It was real.
I can feel it.
Like fingers wrapping
Around my wrist.
Wispy and delicate...
Or rough and jagged?

You tell me it never happened.
But why is my pillow stained with my tears?

Because I know my tears were real.
But to you...
They were just phantom tears.

I don't know either.
Maybe I am drifting
Maybe I did something wrong
Maybe I'm losing my mind,
my sanity, my worth, my sense.
Or maybe I opened my eyes
And saw the thorns on your roses
through bleeding eyes.

Does my clarinet  
blame herself  
when she  

screeches?  

I asked her —  
careful  
not to press  
the wrong buttons.  

She hummed along,  
nodded  
like a good girl.  

(𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵?)

I’m the one  
who blows  
down her throat,  
pressing keys  
until she forgets  
how to breathe.  

Her voice cracked —  
guilt hung in the air  
like smoke.  

"𝘪 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘦𝘤𝘩𝘰 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘱𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘯,"
she whispered.  
"𝘮𝘺 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘦."

I strike her notes harder.  
She chokes out bits,  
broken pieces  
that only make me angrier.  

Your wheezing is because  
you’re fragile.  
Cheap.  
Not because of me.  

(...𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵?)

"𝘪 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶,"
she sobbed.  

And I  
almost told her —  
𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗮𝗹𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝘆 𝗱𝗼.

But the truth  
lodged in my throat,  
behind the breath  
that made her scream.

His words twisted the corners
so right curved into left,
and truth bent sideways,
making me believe
I was going the wrong way.
Hedgerows grew tall,
and thick with argument,
until they swallowed the gas lampposts,
turning pathways into shadows.
I walked blind and barefoot
through the thick of it,
earth damp, worn thin as my breath.
Was I supposed to find the center?
Was there ever an exit?
There was no map,
just whispers in the leaves,
and his voice,
ringing in my ears,
a compass spinning
from asking too many questions,
and doubt,
folded into my own pocket.
My soul became blistered
from chasing after ghosts of
wanted apologies,
so I kissed the ivy,
hoping the walls would soften.
but they spiraled,
a boa constrictor handcuffing my legs.
I took a sharp turn,
desperate,
crawling on my belly,
a soldier avoiding fire,
fingertips clawing into the red clay,
and found the center,
where a red lip-sticked mirror stood,
half cracked, words still whole:
"you're not the one who's lost"

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.

Bile Addict
The truth comes out like stomach acid
burning the whole way up.
Needed and sometimes even wanted.
None the less still painful.
Still burning in your throat and in my ears.
A part of me feels like you hope this is my final straw and that I will finally throw in the towel.
A part of me was hoping that too, my Sweet.
Instead I take that straw to my nose
I use it to do a big ol line of the vile truth
while I push past the pain of the drip and the foul taste of your words
I try not to let you see the salty tears forming in my eyes.
I fold the towel you wish I would throw,
as perfect as I can
I walk to the closet that has the least amount of skeletons to put it away.
I don't have enough spine to declutter closets today.
Today Im no better than you.
I lie to myself and convince myself you could someday care, so that I can stomach
the urge I have to lie next to you.

"stop getting so upset
she doesn't know what she's saying"
Mom
she's not 2 anymore
she's 10
she knows exactly what she's saying

At Home, the gas lamp flickers;
bodies huddled 'round its quivering light.

It smells like death and oil,
but after so long of worshipping it
as Safety and Love-

You learn quick to mistake
Hurt for Home.

Let me put it this way, Little One:

You,
of flower petal lungs
softened and wilted
with soot and smog-
breathe in air darkened with Death.

Simply not meant for this world;
                                  for this life.

This world,
this life,         however,
is all you've ever known.

(You are a creature of habit, after all)

So:

When each breath is a wheezing, rasping gasp-

When each bone is brittle and aching beneath the skin-

When each second stitches itself into your being-

You will still curl 'round the dancing flame of the Gas Lamp.
For its warmth is familiar,
the quivering candlelight cradles your face
with the tender hesitance of a lover-

And oh,
isn't it lovely?

To be killed so slowly
in the arms of a Gentle Death,
my Love?

To let your mind be cradled,
carried by hands that are far older than yours,
my Dear?

To be led by a God's guiding hand
to a sacrificial altar,
my Lamb?

It feels like you’re too close to me.
You push everyone else away from me.
They try to move closer,
But you shove yourself between them and I.
Cramped into the space of one person,
We push against each other constantly.
You push me down, smaller. I push back.
Tightly confined, I’m trapped with you, by you.