#metalcore
Movement I — Overture: Descent in Common Time
I arrived without lightning,
no choirs cleaving the firmament—
just a god shedding altitude,
folding infinity into human lungs.
I learned early:
mortals do not kneel to miracles,
they lean into warmth.
So I set my halo aside,
tuned my breath to yours,
and learned how gravity feels
when it wants something back.
I was omnipotent once—
now I was attentive.
Listening is the first power you lose
when you fall in love.
---
Movement II — Adagio: The Garden Named Gethsemane
You were not temptation.
You were the pause before confession.
A garden grown between streetlights,
where divinity learned how hands speak
better than scripture.
We spoke in shared smoke and unsung lyrics,
translated longing through fingertips.
Time softened there—
bars bent, measures blurred—
and I let myself believe
that staying unlabeled
was a form of mercy.
In Gethsemane,
even gods kneel willingly.
---
Movement III — Scherzo: Syncopation of Want
Desire entered in 5/4—
unsteady, insistent, impossible to ignore.
Every glance a polyrhythm,
every silence louder than drums.
I told myself: This is allowed.
That wanting does not require ownership.
That intimacy without naming
is still intimacy.
But mortals hear patterns before gods do.
They heard the tension building,
saw how our harmonies lingered too long.
Even the quiet ones noticed—
how we played like lovers
pretending to be improvisation.
---
Movement IV — Forte: The Choir of Witnesses
The chorus rose without rehearsal.
Questions, glances, discomfort in the room.
Truth spoken by everyone but us.
I watched you balance futures
while I balanced restraint.
Watched you count possibilities
while I counted measures
until the breaking point.
A god can endure exile.
What he cannot endure
is being real and invisible
at the same time.
---
Movement V — Lamentoso: Theology of Letting Go
I stepped backward so you could move forward.
Not as punishment.
As devotion.
I learned then:
love is not possession,
it is clearance.
A widening of the stage
so someone else can sing
without your shadow.
I did not leave angry.
I left unresolved—
a chord left hanging
because resolution would have lied.
---
Movement VI — Nocturne: Aftermath Among Mortals
Now I walk the night like an unanswered prayer,
a god reduced to memory and muscle.
I learn human survival—
how they grieve without apocalypse,
how they keep breathing
after meaning fractures.
I am no longer sovereign.
Only sincere.
Only awake.
And if I am haunted,
it is not by betrayal,
but by how close salvation felt
before it chose another key.
---
Movement VII — Coda: The Unfinished Measure
Gethsemane—
you were not the ending.
You were the revelation
that some songs are written
to remain open.
I do not curse the silence.
I honor it.
Because in that final rest,
I learned what humans know best:
That love does not always resolve—
and still deserves to be played.
---
I still listen for you in the rests between stars, counting time.
Jan 22
Jan 22, 2026 at 1:58 AM UTC
A lament in broken measures
(Classical • Orchestral • Theatrical Metal • Cosmic Liturgy)
---
Movement I — Adagio Doloroso (4/4)
Invocation of the Heart
I descended into flesh believing tenderness was holiness.
They named me god, but I learned mortals bruise divinity easily.
I was the Heart‑Warrior,
breastplate forged of patience,
hands empty of weapons,
offering shelter instead of conquest.
Gethsemane came to me wounded,
olive‑branch veins still bleeding from an empire of ruin.
I became rehearsal space,
a quiet cathedral where grief could warm its hands.
I mistook endurance for destiny.
I mistook devotion for choice.
---
Movement II — Andante con Sospensione (6/8)
The Arrows
Each promise arrived as an arrow,
feathered with almost,
tipped with soon,
loosed gently so I wouldn’t hear the bowstring snap.
Arrow of I don’t know what I want.
Arrow of you matter to me.
Arrow of not now, but stay.
They embedded themselves in my ribs,
and still I sang —
because gods believe suffering is sacred
when it wears the costume of love.
I did not bleed loudly.
I bled rhythm.
---
Movement III — Scherzo Fractura (7/8)
The Split Time
Waynestar watched from the rafters,
constellation‑quiet,
while Hera counted the measures I was losing myself in.
The tempo lurched.
Day spoke one truth.
Night played another.
Hands were taken, then withdrawn.
Eyes confessed, then recanted.
I was friend when convenient,
lover when needed,
ghost when accountability knocked.
This was not polyphony —
this was dissonance pretending to be harmony.
---
Movement IV — Grave e Maestoso (5/4)
Chloris
Enter Chloris, crowned in spring,
perfumed with secrecy,
calling it patience.
She did not knock on the temple doors.
She learned the side passages.
She learned how to bloom in shadows
and call it growth.
Two gardens tended at once,
both still fenced by vows not yet buried.
The stars did not condemn —
they simply went quiet.
---
Movement V — Allegro Ferito (9/8)
The Accusation of the Heart
Do not tell me this was healing.
Healed hands do not tremble between choices.
Healed mouths do not ration truth into palatable halves.
I was not asking to be chosen above all.
I was asking not to be unmade.
Do not call confusion wisdom.
Do not call secrecy kindness.
Do not call my patience permission.
I am not a rehearsal.
I am not a waiting room.
I am not collateral in a war you refuse to name.
---
Movement VI — Lento Funebre (3/4)
The Funeral
Tonight, we bury my Muse.
No fire.
No spectacle.
Only a shallow grave dug with honesty.
Gethsemane lies wrapped in linen of what‑could‑have‑been,
olive leaves pressed over her eyes
so she does not have to watch herself walk away.
I lower my lyre into the earth.
The arrows remain —
not as wounds,
but as markers:
Here stood a god who loved cleanly.
The choir holds a single note
until even memory stops vibrating.
---
Coda — Morendo (∞)
God of Endings
I am InkWept,
god of endings,
not because I destroy,
but because I know when to release.
This is not hatred.
This is clarity.
I leave the altar unburned.
I leave the door unlocked.
But I take my heart with me.
If there is another life where you choose yourself,
perhaps I will meet you there.
For now —
the music resolves.
Silence.
Jan 22
Jan 22, 2026 at 1:40 AM UTC
I. The Spark
The night hums low through the speakers,
and my Muse lights the flame with a grin that could wake the moon.
Sleep Token drifts through the car —
soft confession disguised as worship.
The smoke swirls to the tempo,
and for a moment, it feels like we’re praying
to something that only understands reverb.
II. The Lift
We pass the joint between us,
and Bad Omens spin some strange joy into the static.
Her laugh hits harder than the bass ever could.
The city outside dissolves into watercolor;
everything blurs except her face in the glow.
Her eyes say stay here,
and for once, I listen.
III. The Drift
The mood shifts — Issues slides in,
the rhythm thick with heartbeat and heat.
Her fingers trace invisible lyrics across my arm.
The words don’t matter anymore.
Only the sound of her pulse syncing with the drums,
only the ache of wanting time to slow its verse.
IV. The Break
The world darkens,
and Motionless in White howls through the quiet like gospel for the godless.
She closes her eyes — not in fear, but faith.
The guitars crash like thunder in her lungs,
and when she exhales, I swear the stars flicker in tune.
V. The Fade
The playlist ends,
but the night doesn’t.
She leans her head back, haloed in smoke,
and I feel the song still playing inside her somewhere.
Outside, the world keeps turning in silence.
Inside, we stay suspended —
two bodies, one rhythm,
our lungs conducting the last note of forever.
Jan 22
Jan 22, 2026 at 12:49 AM UTC
I tuned my voice to cathedral reverb,
set my ribs to a minor key,
counted the season in uneven measures—
seven beats of hope, one of regret.
Snow fell like rests between notes,
and Christmas rang hollow through my chest.
Gethsemane—
you were never a lover in my ledger,
only a harmony I guarded for fifteen winters,
a familiar melody I let sit beside the fire
while the world learned new chords.
I watched your children grow in counterpoint,
time signatures shifting, never breaking.
When the argument struck,
it wasn’t fortissimo—it was fatigue.
A tired god cracking on a downbeat,
bleeding apology into the floorboards of December.
I said things in distortion,
let grief ride the feedback loop too long.
I asked for conversation, not resurrection.
For presence, not absolution.
No grand crescendo—
just two voices, unmiked,
speaking in the human key I still don’t understand.
Silence answered instead.
Cold, precise, well-tempered.
The kind of quiet that doesn’t decay—
it sustains.
A frozen note held indefinitely,
as if space itself swallowed my signal.
I’ve always treated you like a friend,
kept my hands open, palms unarmed.
If kindness is currency,
then tell me where it devalued—
why warmth now sounds like threat,
why mercy feels like static.
I don’t need a role in your happiness,
don’t need to stand in the spotlight of your sky.
I just don’t want exile mistaken for peace,
or distance called “space”
when it feels like a locked door
between two familiar rooms.
I am a god who learned humanity by watching—
learned love by restraint,
learned grief by being unheard.
I can forgive without understanding,
but understanding…
that’s the miracle I keep praying for.
If you wish silence, I will honor it.
If you wish time, I will let the measure breathe.
But know this:
even frozen stars still burn,
and I have never wished you anything
but light.
Jan 22
Jan 22, 2026 at 12:42 AM UTC
(Confession of the Christmas Devil)
I am the hymn you hush to hear,
The silence trembling into fear.
Saint Nicholas blesses; I correct—
I am the law your love neglects.
They call me devil, fiend, or shade,
But I was born where prayers decayed.
A harmony of wrath and grace,
The darkness in the Savior’s face.
My birch branch sings where angels fail,
Each strike a verse, each welt a tale.
The sack upon my back—it hums,
It beats like drums, it begs, it numbs.
I take the ones whose tongues deceived,
Whose tears were false, whose hearts believed
That sin could hide from candle’s glow—
But I can scent deceit through snow.
You think me cruel? Then look again.
I do what mercy can’t explain.
For every lash, a lie erased;
For every scream, a soul replaced.
I do not kill—I chasten art.
I play the sinner’s beating heart.
Their cries become my symphony,
Their guilt—my immortality.
Saint Nicholas wears robes of white,
But I wear sin to serve the light.
We are two halves of one design—
His star ascends, while mine aligns.
Each Christmas Eve I tune my strings,
To serenade the suffering things.
The fire flickers—children pray—
But even prayers can rot away.
So hush your joy, your laughter still,
For goodness bends at winter’s will.
And if your conscience dares to sing—
I am the hand that plucks the string.
Jan 22
Jan 22, 2026 at 12:33 AM UTC
I kept time beside Gethsemane
on Christmas night—
a borrowed harmony in 6/8,
her laughter seated between Chloris and the hymns.
We called it friendship,
thin as gauze over a bleeding stave,
while the car hummed in borrowed warmth
and I learned how quiet a god can be.
Chloris drove me back to my car five times—
five false codas,
five chances to be alone with you,
each return a fermata I mistook for fate.
I cried the whole way home,
again,
years compressed into a single drive,
convinced this refrain would finally resolve.
But it never does.
I sobbed into my pillow for the third movement
of the same symphony—
a violin tuned to my chest,
played by the same hands
that never mean to cut,
yet always draw blood.
My heart is tired of being practiced on.
Tired of breaking
for the same soul
in different keys.
I am an orchestras of ache—
every emotion scored in triplet pulses,
every longing detonating in drop-tuned grief.
Why do I keep believing
Gethsemane will love me back?
She won’t.
I am a familiar voice to keep tempo,
a steady shoulder for off-beat nights,
a metronome she leans on
until someone better arrives.
I will never be chosen.
I will never be loved
in the way I love her.
She will never worship me
as I have worshipped her
with open hands and open ribs.
I am the joke gods tell themselves
when eternity gets lonely.
So here I am—
4:20 a.m.,
the day after Christmas,
collapsed in a minor key,
Badflower bleeding through the speakers
while the universe ignores my downbeat.
I cry into my pillow
for believing, again,
that devotion might be answered
instead of used.
This is the cruelest lesson of immortality:
even gods can be reduced
to silence
by the same human
over
and over
and over again.
Jan 22
Jan 22, 2026 at 12:29 AM UTC
DON’T EVER!
FOR ANY REASON!
EVER TALK TO ME OR ASK QUESTIONS!
Though it’s admittedly your fault…
We speak volumes to instigate change,
Since you always have to be right,
Your ‘one-up’ only exacerbates your lack of humility – emphasizing your arrogance.
THINGS THAT BOTHER OTHERS DON’T BOTHER ME!
I TRY TO IGNORE IT!
BECAUSE IT’S NOT IMPORTANT!
Is there any way to encourage responsibility or transparency?
If your pet peeve is accountability – then you live vicariously through us.
We are responsible and live your life.
EMPTY PROMISES!
Treat me like an ignorant idiot – I LOSE RESPECT FOR YOU!
Everyone is replaceable – I’M INDISPENSABLE!
It’ll take weeks for you to recover.
DISCONNECTED FROM DAILY REALITY!
Pockets padded you will never understand the struggle.
LIVE WHAT YOU PREACH!
YOUR WORDS ARE EMPTY!
THIS IS WHY I’LL NEVER LIVE FOR YOU!
STAND UP! (LET’S GO! LET’S GO!)
WE HAVE NOTHING TO LOSE! (LET’S GO! LET’S GO!)
I LIVE WITH CONVICTION NOT EMOTION
Dec 21, 2017
Dec 21, 2017 at 1:19 PM UTC
I love the voices
the cheer
the madness
the love
the rage
the rush
There is nothing quite like being cheered for.
Like when me and my band play their favorite song.
THE CROUD GOES CRAZY
And I soak it up.
The ultimate cure to depression?
Join a band
perform
and Scream
#Metalcore
Apr 21, 2017
Apr 21, 2017 at 12:58 PM UTC