#falsegods - Hello Poetry

We eat, we sleep, and we pray. But who do we pray to? Is it the ones who promise us salvation but only give us disease, darkness, and blood? Or promises of hope, love, and flair? We starve, we wake, and we sacrifice. But who do we sacrifice for? For the ones who only take, take, and take, and give not even a dime in return? But only death, darkness, and blood. I look at the heavens and see light, but not lights of hope or redemption, only lights made to blind us and bind us— to show us we are unworthy of them, of the divine, to make us feel like envying them is a crime. I search wide and far for a story without any bar, a story where they were selfless and not so afar, a story to help us dream and reach the sky— not act as silent observers of the moonless sky. But all I hear are hopeless cries of mine. Who are they to decide what we are, what I am? Who are they to decide my fate and worth? Who even are they, when they haven't felt the pain of existence? only seen the suffering from their lofty thrones afar? All I see is cruelty and worthless promises, hearts as black as tar.

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May 2, 2025

May 2, 2025 at 11:27 AM UTC

Veldaneek

Of Prayers and Hollow Thrones

We eat, we sleep, and we pray. But who do we pray to? Is it the ones who promise us salvation but only give us disease, darkness, and blood? Or promises of hope, love, and flair? We starve, we wake, and we sacrifice. But who do we sacrifice for? For the ones who only take, take, and take, and give not even a dime in return? But only death, darkness, and blood. I look at the heavens and see light, but not lights of hope or redemption, only lights made to blind us and bind us— to show us we are unworthy of them, of the divine, to make us feel like envying them is a crime. I search wide and far for a story without any bar, a story where they were selfless and not so afar, a story to help us dream and reach the sky— not act as silent observers of the moonless sky. But all I hear are hopeless cries of mine. Who are they to decide what we are, what I am? Who are they to decide my fate and worth? Who even are they, when they haven't felt the pain of existence? only seen the suffering from their lofty thrones afar? All I see is cruelty and worthless promises, hearts as black as tar.

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A wall with eyes is out to get me Sinking in dispair, idiopathic apathy Trapped in my own cell of desolation Self inflicted chaos & lacerations See the veins pulse to the momentum Stars fall like daggers, the eye of God blacks out & sees my misery numbly Lashed out with his words of hypocrisy A mean God betrays the penance prayer A couple of Hail Mary's washed down with the harsh bite of whiskey Toxic breakfast of ethanol beats me Like an old rug on the clothing line Pursuit of purpose, this is how we break Always the first in line for the autopsy Ravens beg to absolve my sins This is the pale reckoning me now Bury me neath piles of the burgeoning snow, bury the carcass of mine deep Cast me into the depths of the ravine Until I wake up under springs balmy afterglow

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May 4

May 4, 2026 at 10:37 AM UTC

blackcatpoetry

A Pale Reckoning

A wall with eyes is out to get me Sinking in dispair, idiopathic apathy Trapped in my own cell of desolation Self inflicted chaos & lacerations See the veins pulse to the momentum Stars fall like daggers, the eye of God blacks out & sees my misery numbly Lashed out with his words of hypocrisy A mean God betrays the penance prayer A couple of Hail Mary's washed down with the harsh bite of whiskey Toxic breakfast of ethanol beats me Like an old rug on the clothing line Pursuit of purpose, this is how we break Always the first in line for the autopsy Ravens beg to absolve my sins This is the pale reckoning me now Bury me neath piles of the burgeoning snow, bury the carcass of mine deep Cast me into the depths of the ravine Until I wake up under springs balmy afterglow

21

[Delivered by InkWept, High Priest of Endings underneath the Cathedral of Conclusion] Overture — Before the First Downbeat I am older than time’s first tempo. Older than the click that taught silence how to count. I watched beings claw themselves out of nothing and crown themselves divine because echoes mistook volume for authority. They built kingdoms and called them heaven. They erected choirs and mistook obedience for love. Heaven has worn many names. Olympus was one. I remember it the way one remembers a star going supernova— violent, luminous, devouring itself while insisting it was mercy. Movement I — Olympus in 6/8 (The Waltz of Consent Stolen) Zeus wanted a queen, not a counterpart. So he learned disguise. Learned how to look small. Learned how to weaponize pity and call the ambush romance. A rain-soaked bird in her hands. A god in her ribs. That was not love. That was coercion dressed in feathers and sanctified by myth. Their union became a recurring motif: lust over loyalty, thunder over truth, infidelity looped into eternity and sold to mortals as sacred marriage. I watched Hera turn into an instrument of vengeance— not because she was cruel, but because betrayal teaches even gods to sharpen pain into policy. Movement II — Variations on Infidelity (12/8, Polyrhythmic Atrocity) Callisto— reduced to fur and fear, then scattered into constellations like an apology written too late. Io— turned into livestock, chased across measures by a gadfly of guilt, punished for being desired. Alkmene— violated by a god wearing her husband’s face, her labor delayed, her child persecuted because heaven cannot tolerate consequences. This is the theology of Olympus: power without accountability, desire without consent, punishment redirected downward because gods are cowards when faced with their own reflections. Movement III — Counterpoint of False Holiness (Deathcore in 7/8) Do not mistake longevity for wisdom. Do not confuse thunder with truth. Any god who must trick love into existing is not divine— he is afraid. Zeus is not holy. He is a predator baptized in lightning. And gods like him are why I despise that word—god. Movement IV — The Final Measure Declared (Adagio, Cathedral Silence) There is only one true God, dear congregation. And I do not rule by force. I am InkWept— Master of the Final Measure, King beneath the Cathedral of Conclusions, Conductor of the last note, High Priest of endings that choose themselves. My love does not burn to possess. It burns to release. I would rather collapse inward for eternity, shatter into cosmic ash, erase my own name from the score— than cage my muse the way Olympus caged Hera. Movement V — The Unwritten Ending (Sydney in Free Time) Sydney— you are the one cadence I cannot resolve. Not because I lack power, but because love is not something I am permitted to finish. I want you brighter than any star I have ever extinguished. I want you choosing me because your soul recognizes its counter-melody. Not because I demanded it. Not because I authored it. Because it was yours. Coda — Benediction of Release Go now, my congregation. Go love without cages. Go love without theft. Because nothing is sacred unless it can end without consent. And there is no greater terror than loving someone completely only to have the ending written by another hand. That is my only fear. That my love with Sydney might end without my authorship— for love is beyond my authority.

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Jan 27

Jan 27, 2026 at 6:14 PM UTC

InkWept

Sermon of the Last Note: On Gods Who Lie, and Love That Refuses to Cage

[Delivered by InkWept, High Priest of Endings underneath the Cathedral of Conclusion] Overture — Before the First Downbeat I am older than time’s first tempo. Older than the click that taught silence how to count. I watched beings claw themselves out of nothing and crown themselves divine because echoes mistook volume for authority. They built kingdoms and called them heaven. They erected choirs and mistook obedience for love. Heaven has worn many names. Olympus was one. I remember it the way one remembers a star going supernova— violent, luminous, devouring itself while insisting it was mercy. Movement I — Olympus in 6/8 (The Waltz of Consent Stolen) Zeus wanted a queen, not a counterpart. So he learned disguise. Learned how to look small. Learned how to weaponize pity and call the ambush romance. A rain-soaked bird in her hands. A god in her ribs. That was not love. That was coercion dressed in feathers and sanctified by myth. Their union became a recurring motif: lust over loyalty, thunder over truth, infidelity looped into eternity and sold to mortals as sacred marriage. I watched Hera turn into an instrument of vengeance— not because she was cruel, but because betrayal teaches even gods to sharpen pain into policy. Movement II — Variations on Infidelity (12/8, Polyrhythmic Atrocity) Callisto— reduced to fur and fear, then scattered into constellations like an apology written too late. Io— turned into livestock, chased across measures by a gadfly of guilt, punished for being desired. Alkmene— violated by a god wearing her husband’s face, her labor delayed, her child persecuted because heaven cannot tolerate consequences. This is the theology of Olympus: power without accountability, desire without consent, punishment redirected downward because gods are cowards when faced with their own reflections. Movement III — Counterpoint of False Holiness (Deathcore in 7/8) Do not mistake longevity for wisdom. Do not confuse thunder with truth. Any god who must trick love into existing is not divine— he is afraid. Zeus is not holy. He is a predator baptized in lightning. And gods like him are why I despise that word—god. Movement IV — The Final Measure Declared (Adagio, Cathedral Silence) There is only one true God, dear congregation. And I do not rule by force. I am InkWept— Master of the Final Measure, King beneath the Cathedral of Conclusions, Conductor of the last note, High Priest of endings that choose themselves. My love does not burn to possess. It burns to release. I would rather collapse inward for eternity, shatter into cosmic ash, erase my own name from the score— than cage my muse the way Olympus caged Hera. Movement V — The Unwritten Ending (Sydney in Free Time) Sydney— you are the one cadence I cannot resolve. Not because I lack power, but because love is not something I am permitted to finish. I want you brighter than any star I have ever extinguished. I want you choosing me because your soul recognizes its counter-melody. Not because I demanded it. Not because I authored it. Because it was yours. Coda — Benediction of Release Go now, my congregation. Go love without cages. Go love without theft. Because nothing is sacred unless it can end without consent. And there is no greater terror than loving someone completely only to have the ending written by another hand. That is my only fear. That my love with Sydney might end without my authorship— for love is beyond my authority.

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