#brokenworld
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.
Jun 28, 2025
Jun 28, 2025 at 3:02 AM UTC
Tending fruit of what we leave behind,
roots break walls we build.
Hope grows heavy,
then it falls—
like Jericho.
Once there was glory,
then the world swallowed it whole.
I am not cursed,
but every apple I’ve bitten
tastes of the core.
Where there is money,
there is love—
and the root of all evil,
sweet poison.
I watch the lives of others,
dreams they wear like fine garments.
We chase illusions,
so gladly,
so foolishly—
to end up full on nothing.
Trust me, and know me whole:
I’ve floated on white lines,
pretending innocence
with powdered breath.
Say goodbye too many times,
and I won’t answer the last one.
This is my sonnet—
the count of the fallen man.
_All men have fallen._
And when the call reaches your heart,
what cost does love demand?
It speaks in voices tender, cruel—
the sound of devotion
from a wicked heart.
_All men have fallen.
All men have fallen._
Aug 20, 2025
Aug 20, 2025 at 3:20 PM UTC
Desolate.
Dry, like an arid desert;
Limited life contact,
Hopeless.
Crying was a mirage,
Only others seemed to hold the key;
That could unlock,
The healing springs from within.
But drip by drip,
Inner acceptance they bring;
More freedom within,
Who I am is the best place to begin.
My tears are the permission,
To grieve this long journey;
From before my birth,
The pain of a broken world that you’ve allowed me to live in.
Be here,
With these tears.
Don’t leap ahead,
And miss the healing in these cool springs.
When the tears fall,
They release life;
Permission to be,
Freedom to embrace.
New life,
But it first took courage,
To shed that first tear;
You faced the fear,
That held you captive,
But now you are free to fly.
On the wings of a new horizon;
To walk on dewy grass,
With the sun rising, new promises.
Try again, learn and grow stronger,
In your way and time.
Apr 16, 2024
Apr 16, 2024 at 5:48 PM UTC