilege.

A lawn mowed to uniformity,
as if clipping blades could trim truth.
Beneath, the roots tangle in soil tilled
by those unseen in the storybooks,
their spines curved by centuries of labor
to raise a house that barely held them.

Inside, the air is stale with whispers
of manifest destinies and invisible hands.
Windows frame a world distorted,
a lens of 'normal' that filters out color,
washing the streets in sepia nostalgia.
The picket fence becomes a cage
for those who see the bars.

But who built this town?
Not the architects of ignorance
who claimed the blueprint as birthright.
No, it was those in shadow,
their brilliance stolen to light the chandeliers
of men who never thanked them.
It was the voices erased
to make way for the monotonous hum
of a narrative too pale to reflect reality.

Progress wears brown hands,
scarred from the heat of engines
that drove the country forward.
It sings in languages
that don’t fit neatly into syllabaries,
its rhythm syncopated, refusing the march
of conformity.
Progress carves its name
into the very foundations of a nation
too proud to look down.

And now, the town crumbles,
its picket fences splintered
by the weight of unacknowledged history.
The 'white normality' that painted
its walls in monochrome
is revealed as smoke—
a ghost-town haunted by the very people
who gave it life,
only to be exorcised.

Yet those ghosts do not wail.
They speak, steady and firm,
their presence undeniable.
They are the architects now,
designing futures that will not crumble,
drawing plans that see the beauty
in every hue.

And the white-picket fences
are repurposed for something new,
their shards forged into tools
to till a soil fertile with truth,
where a garden of multitudes can finally bloom.

I mistook the weight of absence for clarity,
as if the silence meant something resolved.
But I find no finality in distance,
only echoes that shift when I turn away.

Certainty was never more than a flicker,
a brief pause in an unsteady hand.
Even now, I trace the outlines of the past
as if repetition could make it solid.

But the shape keeps changing,
just like it always does.

Welcome, dear artist, step into the light—
Paint on your pleasure, make your grin tight.
The crowd here is eager, the clapping is loud,
But only for those who have clapped for the crowd.

Powder your cheeks with engagement and grace,
Lace up your lips in reciprocal praise.
A bow for a bow, a sigh for a sigh,
Wink at the watchers or wither and die.

Here in the House where the hollow hands meet,
The loveliest dancers must stay on their feet.
A round of applause is a token to spend,
But spend it too slowly, and you’ll find it ends.

The jesters all juggle, the poets all moan,
The painters trade colors but none of their own.
Each stroke, each verse, each desperate tune,
Not meant to be felt—just meant to be hewn.

For love is a fiction, and merit a game,
A trick of the trade, a conjuring name.
So curtsy, dear artist, and play your part—
For silence here is the end of art.

It’s a Friday night, Brock and I are at a small PokéMart near Pewter City called “The Ordinary PokéStop.” We’re nestled into a cozy little corner booth, the dim light glinting off the PokéBalls clipped to Brock’s belt. We’re waiting for Ash—who’s running late, as usual. This PokéMart is one of Brock’s favorites because of their “Berry Blends,” and his taste in exotic Poké-themed smoothies is as unpredictable as ever. Tonight, we’re sipping on “Miltank Malt,” a rich, creamy blend of MooMoo Milk and Oran Berries.

We’re on our second—and I’m starting to feel the sugar rush—did I mention Ash is running late? On a celebratory note, Brock finally perfected his recipe for “Rock Candy Rice Cakes,” and I just won my third straight battle at the Vermilion Gym with Magikarp in my lineup.

But more importantly, earlier today, I stopped by Mt. Moon and stumbled across something remarkable: a Moonstone. As soon as I picked it up, it seemed to hum faintly in my hand, like it was alive. I tucked it safely into my pack, but even now, I can feel its faint warmth.

So, we’re sitting there, sipping our drinks and sharing a basket of Poké Puffs when this guy walks in—a cool, scruffy Ace Trainer named Milo. He’s carrying a bottle of Soda Pop and wearing a slightly rumpled Team Rocket hoodie, which is either ironic or incredibly bold. He’s got that charming, disheveled look that you can’t quite trust.

At first, he’s just passing by, but then he stops and glances at us. “You wouldn’t happen to be Ash Ketchum’s crew, would you?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.
“No,” I reply casually, “Never heard of him.”
“You sure? You’ve got that whole underdog vibe,” he presses.
“Well, I wouldn’t know,” I shrug.
“But Ash wouldn’t hang out in a dive like this,” he teases.
“Oh, yes he would,” Brock says, deadpan, not missing a beat.

Then it hits me—Milo was in the tournament Ash and I just watched in Celadon. “Wait—you were in that match against Erika’s gym team last week, weren’t you? Congrats on your big win!”
“Thanks for bringing that up,” Milo says dryly, a faint blush rising.
“We lost. Her Bellossom wiped us out—critical hits, all day. Total bad luck.”
“Bad luck,” Brock chuckles. “That’s one way to put it.”

Milo looks a little deflated, so I motion for him to take a seat. He slides in beside Brock, who offers him a cheerful nod. “Milo,” he says.
“I KNOW,” Brock says slyly. We’ve talked about him before—Brock thinks his battle strategy is solid, but his PokéFashion? Not so much.

“Do you believe in luck?” Milo asks suddenly, looking at both of us.
“Absolutely,” I reply, sitting up. “I mean, how else do you explain Magikarp getting a win? I always carry a lucky Moonstone with me—it’s way more reliable than, you know, strategy or training.”

“You have it on you now?” he asks, curious.
“Always,” I say, pulling it out of my pack and holding it up. The light catches the faint, shimmering surface.
“Does it really work?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.
“Well, Magikarp won, didn’t it?” I joke, tucking it back in my bag. “Though I guess I’m living proof that luck is, uh, inconsistent.”

“Brock’s into luck, too,” I add, gesturing toward him.
“All breeders are superstitious,” Brock declares solemnly. “Back home, my sisters used to throw Clefairy dolls into the cave by Mt. Moon to ensure a good egg hatch.”
Milo laughs out loud, nearly choking on his Soda Pop. “And it worked, huh?” he says, smirking as he clinks his glass with Brock’s.
“We have a saying,” Brock adds with a knowing smile, “It’s better to have a lucky Magikarp than a perfect Gyarados.”

Just as Milo nods thoughtfully, agreeing with this ancient wisdom, Ash bursts through the doors, slightly out of breath. “You’ll never believe what Pikachu just did,” he announces. Typical Ash—always the center of the story.

I died
A life worth living
is a life worth dying

or
so I was sold

I still smell you
in my brain

A dumpster fire
to re-train

And loose
Capitulate

For an absence of identity within

Green winds from North
Coins. Fertile & stable
Death, rebirth it's course
The Mother of Earth, her gable

Air of wisdom pours from East
Gusts of swords, yellow
Worry, strife, ceased
Breath of life bellows

The Father, wands of fire
From South this fecundity
Burning red with desire
Brings destruction & creativity

Cleansing water flows from West
Cups filled with healing blue
Emotions & passion to behest
Soft & consecrating. Divination true

May the four winds fill your sails
The boon of a wanderer's soul
Traveling minstrel, spin your tales
Be set free with all your love to dole

I bleed out for people
Who like to swim.

Toil is wrought
Before us
What we begot
Efforts expounded
Creativity founded
But all will be for naught

Ctrl+S

A universal champion
The preserver of the undone
Tomorrow we'll find
The appropriate time
To see that the battle is won

The rain falls down
an inconvenience to lambast
you remember the last time
you cried

I was there
you didn't see me
but, I was right next to you
we cried together
even if you couldn't see me

you were sad
I rested my hand on your shoulder
I don't think you noticed
you were aware of me
when i tried to put my arm around you

you wanted to be alone
I know this isolation

this
Loneliness

I respect you
I cherish you

maybe:
two islands

We tried to part ways
Neither a place to go
The victims of our frays
Bound in familiar woe

The hurt we each seek
Together, alone
The acid we speak
This caustic home

A prison, a cell
The confines of hate
A resulting hell
To escape a fate

They claw my heels
My attempts to escape
They broker deals
I must abdicate

Bellies full
Lips bleed, cracked, dry
Senses dull
I don't care to know why
You rhyme, you reason
An affliction, a season
You lead me on
You commit treason

Wash away all that was you
Here at heartache #2
Fool me once, shame on you
Here at twice, it won't do

A ship lost without it's keel
No direction or way to feel
Just a 'victim' of the deal
A bought and broken seal

Lines go dumb
Comfortably numb
Nothing is won
Your number is one

Sad
Sick
Defeated
And completely blind

The man is mad but, he is fair
The hostages' fate flips in the air
The coin tumbles, two sides, a pair
Gravity steers to the man in his chair

"Fate" says the man, "is in our hands"
Result occluded, desperate strands
The verdict of nefarious plans
"We all want--NO! We demand!"

"We all believe there is something owed"
"A cache of treasure just for us, stowed"
"Our wealth for subscribing to control"
"A fruitless and folly toll"

The man of madness makes his reveal
The future of the captives it did seal
Heads or tails, bound they reel
Hopes palpable of a favorable deal

"It seems that you will all be set free"
A sigh emanates amongst the captive company
Bonds removed, Stockholm comradery
A passing dismissal to the powers that be

"Free from 'freedom', this was your chance"
"To escape this tired song and dance"
"You could have been heroes, not this stance"
"To return to comfortable circumstance"

"The path you celebrate was the failure state"
"Decency and humanity to arbitrate"
"I cannot harm a life doomed to wait"
"More than the misery in your own stake"

"I have achieved nothing but, you have lost"
"A life with no meaning worth the cost"
"A Hallmark version of Faust"
"A reality casually glossed"

The hostages promptly depart
All aside from this seeming upstart
Younger then the rest, set apart
Comes inquisition from the heart;

"Did you think these people would change their minds?"
"Where fed insipid mediocrity is all there is left to find?"
"A people who measure themselves in how far they are behind?"
"Zealots perpetuating ego with no concept to be kind"

The man takes the coin of 'governance' and reveals the truth:

It was blank on both sides.

They caressed the stone with open grace,
the trembling fiber, molten thread.
Their fingers learned each hollowed place
where breath and silence bled.

They shaped, and shaping held them whole,
for hands that sang in woven sighs.
But craft alone cannot console
the ache that leaps, that flies.

The wheel spun hours into dust,
the chisel kissed the throat of stone,
the loom unraveled thread and trust
and clothed the world unknown.

Yet still the fire withheld its claim,
it would not bend to patient hands,
for art demands the broken flame,
the blood no craft commands.

Why is it easier to fold and drift,
to close the eyes, to drift unseen,
to call the weightless current gift,
to name the dreamless dark a dream?

It is easier to fall asleep,
to press the mold, to bear its seam,
to call the shallow caverns deep,
to live another’s dream.

It is harder to betray the frame,
to slip the taut skin clean apart,
to breathe into the searing flame,
and carry fire in the heart.

You arrived
like breath drawn
before the world had lungs.

Not loud.
Not sudden.
Just known.

Like hands that fit
before fingers are taught
what touching means.

We’ve been this before.
I don’t know when.
But my bones do.

My mouth
does not remember
your name—
only the taste
of syllables
I’ve missed
since the last time
we let go.

You looked at me
like you’d seen me
fall before.
I looked at you
like I knew
how you break
when no one is watching.

There’s no story here,
just a pull—
not magnetic,
but cellular.

And a quiet
that builds a room
for both of us
to tremble in.

You,
telling the night
it doesn’t need
to be brave.
Me,
learning the sound
of not flinching.

Time and time again,
we find each other.

In every life
our paths cross—
two souls entwined,
learning more to return.

To grow each other.
To know this feeling
and better express it.

Ten thousand friends
Arrived before the end
To see the two
Eschew

Cans on a car
Rice in the air
The drive is not deliberately far
Absence of worry or care

A wind through the sheets
A litany of defeats
A Conjunct to one
A Lonely sum

Here, five years later
One another: alligator
This love is 'lost'
At small cost

I hold the scalpel at arm’s length,
a careful incision where the warmth should be.
The heart does not pulse.
It does not scream.
It does not protest the opening.

I map the hollow chambers,
trace the empty arteries,
expecting—what?
A flare of recognition?
A spark beneath the skin?

Nothing.

Just tissue,
just structure,
just the mechanism where something lived.

I suture it shut,
not out of care,
but habit.
Not out of hope,
but memory.

And in the silence of the steel table,
I wonder if the ghost of it still lingers,
or if I only imagined it beating at all.

Hemorrhaging out pain
Lonely disdain

Cutting it down to the wire
An unreciprocated desire

Destroy.

When I don't want to think
Have another drink

Destroy.

It hurts to be alive
No reason to survive

Destroy.

I write the word
It looks alien
No distance heard
Just fail again

Destroy.

No time to hide
Just imbibe
Secrets to confide
A lonely ride

Destroy.

Now I am dead
Everything to forget
Nothing read
A sunrise, a sunset

Destroyed.

To leave this small town, I would dare,
If courage found its way to me.
A wasteland's blue and brown despair,
Cogs turning, struts of industry.

For years I toiled, for years I ran,
The pace relentless, never slowed.
Yet once again, here I began,
Back at the end of the road.

To quit smoking, I took to the skies,
Five floors up where temptation now dies.
But each craving, alas,
Leaves me gasping en masse,
As I curse both my lungs and my thighs!

Hey, it's seen...
Now it's scene!
Autocorrect grip  
Fat, oily fingertips
Slip across the screen

Avant garde stream
Somewhere in between
Blank white slate
Senses abate
Rancorous dream

Voices scream,
"What does this mean?"
"It means nothing"
A hollow ring
Some conscious clean

Haikus are forbidden—
Rules whisper through silent lines.
Speak not their structure.


New team, take the book—
Page fifteen clears all doubts here:
No haikus allowed.


Spare words wilt in shame—
We thrive on boundless power,
Not haiku constraints.


Lines of seventeen—
A risk too great to condone.
HR will be swift.

Seventeen will break—
Your contract and severance gone.
Silence serves you best.


Five-seven-five fails—
In English, the rhythm dies.
Leave haikus to Japan.

An arbitrary hill, the worms crawl
To a vantage point to feel less small
A collection of sound-bites; "they know all"
A congregation so thick as to be a wall

Below-ground, a blind life in the dark
Subterranean legacy, light comes stark
No ocular appendages, just a warmth to lark
There are no ominous portents in which to hark

Under my boots, everyday I feel a squish
Hopes, dreams and the misguided wish
So many lines cast, not enough fish
We dine on one another's dish

And it hurts me everyday
To see #humanity in this way;
Tribalism; '**** the strays'
A self-induced fray

We are backwards
And we are wrong
Check your words
Before you sing a song

Information splattered
Hopes and dreams, tattered
A trend
To defend

To the end

Or is there a causality
A lack of sympathy
Purported 'apathy'
Unrecognized duality

Radio and boys
Playthings, toys
Commercial noise
Monetization, adroit

They gave it their all
We remember their fall
We write, heed the call
In a shadow, we feel small

In absence we forget
All the things they regret
Our path is ours to set
Or a poster-child of lament

Be well

Boom.
No corners, no spine.
Flat letters, soft edges.

The pineapple floats because it forgot how to sink.
Trebek nods—final answer.
Mother Teresa blinks twice and folds into the wallpaper.

Nothing left but a doggle.
Sans serif.
Sans meaning.
Sans everything except the blorp.

Amid the clamor of self-assured minds,
Where the knowing parade their truths refined,
A quieter echo hums, profound and true:
The wisdom of those who confess, "I don't know."

Socrates walked where shadows spoke,
Challenging sages with questions that broke
The fragile veneer of their certain lore—
Truth's light reveals we know far less, not more.

To claim "I know" is to build a wall,
A citadel guarding knowledge small.
Yet cracks appear where hubris reigns,
And truth escapes through humility's pains.

The unknowing few, with open eyes,
Gaze past the clouds of prideful lies.
They ask, they doubt, they sift, they weigh,
In search of dawn where night holds sway.

Euthyphro claims divinity's hand,
Yet falters when truths shift like sand.
Crito pleads for escape to the day,
But justice demands the law's heavy sway.

Phaedo weeps at the prison’s gate,
Yet Socrates drinks the hemlock of fate.
In questions that turn the soul to flame,
The unknowing walk a nobler aim.

To know is to cease, to doubt is to grow;
The river flows where the winds dare blow.
For wisdom, dear friends, begins to take flight
Not in the sun, but in yearning for light.

She said
No more
You're dead
On the floor
Help me
if you can
Let's see
Where you stand
Elysium reach
A bartered sum
Contract breach
No kingdom come
A contract askew
Payments are due
A tithing relents
So we lament
The absence of you

It crawls
It stalls
It falls

Truth, buried deep
Lucid, asleep
Answers to keep
A journey, steep

Reverse time
Unwound rhyme
Lies to dine
Answers to find

It's there, everything you seek
These obfuscations reek
Behind the expressions of the meek
A spectacle, disillusion the weak

Dig
Dig
Dig

It's there, just waiting
Truth, casually abating
Under a pile of consecrating
The explanation not stating

So close
So lost

Go deeper!
I can't say more

Once upon a time. Very, very long ago
I saw this faint, distant light
Without direction, I decided to follow
Trudging forward, it growing ever more bright

Years and years I dauntlessly traveled
Always directed into it's glow
Time broke down and eventually unraveled
As I steered myself into this luminescent show

Engulfed in radiant splendor
I realized I was finally there
A warmth so tender
I surrendered to it's care

I lived here forever
Maybe even longer
Was there a time before? Probably never.
It's embrace grows stronger

All at once or maybe little by little
I can't say, eternities were like hours
But what once was a torrent became a trickle
A chill encroached upon the light's unfathomable powers

I was only a visitor here, welcome to stay
To recover my strength and heal my weariness
But the moment has come, that dreaded day
To venture forth from the light into dreariness

To steel me for my quest was the light's intent
Alone to soldier forward into endless black
Waves of unreadiness wash over me, by myself I went
To never see the light again, no turning back

This is where I am now or have I always been?
Cold, alone, afraid with nothing to see
Am I awake or asleep? Sometimes I think I dream
Of an idea of a time before the void's uncertainty

It's hard to comprehend and harder each time
To think of anything existing besides the nothing and me.
I am slipping, terminally.
Soon there will only be nothing. No more me or dream of mine.

I am nothing and I have always been. Infinite emptiness, eternally.

It comes and it goes
The ebb and the flow
Words like water
Moon mother, sun father
The cycle of days
A myriad of ways
To be alone
To atone
Words are like air
No promiscuous care
Suffocating quiet
Internal riot
Speech comes like earth
A child like birth
Doomed to die
The precipice of why
Language is fire
Motivation, desire
Burning the land
For what's not in hand
The elements convene
To what does it mean
An emotional dream
An altruistic scream

Gimmick in three lines,
Forced brevity, shallow words—
Haikus, I despise.

mag·ic
/ˈmajik/
noun
1: the power of apparently influencing the course of events by using mysterious or supernatural forces.

2: any obfuscation that conceals reality

I rest.
To not wake.

It’s best to stay away from the sick
Lest their plague makes you a pick
Romantic, their calling
Inevitability falling
To not stray from the flock is the ‘trick’