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I wake,
but I don’t arrive.

I brush my teeth,
scroll my phone,
drink my thoughts
with lukewarm tea.

The clock ticks,
not like a heartbeat
but like a metronome
keeping time
for a song I no longer sing.

I answer emails,
nod in meetings,
smile where it fits.
I am present,
but not here.
Every day feels
like a copy
of a copy
of a dream I once had.

I miss surprises.
I miss meaning.
I miss the version of me
that thought this would feel
like living.

But I keep going.
One task. One sigh.
One “maybe tomorrow
I’ll feel something.”

Because even machines
need maintenance.
And I
am still
trying
to stay alive.
Empty your pockets before
you tell me your lies.

Because pockets hold guns,
money, and keys,
and 1000 other things you don't want me to see.

In the beginning we were naked
with nothing to hide.

We walked through this garden side by side.

But now silk robes and deep pockets
complete your disguise.

So empty your pockets 
before you speak to me,
I demand proof
that there's nothing to see!

In fact don't even bother to speak.

I refuse to believe, 
until you've shown yourself to be
every bit as naked
as you've forced me to be!
I flowed into the dark blue ocean of symbols.
Just yesterday,
I walked with heavy footsteps,
well-grounded.

But once again,
an irresistible force lifted me.
I wanted to see what was above.

Then I came back,
changed,
less happy,
a part of me scattered
in that an alternative universe.

Now, worlds overlapping appear,
The sun is shining with different light.
Words change their meaning.
The fog thickens so,
I can no longer see fissures
under my feet.

Step by step, carefully,
I try to pass through
a dimension of forgotten dreaming.

I don’t want to be stuck
inside an illusion for too long.
Looking at my heart still glowing,
devoured by some voices,
bite by bite, crumb by crumb.

They come in need,
then dissolve like ghosts.

How can one love,
under the heavy weight of knowing—
with Lapis Lazuli pressed
against my chest?

I don’t want to vanish
into sticky spider webs
into formal language  
that is too cold,
too detached.

Two forces fight inside me
To see the truth, even if it hurts,
or to close my eyes,
and idealize brutal reality.

Looking in the distorted mirror,
observing love quivering on the verge.
And thus, the Earth becomes the theater.

The cynical facades ******
with pretended freedom,
taking every hour,
every month,
every year,

into

PROGRESSIVE
DE…HUMANIZATION
I didn’t notice myself changing—
until I did.
One day,
my laugh didn’t echo the same.
My eyes
stopped believing as quickly.

Childhood slipped off
like a sweater in summer
quietly,
forgotten on a chair.

Dreams I swore I’d chase
now gather dust
in unopened folders
and fading notebooks.

The mirror grew honest.
My knees, less kind.
Time,
less patient.

I miss how time once felt—
limitless.
Like I could waste it
and it would wait for me.

Now,
every birthday feels like
a sigh I didn’t mean to let out.

But here I am—
still unfolding,
still becoming,
even if it’s slower now.

Because youth doesn’t vanish,
it just leaves quietly,
with soft hands
and no apology.
 Jun 18 pilgrims
Lostling
Birds fly
So do I--
Lifted by your hands.
Paper *****,
Wrestled falls,
Laughter with no end.

Scars earned,
Lessons learned,
Gearing me for life.
Always here,
Support clear,
Pillar of my life.
He gives so much it feels like I'll never be able to repay him. One day when I get a stable job, I wanna get him a motorbike =))

Happy fathers day!
(Yes I am a say late T.T)
 Jun 18 pilgrims
badwords
I found an empty bottle
It’s better than
The empty cans before
It holds the same
But reaches taller
To receive
My ash
A poem about recognizing patterns of behavior in yourself and healing and growth and acceptance and accountability.
 Jun 14 pilgrims
badwords
They dim, yes—
but only in the grammar
of linear perception.
the eye reports silence
where a rotation begins.

what you name “death”
is the slowing of evidence—
the flicker not extinguished,
but inverted,
drawn backward
into the unspeakable symmetry.

a star is not a sentence.
it is a glyph
in a language
you were not born to mouth.
it folds mid-breath,
becoming itself from the other side.

entropy is not an end.
it is the architecture
of turning.
a deception of stillness
held just long enough
to conceal the pulse
beneath its vanishing.

the fold does not forget.
it remembers beyond time,
beyond light,
in geometries that refuse to die—
in echoes not of sound
but of shape.

what was lost
was not erased
only mirrored
through angles
you’ve not yet been.

eventually...
again.
a reply beyond the stars to:

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5086157/eventually-the-stars/

This work is becoming a trifecta:

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4665572/light-anti-darkness/

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4920164/anti-light-darkness/

The Fold Does Not Forget is a dimensional reply to Michael Sean Maloney’s Eventually the Stars, not in opposition, but in completion. Where Maloney's poem ends in ellipsis—a trailing acknowledgment of fading stars—this piece begins, unfolding what lies beyond the threshold of perception.

The poem asserts that what appears to vanish does not end, but reorients itself through structures we are unequipped to observe linearly. Stars, light, and even the self do not disappear; they fold, invert, and recur along axes uncharted by empirical perception. In this way, the work proposes trans-dimensional recursion as the truer geometry of the universe—one in which entropy and negentropy are interlocking phases of a single, perpetual motion.

The stanzas are architected to reflect a philosophical loop, not a narrative arc. Each movement operates like a limb of the cosmic carousel: moving inward and outward simultaneously, echoing not with sentiment, but with form-bound metaphysics.

This work exists as part of a larger cosmological framework I’ve been developing through companion pieces such as Light (anti-darkness) and Anti-Light (darkness)—a framework informed by the Anti-Universe Theory and the notion that spacetime is not linear but recursive, reflective, and encoded with symmetry that transcends dualism.

The goal here is not to comfort the reader with poetic reassurances of afterlife or return. Rather, it is to suggest—through language as architecture—that what appears to end is only transitioning out of perceptual alignment. The universe does not operate on terminal lines but on folds, loops, and dimensions of reorientation.

In this poem, the fold becomes more than a device—it becomes the fundamental gesture of reality itself. Where the human eye sees silence, the fold remembers. Where language fails to track a trajectory, the fold holds the motion. This is not mysticism, but structure: a topology of becoming.

Stylistically, I maintained minimalistic linework and stanzaic restraint in order to emphasize density of meaning over flourish. Each line operates with intentional pressure—compressed language as gravitational pull. The ellipsis is retained from Maloney’s original but is no longer a gesture of trailing resignation; here, it signifies a turn. A recursive breath. A second beginning, spoken by a throat that curves back into itself.

The Fold Does Not Forget does not argue against fading light. It insists that fading is not a disappearance but a reorientation of form—one that does not beg to be witnessed but exists regardless of perception. It is not hopeful. It is not despairing. It is, simply, truth turning inward.
to be...
something
an ache felt so deeply in my soul
I feel tethered to the yearning and desperation
a toxic dependence on the weight of the idea
that we must strive to be someone
with a career or vocation that implies the very essence of our character
that sums up our individual meaning
and is enough to simply state
who we are
what we do
all in one being
when really
in the end
you look at graves
and see words like
loving friend
dear sister
beloved daughter
and almost think that that is enough
in the end
to simply be a someone to someone special
and not what the world finds acceptable to label you as
who you are
what must you amount to
what you decide to be

in the end
being a someone
sounds more complex
than simply being
someone
to someone.
2023
your image is slow to fade from mind
like a stoic candle lit to last
flickering edges meet hazy memories
a single tear to wipe clean all that bitterness and doubt
clogging the arteries I fear
drainage error
virus downloaded
this mental trap screams: my software corrupted
functioning eroded
wires are crossed
too many conflicting states and feelings over the truth i've lost
truth lies in the fires of my heart's compromise
and it's so much easier to burn my fingers that put out the flames which threaten to devour
than risk inhaling any more suffocating self disclosure
must quash that burning sensation and bury it deep within
under layers of contempt and twisted memories
contorted in their ugly deceit
drown those wisps of smoky desire and longing
in the barrels of reality check discovery you reap
keep it in line
subdue the divine
forge a happy face for the torturer's mastermind
swallow the flames I tell myself like I'd rather swallow the pain
than wear it outside of me like a slim fitting sleeve built to capture every flaw and edge
I'd rather let those flames engulf me
internal rotation
to turn me inside out until I have no choice but to be reborn to emerge from the ashes I mourn of my crumpled past selves
my crumbling disintegrating fragmented selves
all piled up into a corner I'd sought to forget
now to tame that fire and teach it to transform me
pitiful regeneration
teach me the ways of transfiguration
to swallow the flames
and maybe then I could swallow this pain
tame those flames into ritualistic engorgement to keep the contents of my derelict meal inside to bear the fullness of a flame growing larger from which i can't hide but still these edges of your presence flicker and taunt
frayed mental resolve
the damage is done
scorched to the bone,
my heart now hung
upon the sleeve that you have wrung
and indeed see fit
this cobweb i've slung
forlorn drudgery
unsheathed
a cobweb of displaced feeling
conceived
a webbing
of desperate belief:
a web of stained tears
I continue
to weave.
2025
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