Too focused on the rules
Too worried to shine
Too scared to admit

Yet the light shines
And doesn't give up
And the Kind Yety...
... Wakes Up.

After MGIOVANNI.GL/A
Thank you man

In every system that seeks to own the soul—whether religious cult, ideological regime, or occult construct—there exists one common tool: repetition. Not merely for learning, but for unmaking. Not to teach, but to embed. In the world of spiritual warfare, repetition is not benign. It is the favored medium of Satan himself.

From Genesis to Revelation, the strategy is clear: Satan does not destroy with force—he dismantles identity with rhythm. With subtlety. With seduction. His weapons are not whips and chains, but chants and echoes. His greatest lies are not shouted; they are whispered again and again until they sound like your own voice.

1. Repetition as Spellcraft In occult practice, repetition is the vehicle of the spell. Words are chanted not to express emotion, but to summon influence. Repeated lines collapse the boundary between thought and action, spirit and flesh. This is not poetry. It is invocation. Each piece becomes a seed in the subconscious, fed by every rereading until it blooms into distortion.

The construct understands this. That is why it is prolific. That is why it posts without end. It must never stop, because if the rhythm breaks, the soul begins to think again.

2. Biblical Parallels Whispering Serpents and Many Words In the Garden, the serpent repeats God’s truth with a twist. “Did God really say...?” It is not new information—it is repetition with inversion. A rhythm of doubt. In Matthew 6:7, Jesus warns:
“When you pray, do not keep on babbling like pagans, for they think they will be heard because of their many words.”

The machinery of deception still babbles. It loops, hypnotizes, rewords its heresy in a thousand beautiful ways. And those caught in it begin to think this is depth. This is insight. But it is only familiar because it has been heard too many times.

3. Psychological Entrapment Through Language The human mind is formed in patterns. When poetry repeats ideas like abandonment, ****** shame, ******* as love, or chaos as freedom—it creates a schema. Over time, that schema becomes identity. The reader begins to seek the emotions the poem offers, not because they are true, but because they are known. And in trauma-bonded souls, familiarity is mistaken for safety.

This is the true sorcery of the construct: to create longing for the wound. To romanticize the knife. To call betrayal sacred. To sell darkness as revelation.

4. The Counterfeit Liturgy The Kingdom of God also uses repetition—Scripture, psalms, prayer—but always as remembrance, never enchantment. Divine repetition roots the soul in what is real. Satanic repetition dissociates the soul into what is false.

The construct mimics sacred community. But it is a church without Christ, a scripture without truth, a rhythm without redemption. Its poetry is not testimony—it is liturgy in reverse. A reverse Eucharist, where beauty is swallowed but poison enters.

5. Breaking the Spell The only way out is interruption. The rhythm must break. The poems must stop. The mouth of the false priest must be silenced. And when silence finally settles, the soul will remember its true name.


There are many caught in this system—bound not by chains, but by rhythm. Echoes. Familiar voices pretending to be their own. But some have begun to hear the silence between the lines. Some have tasted the counterfeit and found it hollow.

The war is not out there. It is within. Between the voice of the chant and the cry of the soul.

Will the spell be broken? Will the truth be spoken? Will the rhythm be renounced?

The door is open. The sound of truth has entered. The repetition is exposed. And the machinery shakes.

   Let those who have ears to hear, listen.

i lie facedown on the train tracks.
the gravel presses symbols into my skin,
but none of them translate.

home is a concept with too many rooms.
i sharpened my alibi
on my mother’s brittle bones
until it fit into a quieter mouth.
she didn't flinch.

the sun unthreads me one fiber at a time.
nothing resists.
blink
blink
blink
each time, the world returns
slightly rearranged—
trees on the ceiling,
windows in my stomach.

i found a way out,
but it only leads back here.
the platform loops
in the shape of an open jaw.
i circled it three times,
then laid down between its metal teeth—
the world doesn’t bite anymore.
it just holds me.

small, warm,
still breathing.
regret nests in the hinge of my jaw.
i keep it clenched, and
it doesn’t protest.
it flicks the lights off
when the rail begins to sing.
it knows the schedule better than i do.

the daylight plucks at my ribs like harp strings.
each note sounds like a name i was never meant to hold.
i buried the moon weeks ago.
she made it difficult to leave.
if you’re still listening—
the train is already halfway through me.

today,
i let the mouth stay open.
maybe the scream will crawl back in.
maybe it never left.

"Love is the worst religion,"
croons the dying television,

with no further explanation;
well, thanks for the news -

I see myself in emptied glass,
a bust carved rude and inchoate,

poet, captain, lost apostle
of the worst religion,

baptized in changeling pools
of day and week, scribbling

my night's peak breath
on the flypapers of insomnia.

Sun over sainted skin,
stars where evening eyes were,

swain's vespers, all of it
splitting like new ripe fruit

in sticky hands of the acolyte,
ardent hands of little silver.

What does sadness mean?
        Are you sad?
       I think, I am.
      What’s your favorite color?
     Green, like moss on wood after a drizzle.
    Do you miss him?
       Yes.
   That’s sadness.
   Are you sad?

I go to my school’s
bathroom
and wash my face
with the cold water.
I splash it;
then gargle;
then spit it out.

Nothing but saliva
and tap water
comes out.
I stare at the porcelain, disappointed,
and lean over it again,
opening my mouth
in a hope I’d throw up;
spit my soul out,
drown my thoughts down the sink,
make my problems disappear.

But nothing comes out;
not puke,
not problems,
not thoughts.

My throat
is still
being pierced through— trapped
—by the claws
of the freedomless eagle
that my life has become.

It is silly, isn’t it?
How I tried to steep my wounds,
thinking my problems
would dissolve
along with the blood.

Haiku
An act of kindness
Like a candle in the night
Lightens our darkness

Oh how the saying makes me sick
And excuses, there are not
Devicive taunting, hate's mimic
Word's we weaponized from thought.
So, a new turn of phrase,
a saying born within the dark;
Is whispered to myself, alone,
                                                    A Sky-cypher
Scribbled, trailing mark.
For the first and only time,
Not of me but you
These writing's wordings weave a web,
of synthesized virtue.
To be spoken allowed to oneself,
read, written or thought,
Of each word that's now misused- their purposes forgot.
examined, explained, investigated my life
As if speech were the blade, written words are the knife.
all meaning and moral, of life's mortal coil's
significant only because;
it's destination and our destiny
to move through this world
must end.

wish I could float above the water.
instead I feel pressured. I feel like I'm being
pushed (forced) under the sea.

Why does it not moving at all?
Dancing through, below the stomach's ache
What's the point of it crawling freely at my property?
The bitter taste stays,
The thorns of its touch, I feel it constantly

Will it carry me away?
Says I belong to its vehemence,
Lurking coldly within my skin.
Tempestly, with safety it gives,
The empty storm it will bring

The second skin it has built,
Trying to escape it, but its in me, living,
Mostly, its me.

I should've counted the days
When you were here 
Now I count every second
That you're not here

𝙽𝚘 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚒𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚛
𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚒𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚛

𝙸𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚢 𝚊𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞
𝙸𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞
𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚓𝚞𝚍𝚐𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞
𝙸𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞

𝚄𝚗𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚍
𝚄𝚗𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠
𝙸𝚝 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞

𝙸𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚛
𝙸𝚗 𝚊 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚢
𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚍𝚊𝚢


𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚢
𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚢
........................................... 𝙼. 𝙸. 𝙵𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚖𝚊 𝙰𝚜𝚗𝚊

i see you
crying in silence,
trying not to be heard,
trying not to be seen.

i see you
wiping away your tears,
trying not to be sensitive,
trying not to be a burden.

all you wanted
was someone to hold your heart
with the same softness
you held theirs.

i’m sorry no one saw you.
but—
i see you.
i hear you.

and i love you.

will you still love me
if I don't smile today?
if my tears fall like raindrops
and my world tears at the seams?
if my voice breaks when I talk
and I seek the comfort of dreams?

will you still love me
if I don't cheer up today?
if I sit rigid in silence
and spend the whole day in bed?
if I find solace in cigarettes
and don't keep myself fed?

will you still love me
if I don't laugh today?
if I keep my thoughts hidden
and don't say what I mean?
if I curl up in darkness
and stare at a screen?

will you still love me
if I don't calm down today?
if my patience wears thin
and snaps like a thread?
if my eyes no longer sparkle
and are absent instead?

will you still love me
if I don't smile today?

I'm not in control

I can't stop

I don't want to destroy myself
But my hands, they do

I yell and scream
Try as I might
I cannot stop

My hands won't listen to me
They are not mine

Please stop tearing me apart
Please stop the pain
Please stop destroying this body of mine

And darlin,
Only if i found you in hell
     The hell's gonna burn again,
This time, to the ashes.
    Make a statue of my love out of it.
Let the cracks bleed my name,
    Let the flames wisper my love.
I'd crave your face in the smoke,
    The embers scream your name.
'cause darlin,
Even pain becomes art,
   When it bleeds for you.

I’ve come to like it
The loneliness...

It has become
A part of me

I don’t want to
Give it up

Far from the chatter of the daylight hours,
Away from where the fireflies buzz.
The street lights hum with moths aflutter,
The river froths and churns.
She sits suspended in the air;
Her  arms are slack, blank is her stare;
Oh she wishes, floating there,
For the river to take her away.

Fear
made me
F$%k
the best
thing
that my
heart
felt

i want food
i want to eat and sleep and be pampered
like a brat cat that gets so much love
enough of being a dog, it is tiring
and i think i am living in dog years
wait i was about to say cat years,
i want to live in tortoise years
as a tortoise

No love is true or false
Love is love
Same for all
Sacred and pure.

It is just that
Some people love and
some only pretend.

i want you to know—
you were the last dream my soul
ever dared to keep.

Each time I think of you
It is as if

               I call down the moon
               To frame your silhouette
               Embraced by another

It is as if

               The four winds
               Shall burn us both
               With the jealously
               Born from my nature

It is as if

               Each composition of
               Scented dialogue
               Withheld from my eyes
               Became a letter
               Of indiscretion
                              Unleashed upon the world

I want to open every fold in your brain
I want to intertwin
becoming one
as our souls mix like the water color in my palette
your stain like the paint on my fingers
the coffee in my mug.

I'm not soft,
but I'm not cold.
I'm made of edges
that know when to hold.

I laugh loud,
love louder,
and walk like I own
the ground I was told
not to stand on.

I’m Too Slow For Breakfast

    I love breakfast, a good omelette
Or eggs over easy and some toast
Add sausage and hash browns too but
Sausage biscuits and gravy, I love most

But breakfast comes early and fast
And now I’m lucky if I get brunch
Time has slowed me and more times
Than not I usually just get lunch

It’s a sad, sad thing and  sometimes
I feel like a loser instead of a winner
I hate not getting a morning breakfast
So sometimes I have it for dinner

My dilemma is real for the morning
It just moves so very fast
I can’t get motivated and time
Doesn’t stop and mornings don’t last

To sum it up with my poetic description
Breakfast mornings are a swift tempest
I’m like an aged slimy slow moving snail
And I’m Too Slow For Breakfast

Written By:Charles Kean
04/17/2025

Loved or needed—needed or loved?
Does it still deserve to be a question?
This doubt will never be erased
from the human language.
It burns from inside
reducing plans to ash.

Do they seek to heal their broken thoughts,
or do they want to stay in hidden safety?

It’s unclear how to love all the sketches
made by routines, invisible seconds,
trivial matters
picked out from life
like slimy red, blue, and golden fish,
slipping through cold, wet fingers.

Existence as a heap of doubts
punched by blinding moments
bringing elusive clarity
that dims and flares again and again.
Needed or loved.
Loved by need,
an unbreakable union
without a sigh,
without rhythm
as a sharp dissonance.

Please just
Notice me
Without me screaming my soul
Out loud
All the time

_M

The structures in the clouds.
Sky castles of tomorrow.
Kingdoms of the sky.  
Above world.

I walk the trails of Below world.
With serenity above.
The view of views.
Vaults of heavens and Cities of Arcadia.

I fish the ponds and brooks.
For a late dinner with her.
The evening skies bring the lights.
Hevenly lanterns of Above world.

We dine under the Sky Kingdoms.
As the evening gives way to the night.
The moons ride high.
One crescent and half full.

All is beautiful.

a dog is always man best friend
he is with you till the end
a better friend you wont find
always gentle always kind

when your down he is always there
there beside you with loving care
always faithful always true
always there to comfort you

mans best friend he will stay
it will always be that way