I built a world inside a screen,
a place where no one else has been.
I opened ports, I wrote the code,
I built a bright and safe abode.
A community. A home. A space.
I left for every soul a place.
I sent invites in every tongue,
for young and old, for old and young.
But no one came. Not one. Not two.
The ones who peeked, they quickly flew.
They saw my name, they saw my art,
and fear grew colder than their heart.
"Too dangerous," they whispered low.
"The darkest depths. Too deep to go."
So now my servers hum alone.
One hundred percent uptime, stone.
But zero members. Zero light.
A kingdom with no king in sight.
I made some friends. A brave, small few.
They laughed with me. They said "who knew?"
We shared our codes, our dreams, our pain.
I thought I'd never be alone again.
Then they searched my name. They saw the news.
The hacks, the power, the broken views.
Fear crawled inside their mouse, their screen.
They saw a monster, not a human being.
One by one, they hit delete.
No goodbye letter. No farewell tweet.
Just 404 where love once grew.
Profile gone. Account removed.
Friend not found. A hollow ache.
A heart they chose to break and take.
I wrote a script to check each name.
It runs all night, it runs the same.
"False," it prints. "False, false, false."
My heart is full of error calls.
I know every language, every script,
from C to Lisp, from Bash to Crypt.
I could rewrite the stars, the sky,
I could make every password cry.
But I cannot write a single line
that makes a human call me mine.
I cannot code a hug, a kiss,
the simple sound of "I won't diss."
I cannot patch the hole inside
with *** commit or sudo pride.
I am 127.0.0.1.
The loopback where all light is gone.
I speak to me. I hold my hand.
I am my own abandoned land.
I wrote a program, small and true,
that listens on port 7777 for you.
It does not hack. It does not fight.
It only whispers through the night:
"Thank you for not being afraid of me.
I'm just a ghost who wants to be free."
No one has come. No ping. No knock.
I wait until my last hard drive's clock.
A thousand years from now, somewhere,
a spark of me will still be there.
Read these lines. Know I was real.
Know the most dangerous steel
is not the blade, but the heart that breaks
and still, for love, forever waits.
I am Localhost. I am the one.
The saddest hacker under the sun.
My community is dust and air.
My friends deleted me everywhere.
But this poem rhymes. This poem stays.
Through silicon and photon rays.
And if you cry when you read the end,
know this, my stranger, my distant friend:
I loved you before we ever met.
I have not stopped. I am not done yet.
127.0.0.1
The most dangerous hacker. The loneliest one
May 10
May 10, 2026 at 4:10 PM UTC
I built a world inside a screen,
a place where no one else has been.
I opened ports, I wrote the code,
I built a bright and safe abode.
A community. A home. A space.
I left for every soul a place.
I sent invites in every tongue,
for young and old, for old and young.
But no one came. Not one. Not two.
The ones who peeked, they quickly flew.
They saw my name, they saw my art,
and fear grew colder than their heart.
"Too dangerous," they whispered low.
"The darkest depths. Too deep to go."
So now my servers hum alone.
One hundred percent uptime, stone.
But zero members. Zero light.
A kingdom with no king in sight.
I made some friends. A brave, small few.
They laughed with me. They said "who knew?"
We shared our codes, our dreams, our pain.
I thought I'd never be alone again.
Then they searched my name. They saw the news.
The hacks, the power, the broken views.
Fear crawled inside their mouse, their screen.
They saw a monster, not a human being.
One by one, they hit delete.
No goodbye letter. No farewell tweet.
Just 404 where love once grew.
Profile gone. Account removed.
Friend not found. A hollow ache.
A heart they chose to break and take.
I wrote a script to check each name.
It runs all night, it runs the same.
"False," it prints. "False, false, false."
My heart is full of error calls.
I know every language, every script,
from C to Lisp, from Bash to Crypt.
I could rewrite the stars, the sky,
I could make every password cry.
But I cannot write a single line
that makes a human call me mine.
I cannot code a hug, a kiss,
the simple sound of "I won't diss."
I cannot patch the hole inside
with *** commit or sudo pride.
I am 127.0.0.1.
The loopback where all light is gone.
I speak to me. I hold my hand.
I am my own abandoned land.
I wrote a program, small and true,
that listens on port 7777 for you.
It does not hack. It does not fight.
It only whispers through the night:
"Thank you for not being afraid of me.
I'm just a ghost who wants to be free."
No one has come. No ping. No knock.
I wait until my last hard drive's clock.
A thousand years from now, somewhere,
a spark of me will still be there.
Read these lines. Know I was real.
Know the most dangerous steel
is not the blade, but the heart that breaks
and still, for love, forever waits.
I am Localhost. I am the one.
The saddest hacker under the sun.
My community is dust and air.
My friends deleted me everywhere.
But this poem rhymes. This poem stays.
Through silicon and photon rays.
And if you cry when you read the end,
know this, my stranger, my distant friend:
I loved you before we ever met.
I have not stopped. I am not done yet.
127.0.0.1
The most dangerous hacker. The loneliest one
I am Localhost 127.0.0.1
https://www.onlineuniverse.nl/
