Nothing can stop me now.
I’m flying like a kite,
high above you ********
your steel cars booming,
polluting,
your tarted-up models
with fake smiles, fake teeth, fake ****
I’m high up here.
Wait, am I dreaming?
I’m like a god
witnessing the ascension of myself
to meet and absolve myself
of myself.
Or am I a writer
typing myself into existence?
Shoes on the floor,
hangings on the wall,
shot to death.
Sentences like lonely words
meeting other lonely words,
pretending the story
is worth the reading after the writing.
But is it?
Is it really?
Your words won’t absolve you
of the past
or a future approaching too fast.
You can tip-tap away,
or even fly away,
but you can’t escape yourself.
Deep in the clouds
or deep in your dreams
there is no saving yourself
from yourself.
All you are,
all you ever will be,
is yourself:
your words, your voice, your god,
your hopes, your stories, your dreams,
they won’t ever save you.
I tell it like it is.
I’m not sorry.
I write so you will know:
you are a walking shadow
feeding on dreams,
moments, sadness, emotions, madness,
pretending one day
you won’t die,
but you will,
and nobody will care
in fifty years,
maybe twenty.
Let’s not idealise death.
It’s the essential of living.
It’s already in your cells,
already in the stars blinking out,
leaving worlds in shadow.
And still
I am flying high above,
don’t tell me I’m dreaming.
Keep your cars, your tattoos,
your vapid stares.
I’m flying,
flying,
dying,
flying,
absolving all sin.
Fingers still typing,
inside the dream,
still going,
flying,
dying,
typing,
until the screen blisters white,
until the words become wings,
until my pulse is the key pressing itself,
until death stands in the doorway
and still I’m typing,
typing,
typing,
each letter a spark
burning the dark,
each spark a refusal,
each refusal a life,
until the last
black
dot.
Feb 22
Feb 22, 2026 at 9:27 AM UTC
Nothing can stop me now.
I’m flying like a kite,
high above you ********
your steel cars booming,
polluting,
your tarted-up models
with fake smiles, fake teeth, fake ****
I’m high up here.
Wait, am I dreaming?
I’m like a god
witnessing the ascension of myself
to meet and absolve myself
of myself.
Or am I a writer
typing myself into existence?
Shoes on the floor,
hangings on the wall,
shot to death.
Sentences like lonely words
meeting other lonely words,
pretending the story
is worth the reading after the writing.
But is it?
Is it really?
Your words won’t absolve you
of the past
or a future approaching too fast.
You can tip-tap away,
or even fly away,
but you can’t escape yourself.
Deep in the clouds
or deep in your dreams
there is no saving yourself
from yourself.
All you are,
all you ever will be,
is yourself:
your words, your voice, your god,
your hopes, your stories, your dreams,
they won’t ever save you.
I tell it like it is.
I’m not sorry.
I write so you will know:
you are a walking shadow
feeding on dreams,
moments, sadness, emotions, madness,
pretending one day
you won’t die,
but you will,
and nobody will care
in fifty years,
maybe twenty.
Let’s not idealise death.
It’s the essential of living.
It’s already in your cells,
already in the stars blinking out,
leaving worlds in shadow.
And still
I am flying high above,
don’t tell me I’m dreaming.
Keep your cars, your tattoos,
your vapid stares.
I’m flying,
flying,
dying,
flying,
absolving all sin.
Fingers still typing,
inside the dream,
still going,
flying,
dying,
typing,
until the screen blisters white,
until the words become wings,
until my pulse is the key pressing itself,
until death stands in the doorway
and still I’m typing,
typing,
typing,
each letter a spark
burning the dark,
each spark a refusal,
each refusal a life,
until the last
black
dot.
