The silly minutes
rage by like a
falling cuckoo clock.
Dilapidated dreams are
bent and burnt like
autumn leaves.

**** the cliches.
Time hurts, like a
gaping wound.
Hold it close, and
value every precious
second.

Every day the voice grows louder, a low tide moving over the edges of my life until there is almost nothing left but the hush it leaves behind. It does not shout; it never needs to. It leans close in the quiet hours — when the city exhales, when the kettle has gone cold on the stove — and speaks with the steady softness of someone who knows every fracture inside me. Its words are not cruel. They are velvet-soft invitations, the kind that makes you forget the jaggedness, of the world for a moment and imagine only the ease of surrender.

There is a warmth to it, and that is the strangest part. I find myself startled by how gentle it feels, like a hand at the small of my back guiding me towards something that will end the ache without explanation. Around other people I have known harshness that didn’t pretend it was anything else. With them there were arguments and doors slammed and the brittle noise of disappointment. This is different; this is a quiet that hums a lullaby and calls me by a name I used to like. In another life — or in another dream — it is not Death at all but a lover waiting in a doorway with a coat in their hand, patient, familiar, and impossibly kind.

I want to lean into it as you would into a familiar shoulder. I imagine running my palms along its calmness and finding there the kind of rest I have tried to find in strangers’ eyes. There’s a softness in the idea of being held so completely that the need to fight for air fades, and when the thought comes it does not arrive with accusations but with an understanding so thorough it almost feels like mercy. In my mind it becomes a room with low light and no questions; it becomes the end of the long, useless performance of holding myself together for people who never learned how to hold me back.

And still, even as the comfort seeps into my bones, there is a tremor, a recognition of the impossibility of it all. To let myself lean fully is to cross a line I have been warned about, to step into a hush that is both a promise and a disappearance. Yet I imagine the embrace anyway: the quiet ripple of its presence threading through my chest, a tide that lifts me free from all the jagged edges I carry and all the expectations I have stitched onto my skin. It is not violent, not demanding, not impatient — it is a patience that knows I will come, eventually, in my own time.

I think of all the nights I have spent alone, staring at walls that could not listen, and I understand that this is the voice that has been waiting. Its gentleness is a kind of violence against my loneliness, dismantling it piece by piece until the walls fall away, and I am left with nothing but the hush — nothing but the undeniable clarity that somewhere, in the softest corner of the world, I am seen, I am known, I am held. And for a moment, that is enough.

The more I listen, the more I remember — not faces or names, not places exactly, but sensations, brief moments I thought I had forgotten. The smell of rain on asphalt, the warmth of a stranger’s hand in a city that never stops moving, the echo of music I can no longer place. Each memory trembles when Death speaks, and in its voice I feel the fragile thread that connects them all: the ache of being alive, the wonder of having survived it. It is both cruel and merciful, the way it uncovers the tenderest parts of me and holds them without comment.

Sometimes I imagine speaking back. I imagine asking Death if it has known what it is like to carry a body through years that never learned gentleness, to hold a heart so bruised it forgets it can beat at all. I imagine its reply, soft and knowing: that it has known, that it has always known, and that it is here now, waiting, patient, unwavering. I picture the quiet room stretching around us like a cathedral of a hush, each breath a candle flame, each heartbeat a soft echo of something I almost dared to hope for.

There is a strange courage in this imagining, a boldness in feeling the pull without needing to act. I do not have to move; I do not have to surrender. I only have to let the voice settle around me like smoke, let it fill the corners of my mind that have been empty for too long, and notice what happens when the world finally stops insisting that I am not enough. And in noticing, I feel something like grace: the sharp edges of existence dull, the questions fall silent, and the ache softens into a kind of recognition. I exist. I am here. I am known.

And sometimes, just sometimes, I reach toward it — not fully, not yet — and the hush leans closer, and I am home.

This song is written on my heart.
Each note hangs in the air before turning to smoke
and we inhale it here in your little bed,
breathe it in as we have most nights since you were born.

Not so long ago
I was someone else
Who was not your mother.
You don’t know her,
the Me who spent months of her young life poring over the sheet music.
I still have it, teenage pencil scratch covering the entire first movement.
“Sticky top notes” and “written when he was going deaf!” and rows of chord forms,
glyphs,
a cipher.

(Did you know:
Beethoven was dead when Ludwig Rellstab compared the famous first movement of his Sonata No. 14 in C-sharp minor to moonlight shining on a lake?
The sonata previously entitled “Quasi una fantasia.” Almost a fantasy.
The sonata written in blood from a broken body and a broken heart.
Poor dead Beethoven. Our art is truly not our own).

It strikes me odd
that a song such as this one
has become what it has become.
Radiance in despair, I suppose,
is universal in its bright raw frankness.
We stare. It stares back.

Tonight, blessedly,
that chasm of grief alive still and forever in the delicate weaving vines of plaintive melody stemming darkly from it
is far from your door.
Your breaths are slow and even now.
The song closes,
as it always does,
trying and failing to claw out of the darkness.

But you don’t know that.

Tonight it’s just a beautiful song.
And I am no one else
but your mother.

The snitching, tattling, and self-righteous “helping” culture
is pure poison.
People turning on each other
thinking it’s virtuous,
or that they’ll get a pat on the back from the system,
but really they’re just feeding the machine that enslaves everyone.

It’s literally like a slave enslaving another slave for no reason
just reinforcing the chains,
keeping themselves safe or in favor
while everyone else suffers.
It’s repulsive,
ludicrous,
and enraging,
because it’s built on
fear,
obedience,
and ego,
not any sense of real justice or morality.

This type of  st corrodes trust, community, and humanity
it’s systemic brainwashing
disguised as “doing the right thing.”
Plus we pay people already to do this as a job.

Lawyers sue your state and win for private prisons not being full beyond capacity.

Your tax dollars hard at work.

The­  system is screamingly obvious in its hypocrisy:
protect the elite,
punish the powerless.
It’s enough to make you want to burn the whole thing down,
watch the hypocrisy implode,
and drink bitterly while doing it.

Ordinary people like you, like me, like anyone without money
or influence
get crushed for the tiniest misstep.
One wrong ****, one minor infraction, and
suddenly the full force of the legal-industrial complex comes down on your head.
It’s obscene,
infuriating,
and soul-crushing.
And once those probation
*****
thought police
get forced onto your life ,
say good bye to all your rights and any semblance of privacy.
They come in your home !
Cuff you
ransack your daughter's ***** drawer
sniff pan­ties
and strut around judging you
because you  ARE  poor.
You are poor too,   dumb fk !
Even if you have a big boat , 5 cars whatever that aint even close to being rich, not Trump or Epstein or Elon or Bezos or Zuckerberg rich.

Red flags blazing in neon:
O j Simpson,
Michael Jackson, ( all those dying cancer kids molested for years on end !)
Cosby,
R. Kelly,
Epstein
Etc. Ad infinitum

Money and power
deciding outcomes, not justice.
Epstein’s “13 months” for literally running a child **** island? Insane, revolting, and painfully obvious.

It’s not just gross it’s systemic.
You watch the rich and connected skate through crimes that would crush ordinary people, and the whole idea of believing in “justice” collapses.
The pattern is there for anyone with eyes:
money bends the system,
power shields predators,      like **** Trump !
and the rest of us are left watching the horror show unfold
while the guilty smirk
from their leather, scotch infused, cigar smoke , corner offices.

The fact that it’s so obvious makes it even more infuriating.
It’s like everyone knows the rules are rigged,
but we’re all still expected to pretend otherwise.

Seeing that st and realizing it stands,
that the rich, predatory, and self-serving can walk free
while the rest of us struggle.
it crushes any sense of justice or hope.
Why bother trying?
Why work,
obey laws,
care about morality,
or fight for progress i
f the entire system is a hideous lie propped up by power, money, and  endless corruption?

It’s soul-crushing,
enraging,
and utterly demoralizing,
because the scale of the betrayal is ubiquitous
it’s not just one a@#hole,
it’s a whole network of privilege and impunity that tells you:

“Don’t even think about it, the game has always been rigged,
and you  ARE  irrelevant.”

Go back and pull those turnips ...Serf .. the castle is hosting another ball....

Maga makes your stomach turn
and your brain short-circuit at the same time.

****** Express,
( That was Epstein's *** pink private jet if you didn't know.)
Multiple flights
at least 7 Trump is on the flight logs of.,
meeting and banging the
Carmen San Diego look-a-like contest winner,
Costco skeleton *****,
sock puppet
'Greatest First Lady in History'
                 Melania,
there....                    while
helping fund Epstein…
it’s all part of that sick, predatory, rich-people playground
that’s documented and recorded.
The receipts aren’t just rumors they’re on record,
verified, and floating
everywhere online.

It’s horrifying, enraging, and surreal at the same time. The sheer scale of
corruption,
abuse,
and moral bankruptcy in that orbit is like
watching a nightmare in ultra-HD with commentary from the  Satan himself.

Trump is the ultimate parasite,
  bloated  and still  milking the last drops of gullible religious idiots
like some monstrous cash cow,
giving zero f's about anyone
not his kids,
not the country,
not reality itself.

Epstein was his only real Bestie you know.
Murdered?
Yeah, the conspiracy isn’t even subtle anymore.

Elon? Can’t even deal with the Taco Manatee  without lethal kidney and liver debilitating levels of Ketamine.
His so called zombie trash bag wife?     Nope.
**** stars?  Nerp. They won’t touch him anymore  because everyone knows he’s a deadbeat  that doesn't pay,
forcing lawsuits after lawsuits just to get a sliver of accountability. The man is literally the embodiment of every
entitled,
******,
New York
Country Club
******
predator
Rich
stereotype
rolled into one
always has been above the law
orange-faced
daddy will  fix  it
nightmare.

It’s terrifying, ludicrous, and enraging.
The way he manipulates systems, people, and the media while leaving destruction  like Jan  6th  deaths in his  ******  chickky nug nug  wake .

It’s reality horror show level.
What will the history books be  allowed  to say  ?

Trump, tariffs,
are  math depraved isolationist fantasies
he might as well have been trying to run a lemonade stand with a desert for inventory.

America doesn’t produce st anymore.
Real tech?
Manufacturing? Nope.
It’s all outsourced, shipped out, while we sit here exporting Tay Tay videos,
But K-pop is gonna take that from us too. Idiots,
****** Marvel Disney G rated B-movies, inculcate the lazy
and whatever **** passes for “culture.”

If this keeps up, in a few decades we won’t even be a world power we’ll be the world’s bleach-blonde, fake-***** TikTok Cam girl *******,
churning out narcissism and pop trash while other countries build infrastructure, tech, and real power off child slave labor
engineering a way to brain wash us to accept our kids being next . Prolly a Jesus A.I. the red hats force into schools.
Every tariff,
every “America first” speech,
just covers up the fact that the engine of production left years and years ago with the Reagan Era tax cuts
and all we’ve got left is entertainment, consumption, ****, underage cam girls    ( our daughters )
ideological chaos and
piles of dead kids with NRA stickers on their lunch boxes
blocking the busses only lanes
in front of their boarded up schools
while the new Mega arena p­lays bikini ****** on the ultra Jumbotron in between penalty flags
while brain dead 3 channel havin trailer park daddy gets drunk again,
and cries about the liberals turnin all the frogs gay !­.

Writhing, violent rebellion
Systems shutting down
Uncontrollable behavior
Powerless, I frown

Fresh wounds by the second
Digesting razor blades
Flickering old habits
Born of old flames

Shredding softest weakness
Corroding iron strength
Nothing will escape
Mind snaps, and bends

Healing salve corrupted
Swallow all the same
Eradicates stomach lining
Emptiness becomes pain

Consciousness cradled
Craven slumber, debased
Maybe this time

Maybe - !

Maybe not.

You throw your heart at the world
It throws it back like a girl
It comes up short as it hits the ground
You pick it up and can tell that it’s been around

One more time you throw it out again
One more time you hope you win
Just once more is all you need
It comes with pain, but you don’t have to bleed

Catch my heart as it is falling
Here me now as I am calling
I am one you will see
All in time I will set you free

Catch my heart, let me hold on tight
Hold me close make it feel so right
Don’t let me stand alone
Catch my heart, I’m throwing it home

04/09/19