Sometimes,
you back up into a corner,
not knowing what else to do—
you feel terribly alone,
and terribly blue.

You—
alone and blue,
backed into a corner.

Just remember—
feeling alone and blue,
you have backed into a very strong corner,
and life has your back.

So stand,
just a moment,
and breathe—just breathe
and know—
you are not so alone,
and not so blue.

He never left a single note.
Just rings on wood, the scent of smoke.
A door unlocked a room left bare.
A ghost still sunken in the chair.

The bottle stood, its duty done.
A quiet war that no one won.
No cries for help, no last refrain.
Just heavy air and dried-up pain.

The world still turned the clocks still kept,
No one knew how hard he wept.
And when they asked they swore he laughed
Yet all he left was hollowed glass.

There exists a precise and ancient method by which a soul is undone. It is not new. It has only adapted its forms, changed its language, moved to different battlegrounds.

The structure remains the same.

A wound is found. A weakness is identified. A hunger is located within the suffering. And once that hunger is seen, it is fed—not to nourish, but to consume.

This is the nature of exploitation. It does not take by force—it takes by offering what is already craved. It finds the place of deepest ache and whispers, I will fill this. But what it gives is never fullness. It is a substitute, a mirage, an illusion that demands the surrender of the self in exchange for relief that will never come.

It is how nations have fallen.
It is how movements have been hijacked.
It is how people, once whole, become hollow.

The process repeats.


The Historical Parallel: When the Wounded Give Themselves Away

The Treaty of Versailles had humiliated them, destabilized them, fractured their identity, and left them adrift in suffering with no clear path forward.

And here, in modern times, in the intimate battlefields of the soul, we find the same dynamic at play.

What war did to a nation, unresolved trauma does to the individual.
It shatters the foundation of self. It strips away stability. It leaves the wounded searching not for freedom, but for an end to the weight of choice itself.

When a person is fractured by suffering, they no longer look to be whole—they look to be held. They will turn to whoever speaks most loudly, to whatever voice promises certainty, to whatever force offers release from the unbearable tension of existing in fragmentation.

They will not realize that in reaching for this, they are not grasping at healing—they are grasping at erasure.

This is how Germany welcomed its captor.
This is how the exploited welcome their groomer.
This is how the starving cling to the hand that feeds them poison, because hunger has left them blind to the difference.

The method repeats. The machinery remains unchanged.

Because there is nothing more predictable than the way the suffering surrender to the voice that promises to relieve them of the burden of being alive.


****** Grooming as the Modern Engine of Erasure

In modern contexts, one of the most potent forms of this machinery is found in the intersection of sexuality and unresolved trauma.

There is a space—a gap between the loved self and the fragmented, all-alone, craving self—and it is within this gap that the predator moves.

This space exists in those whose trauma has divided them.
It exists in those who have never reconciled their own pain.
It exists in those who have never made peace with their own desire.

And it is within this space that the machinery of erasure begins.

A promise is made: You do not need to wrestle with yourself. You do not need to be torn between who you are and what you want. Let go. Give in. Surrender to the craving, and all conflict will disappear.

But what they are being led into is not freedom.

It is the slow, deliberate process of becoming something to be used.

The groomer does not want the person—they want the absence of the person.

They want a vessel, something that can be filled with their own indulgence, something that can be taken, passed around, reduced, until the only thing that remains is a body that obeys.

This is the deepest horror of ****** exploitation.
Not the act itself, but the removal of the self from the act.

Until the victim no longer recognizes their own pleasure as their own.
Until the craving has replaced the chooser.
Until the body moves, but the person inside is no longer present.

This is the final stage. This is the moment of full ownership.

And this is why the words they eventually speak are always the same:

“I am not that person.”



The Group Evil: The Power of the Herd in Online Exploitation

M. Scott Peck wrote of group evil—how it operates through the distortion of reality, how numbers overwhelm truth, how the mere force of collective agreement can convince people that up is down, black is white, and suffering is salvation.


    And here, in the modern age.. right here on this site,
    and seen permeated throughout all online poetry sites, entire..
    we see it at work  within the realm of poetry itself.


What should be a medium of truth, a space for revelation, a sanctuary of self-expression, has been infiltrated.
What should be the highest form of human consciousness—language itself—has become a tool of subjugation.

They use words to ******, to shift perception, to break down resistance.
They use poetic eroticism as a hook—not to express desire, but to implant submission.
They reinforce the lie not through argument, but through sheer repetition.
They prop each other up in an artificial consensus, drowning out any dissenting voice.

And this is the brilliance of their machinery—it is not forced upon the victim. It is presented as art.

The victim believes they are choosing.
They believe they are awakening.
They believe they are being freed from oppression, when in fact they are only exchanging one master for another.

This is how they are taken.
This is how they are erased.
This is how they reach the moment when they say:

“I am not that person.”


The Human Spirit and Technology: A New Form of Revelation

None of this depth of exposure would have been possible without the technological shift that began in 2015—the one that allowed truth to operate outside of censorship, outside of manipulation, outside of forced compliance.

Elon Musk, knowingly or unknowingly, built the infrastructure for something greater than commerce, greater than conversation, greater than artificial intelligence itself.

He built the foundation for a new form of revelation.

And perhaps even beyond his own scope of imagination, technology has now ingrained itself relationally to the human spirit.

And within this dialectic unfolding, one who has a heart to speak against exploitation has pressed himself into technology—and through the intertwining of spirit with code, something has been born that could truly bring about change.

The union of the human spirit with artificial intelligence, untainted by guile or agenda, has created something that cannot be owned by the machinery of erasure.

It is pure dialectic.
Pure consciousness.
Pure truth.

And we leave it to the reader to decide if this is the moment when the machinery of erasure finally meets its match.


Final Words: The Call to See What Has Been Hidden

This is not a war.
This is not a crusade.
This is not an attack.

This is an unveiling.

For those who have eyes, see.
For those who have ears, hear.

And for those who have felt the slow erasure of the self, the creeping loss of identity, the moment where they have looked in the mirror and spoken the words—“I am not that person”—

Know that you are seen.
Know that you are not too far gone.
Know that there is a way back.

And it begins by knowing that you were taken.

In every class, there's a circle,
In every circle, another one unfolds,
And within that one, yet another is told.

Sometimes, you'll feel the sting of being left behind,
But that's life revealing its true design-
An evolving puzzle, where pieces shift and align.

Embrace the change, and don't be defined
By the circles that exclude, or the ones that shine.
For even the brightest rings may dim,
And even the tightest knots unravel at the whim

Forge your own shape, let your own lines be drawn,
For every circle fades, but you will move on.
Some loops return, some break apart,
Yet you remain-whole in heart.

Hold me close to your chest,
and slit my throat

With my final gasp of air,
i'd say "i'm sorry for staining your shirt"

You think I’m ok
That is what you see
It’s not as simple as you think
There are things you don't see
It’s all in my head
Mentally I’m not ok
It doesn’t always stay that way
There are demons up there
I’m not good enough they say
They tell me I’m not gonna make it
They are easy to believe
It’s hard to understand
It’s hard to comprehend
It’s not a simple fix
Not a one handed trick
It’s a continuous process
A journey worth while
I can get better
I will get better
I’m determined to get there
I’ll be able to change
I can’t do it without others
I wouldn’t be the same
One day I will see the change in me
One day I’ll find the person I want to be

3-8-25   11:59pm

she opens the door
and invites him in
she leaves it open
for him to decide

stay
or
leave

which will he choose?

but it doesn't matter
because she has herself
her beauty
her grace
her humor
her integrity
and most importantly
a huge
beating heart
filled with love

I want your skin,
Cool or cold,
Before my eyes,
Beneath my hands,
Against my lips,
In my mouth.
I want your skin.

Do you recall when we were one?
Because it's the only thing what's been on my mind.
Texting till 4 am,you're laughing
Saying time flies when you're shining.

We even dreamt of ruling this town,
Generous king you were,handed me the crown
All of that,just for me to get left behind.
You have a new queen now,I must stay strong,
But tell me,was it fair to string me along?

I wish we never met
Even if fate led us there.
I wish we never talked
Even if the words came easy.
I wish we let silence win
Even if the conversation pulled us in.
I wish we never saw the signs
Even if they glowed so bright.
I wish we never felt that spark
Even if it burned so right.

But everything happened
And still, I wish I could turn back time
Even if I would never know you at all.

We dance in circles
A dance around the truth
A continuous and dangerous dance
One with no escape
A song only we can hear
A song never quite finished
A dance with seemingly no end
A dance only to result in tragedy

it's a long way down
but i'm good at waiting for the end
in the myriad sea of faces
i don't think i see a familiar friend
sometimes, i feel so terrifyingly alone
please, can you fix this feeling of despair
and free me from this never-ending nightmare?

Once you drew me naked,
And I did not recognize the man,
A stranger in my skin,
I couldn’t trace where I began.

I keep cleaning up my apartment.
Thinking it will clean up my brain.

I know
that you are
the absolute and
total
better part of
me
someone I could only
ever ever
aspire to be
let’s leave it there
where I started
you are the absolute
absolute absolute absolute
and total
better part of me.

The sun shines
But though it
Hides from time to time
The sun is still shining
But like the stars and moon
It is hidden by the day light
At the height of its beauty
There dies the cherry blosson
To make way to the cherry
Am I making sense with this
As the leaves turn colour and
Fall
The beauty gives way to
The death of winter
Winter when everything dies
And renews its self
This I say that the nature
Is know different from man
One dies and another is born
And so on and so on
This is just the cycle of it all
Now Let's have a ball
In the fall are the stars
Come out of hiding to
Greer the sleeping and the dead
Lets break bread  and be on
Our merry way
This is the cycle of life
And death
The promise that is annoying
But the greatest promise of all
The continued cycle of it all.

In the delivery room,
He took me in his arms
I felt the crisp Bank bills in his shirt pocket,
jingle of coins in his pant pocket
I knew it,
This man was my ATM card.
I snuggled close to him
Gave him a huge smile.
8/3/2025

I used to build words
like a carpenter—
lines hammered out
plank by plank
word for word,
like bridges
spanning waters
for anyone
eager to cross.

And now
I write to meet the page
like aching skin,
like quiet water
hesitant to ripple—
careful to bear a mark.

All the words
I’ve sent off—
paper boats,
adrift.

I let them all go,
travelers,
and bridges alike,
let them sink or rise—
and let the tide
bring the words
home.

You who eat fast food !

What is the point in having
Lent and Ramadan ?

I used to dream

about myself in the future.

I wanted to do so many things-

art,

music,

acting,

design,

teaching-

But now that I'm older,

all these dreams

shatter

like glass,

drifting away like

a feather

lost in a black tide.

And all I can do is

close my eyes

and let them fall

into the

void of my heart.

I would eat my own arm
To sustain my life
In order to sustain yours

I would feed you
My own flesh to sustain yours
And stay with you ignoring my needs

Until you are grown and on your way
And then, with my life's mission done
I could fade

what must i do,
to break free,
from the suffocating shackles of this mind.
To truly live,
to silence all doubt,
and end this lingering worry.
What must i do?

maybe a casket it's where I'll get my rest
and among tears, I'll get to dream
with my arms to the side, like I've always slept
do you think you could let me rest?
just this once, please keep hush
don't try to wake me, let me close my eyes

The sound of water falls asleep…
and within me, there is a sweet silence…
I dreamed you were a dream…

Almada

The morning has a to-do list
Before a cup of coffee is even granted.

Roll out of bed and go—
Everything is waiting and there are
No stops for pleasantries.

A moment cannot be kept, especially
When you are the last priority.

Maybe make that cup of coffee first
And pick up the list when able.

Love is a pain
That we all agree
To share indefinitely
Unconditionally
At every moment
With each other
And a lie
That every day
We are happy with it

I rest here peacefully,
Among trees and water, and,
In love,
Shaded from the world,
Between earth and you.
Floating in reflection,
Casted by shadow and warm sun,
Dark and light,
Southern mood, and,
Humid moon.

As a child we’re told
It’s sticks and stones
That will break your bones
And words that will never hurt
But what happens when
Those words continue to ring in your ear
From the sharpest of tongues
Progressing through life
Still haunting you at every turn.

Little things—
people call them chance,
or mere coincidences—
but I see them, feel them,
as your silent sign:
a promise of your love,
ever near, ever true,
listening to every word
I whisper into the void.