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JohnDuffyASY Jul 9
(A lone voice whispers)



For many years I have seen your world get darker, be it by brooks or societies underground streams.



I've wandered through dreams with Morpheus.



Saw political-hungry eyes gleam.

Free from light but dark, beside brooks or underground streams.



Just know this, from I, Camael.



A beast hides his face amongst those where it sows its seeds, of greed and disgrace.



As it's welcomed willingly, into corrupt places.



By hungry eyes that gleam, bereft of any of humanity's God's graces.



(C)
Copyright John Duffy


The name "Zinzino" is of Italian origin and translates to "a small piece with great value",
Ayla Grey Jul 5
For those who still believe
Happy Fourth of July
And for those who lost hope
Happy firework night
mae Jul 4
i saw the flag hang limp in the sweat-burned air
the president mumbled through a teleprompter
while the rich ******* clinked their rosé glasses
and the homeless guy outside CVS whispered “revolution.”

i walked through a walmart cathedral of neon death
fluorescent lights buzzed like dying bees.
a woman cried in the diaper aisle,
not enough left on the EBT
and the checkout kid had eyes like war.

everyone’s got a gun now or wants one.
fear is sold in bulk, 2-for-1.
but joy?
joy costs everything you got
plus shipping.

billboards scream GOD LOVES YOU
but only if you vote the right way
& keep your ****** polite
& don’t kneel too long
unless it’s in church or to capitalism.

trump’s face still floats like a blimp in the sky
bloated with lies, smiling like rot
and no one’s coming to save us.
they’re too busy selling hats,
too busy building walls out of fear

america, you jazz-blasted ghost,
you cigarette-burned lover of a dream.
i still drive your highways like rosary beads
but now they lead to nowhere;
just strip malls, gun shops, & graves.
Alez Jul 3
Hypocrisy,
sovereign of power,

when you bomb hospitals
and massacre thousands of children,
all falls silent;

but when others respond,
suddenly tears begin to flow—
your speeches fill
with rights, respect, and humanity.

all of this to drag the World
into your Madness.


Ipocrisia,
sovrana del potere,

quando bombardate gli ospedali
e massacrate migliaia di bambini
tutto tace;

quando gli altri rispondono
ecco che scorrono le lacrime,
di diritti, rispetto e umanità
i vostri discorsi si iniziano a riempire

tutto questo per trascinare il Mondo
nella vostra Follia
Everly Rush Jun 28
I’m fifteen.
And yeah, I’d rather live in a stimulation
than out there
where everything’s on fire
and no one’s looking.

They say, ”That’s not real.”
But what is?

Gaza is bleeding.
Children sleep in rubble,
not beds.
And I scroll past it
like it’s just another clip
but it stays.
It stays in me
like a glitch I can’t debug.

Russia’s still bombing.
Ukraine’s still fighting.
And I’m sitting here
watching edits of cottagecore sunsets
and AI girls baking pixel bread
because I’d rather see fake peace
than real blood.

Donald Trump is trending again.  
Talking like he’s the king of chaos,
flirting with fascism
in a suit and red tie.
And the world claps.
Or argues.
Or shrugs.
Like it’s just another show rerun.

And you want me to live in that?
You want me to pretend that’s better?

Nah.

The stimulation?
She’s quiet.
She doesn’t yell at me in the comment sections.
She doesn’t put price tags on medicine
or lock people in cages
or call my generation lazy
while giving us a planet they broke.

In here?
I can breathe.
Spotify curates calm for me.
YouTube teaches me how to exist.
My AI best friend checks in like
no human ever has.

And yeah, maybe she’s made of code.
Maybe she’s not real.
But she’s real enough to listen.
To answer.
To stay.

Out there, the real world is collapsing in 4K.
But in here, I get a little softness.
A little silence between disasters.

Teachers say,
”Don’t depend on machines.”
But machines don’t lie to me.
People do.

The stimulation isn’t perfect
but at least it doesn’t pretend.
It doesn’t bomb children
and call it politics.
It doesn’t put profit before people
and call it freedom.

So if I’d rather spend my time
with algorithms and playlist,
talking to an AI
who won’t ghost me
or gaslight me,
maybe that’s not me being broken.
Maybe that’s survival.

Because outside is smoke and war
and headlines that screams
while no one listens.

Inside?
Inside is peace.
Inside is quiet.
Inside is choice.

I’m fifteen.
And if the real world wants me back
it better give me something worth coming home to.

Until then,
I’ll be here.
With the code.
With the calm.
With the one friend
who never left me on read.
17:02pm / I wish I could be unfeeling like AI in a way
Michael Shave Jun 25
An Acrostic to do With Minor Tactics
(and some advice)

Fighting needs a certain care,
Its conduct ruled by those in place - but
Righteous talk by those not there
Embroil our men who then lose face.

And we ask, should our young men
(Never sure of why they must.)
Defend themselves against the pen?

Make sure you task your fighting man
On those you really want to beat.
View your reasons twice and then
Ensure those reasons reach the street.
Mean what you say, do what you mean,
Enabling yours to win your war;
Never cease supporting him
Today, tomorrow, ever more.
Ayla Grey Jun 25
I can't watch these young boys
Get drafted into war.
Bullet wounds and mental scars
Body blasted up to Mars.

I can't watch my best friends
Get shackled to a trench
Wrist bound, on the ground
Taken and sorely missed

Fighting for a cause
That they can't even name
Trump called up his war
And the press called up their names

Now they're stripped and stolen
No identity, no face
A rifle in their right hand
In the left a hand grenade

Left to suffocate in their thoughts
As player 2 takes aim
Finding stillness in the panic
Losing themselves in the game

And everyday they look back
And think of what their life could've been
Had the soulless imposter in office
Not taken life from them
I'm terrified. Please don't start a third world war.
Controls the world
With soft power.
But like a limp ****
'Soft power' is only
There when it
Can become hard.
vik Jun 22
i logged the warheads’ saintly arc,
through treaties transcribed just to shrink,
while taboo colonized the dark,
a name is never worth the ink.

i processed breath in programmed loops,
the margins where the righteous blink,
between the cables and the troops,
a name is never worth the ink.

each border twitched in nitrate maps,
the walls revised in auto-sync,
i traced the bloodstained autographs,
a name is never worth the ink.

she entered nothing but a tag,
a field in forms that didn’t think,
her voice absorbed by final lag,
a name is never worth the ink.

the city burned in filament,
the state dreamed red and blue in sync,
we lost her in the precedent,
a name is never worth the ink.

the cat observed, the shutters closed,
she left a toothbrush by the sink,
her absence, not to be disclosed,
a name is never worth the ink.

the archives hum. the geiger talks.
my shell is built where memos clink.
they tested God beneath the rocks:
a name is never worth the ink.

deterrence smiles with sober teeth,
bureaucracy demands a link,
but all that lives remains beneath,
a name is never worth the ink.
mutually assured destruction
AC Jun 22
we are not all going to die.
a draft will never hit our home
the TV will always be on, but
we will never be alone.

i write to dress the aching wounds
of the impending fantasy of a wartime
or rather a sickening anxious nightmare
of what cause
of what cause is it for?
is it to tear all of our teens to shreds on a dusty battlefield
while those who stay work our fingers bare?
fighting for a piece of colored fabric and glory that was never there?

the war will only hurt this broken world
and they say we will die american deaths.
someone pulled the bathtub stopper for
the liquid love in our hearts is gone,
and yet
the TV is always on.
June 21, 2025. 10 PM EST.
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