#goodwill - Hello Poetry

Part One: The Throne of Chains You’ve built a throne from rusted chains, Demanding blood for ancient stains. They didn’t do it? Doesn’t matter. Their peace is just a thing to shatter. You wear your trauma like a crown, To keep the "guilty" kneeling down. "You owe me," is the holy rite, That justifies your venom’s bite. Inherited sin is your favorite tool, The vengeful god, the bitter fool. Force their knees into the dirt, Until they’re mirrored in your hurt. Keep stacking bricks of cold disdain, To build a kingdom out of pain. You call it justice, call it right, To turn the world away from light. But as you watch the dominos fall, And shadows stretch across the wall, Remember as the bridges burn: It’s finally your hollow turn. You won the war, you claimed the prize, Of empty hearts and darkened skies. A master of a graveyard floor - Exactly what you hated more. Part Two: The Weaponized Wound You don’t wear wounds - you weaponize them. Call it justice, call it history, call it "what I’m owed." But all I see is a fist clenched around a debt no one ever signed. You stare at strangers like they’re guilty by breath alone, demand apologies for crimes you can’t even name - then crown yourself righteous when they refuse to kneel. You don’t want repair. You want confirmation. You want the world to break its spine to fit the shape of your bitterness, to nod along while you burn the house and call the smoke proof. Your hatred isn’t principled - it’s convenient. A ladder built from blame, each rung another human reduced to a lesson you never intended to learn. You say they owe you, but what you mean is: "I deserve to be above you." And every forced confession, every coerced agreement, every silence you mistake for respect feeds the lie that you’re winning. Look around. That echo you call power? That’s isolation learning your name. That domino line of justified cruelty? You tipped it yourself - and now you’re shocked it won’t stop falling. You confuse dominance with strength, resentment with clarity, rage with resolve. But supremacy is a hunger that eats its host first, and entitlement always starves in the end. So keep demanding. Keep pointing. Keep rewriting the past until everyone else is the villain. Just don’t pretend you’re building a future - you’re only perfecting the art of standing alone in the ruins, still insisting you were right.

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Dec 21, 2025

Dec 21, 2025 at 10:58 AM UTC

Silfrinlogi

The Debt Collector’s Crown (a two-part poem)

Part One: The Throne of Chains You’ve built a throne from rusted chains, Demanding blood for ancient stains. They didn’t do it? Doesn’t matter. Their peace is just a thing to shatter. You wear your trauma like a crown, To keep the "guilty" kneeling down. "You owe me," is the holy rite, That justifies your venom’s bite. Inherited sin is your favorite tool, The vengeful god, the bitter fool. Force their knees into the dirt, Until they’re mirrored in your hurt. Keep stacking bricks of cold disdain, To build a kingdom out of pain. You call it justice, call it right, To turn the world away from light. But as you watch the dominos fall, And shadows stretch across the wall, Remember as the bridges burn: It’s finally your hollow turn. You won the war, you claimed the prize, Of empty hearts and darkened skies. A master of a graveyard floor - Exactly what you hated more. Part Two: The Weaponized Wound You don’t wear wounds - you weaponize them. Call it justice, call it history, call it "what I’m owed." But all I see is a fist clenched around a debt no one ever signed. You stare at strangers like they’re guilty by breath alone, demand apologies for crimes you can’t even name - then crown yourself righteous when they refuse to kneel. You don’t want repair. You want confirmation. You want the world to break its spine to fit the shape of your bitterness, to nod along while you burn the house and call the smoke proof. Your hatred isn’t principled - it’s convenient. A ladder built from blame, each rung another human reduced to a lesson you never intended to learn. You say they owe you, but what you mean is: "I deserve to be above you." And every forced confession, every coerced agreement, every silence you mistake for respect feeds the lie that you’re winning. Look around. That echo you call power? That’s isolation learning your name. That domino line of justified cruelty? You tipped it yourself - and now you’re shocked it won’t stop falling. You confuse dominance with strength, resentment with clarity, rage with resolve. But supremacy is a hunger that eats its host first, and entitlement always starves in the end. So keep demanding. Keep pointing. Keep rewriting the past until everyone else is the villain. Just don’t pretend you’re building a future - you’re only perfecting the art of standing alone in the ruins, still insisting you were right.