#lostchildhood
I disappeared into books like drowning in reverse—
coming up for air felt like the interruption,
the world outside the pages a place I had to visit
but never wanted to stay.
Four hundred pages between dawn and dusk,
spine cracked so many times it remembered my thumbs,
and I knew every character's breath,
every turn of phrase.
It wasn't enough to consume—I had to create.
Worlds poured out of me onto loose-leaf,
poems that said what I couldn't speak aloud,
stories where I could be anyone, build anything.
This was breathing. This was how I made sense
of everything I couldn't hold inside.
I was eleven when the poems worried them.
Twelve when all that feeling on the page
seemed like something to diagnose.
Instead of notebooks, I got appointments.
Instead of questions about my worlds,
questions about why I retreated into them.
That's when it burrowed in.
The parasite doesn't announce itself.
It sounds like the people who raised you,
sounds like concern, like love,
like they must know better than you do.
And when you're twelve, you believe them.
Maybe this is just fantasy, just escape.
Maybe all this making is just hiding.
They're trying to help—they wouldn't hurt you on purpose.
So maybe the thing humming in your chest,
the thing that felt like truth,
was never real at all.
The parasite wraps itself around that doubt
and whispers: What if they're right?
But you can't stop creating—it's still who you are.
You keep trying. You keep making.
Only now you're waiting for them to say it matters,
and they keep asking why you haven't done something useful instead.
The parasite grows.
It learns their cadence, their timing,
the exact shape of their disappointment.
Years pass. You leave. Miles between you now,
thinking distance will starve it.
But it's already inside.
Now when you share what you've made,
the waiting feels like standing on trial.
Every hour of silence gains weight.
The kind words that do come feel thin,
and the parasite knows how to turn them:
Politeness. Pity. They didn't know what else to say.
Logic knows better—
people are busy, distracted, living their own lives.
But the parasite is older than logic.
It was there first.
It speaks in the voice of the ones who made you doubt
before you were old enough to know
you were allowed to trust yourself.
And they still feed it.
Even now, when you've built a life
they can't reduce to wasted hours—
that slight hesitation, that subtle redirect,
the question that means: when will you be serious?
So you've stopped calling.
Stopped visiting.
Let the distance do what it does.
Because the boy who knew what mattered,
who filled notebooks and didn't question
whether he was enough—
he's still in there somewhere.
Sometimes I find him.
The words come like they used to,
worlds unfolding without effort,
and for an hour, maybe two,
I'm twelve again and the creating is easy as breathing.
Then I read it back.
The words sit strange on the page.
Clumsy. Forced. Wrong.
I used to do this—I know I did—
but now it feels like watching someone else's hands,
like a skill I never learned at all.
Like I'm fooling myself.
Like I've been fooling everyone.
A talentless hack playing pretend.
There it is again.
Every time I reach for him,
the parasite gets there first.
And I can't tell anymore
where their doubt ends
and I begin.
Nov 8, 2025
Nov 8, 2025 at 4:20 PM UTC
Девочка-панк стала леди,
Дуралеи, придворные, холдинги,
И от этой сУетной хрени
На душе не тепло — холодно.
Вот клочок бумаги исписанный —
Телеграмма в далекое детство.
Ебануть бы безумных глупостей,
Но, нельзя. Служить, Бобик! Место!
👉 Bloch-Bauer & Adele · 2020 · Signature Privée
Aug 2, 2025
Aug 2, 2025 at 12:42 AM UTC
My past life was not a rosy picture
Doors slammed on my face
My heart was closed, sealing in anxiety and PTSD
‘You can write, but you’re not what we’re looking for’
‘It’s not like you can’t sing, but you don’t fit in with the vision’
‘Cut your face and we’ll consider you for our company’
Just when did ‘pretty’ become the cutline for a person?
When did someone’s job only entail dancing and looking good for the cameras?
For a chance at debuting my words on a small screen, do I lower my dignity?
Never
With my voice alone, I know I’m worthy
My passion is an everlasting beauty
If being a flower shined in the spotlight means tearing out my roots, I’d rather be moss growing in the shade
Wherever my path leads, I’ll thrive. Every obstacle will be my foundation to climb to the top
My past life was not a rosy picture
Doors slammed on my face
My heart was closed, sealing in anxiety and PTSD
‘You can write, but you’re not what we’re looking for’
‘It’s not like you can’t sing, but you don’t fit in with the vision’
‘Cut your face and we’ll consider you for our company’
I miss the days when expectations weighed less than my looks
I’m forever anxious about all the things that I lack
Scavenger hunts have turned to road maps
No time to wander or discover hidden paths
Stay the course, eyes straight ahead,
Grow up if you want to get ahead
Are we there yet? Am I there yet?
When will I cross this finish line called success?
Have you seen my childhood?
My lost innocence and dreams?
I’m searching for that wonder that made everything gleam
Like jewels in a pirate’s chest or the stars in the Milky Way
I wish I can return to those carefree days
I wish I had never changed
Why did I have to change?
I remember a handsome evil man led me to a company one day
Promising me a fortune and all my wishes met
I was a blank sheet, was too innocent for this world
Stupidly I let myself in
In doing so, I also let my legs open and my heart stretched out
I flew higher than the sky, hoping for my dreams, only to be burned
Someone, please save me
Have you seen my childhood?
My lost innocence and dreams?
I’m searching for that wonder that made everything gleam
Like jewels in a pirate’s chest or the stars in the Milky Way
I wish I can return to those carefree days
I wish I had never changed
Why did I have to change?
Jul 20, 2019
Jul 20, 2019 at 8:45 PM UTC
Threads are sliced with cold eyes
Heart weary, stripped of family ties
Generation of lost
Blind to consequence and cost
Afraid to surrender the silver hand
Of protection, against the opposite band
Neither side finding a voice of reason
In their world of unrespectful treason
Mar 16, 2019
Mar 16, 2019 at 11:10 AM UTC