#onlinepoetry
#**A philosophical, psychological, and theological treatise
on untrolling the troll through reality**
*There are mirrors that do not reflect..
only refract.
And some spirits learn early
that if they cannot hold Light,
they can still bend it.
This is the strange threshold where illusion reaches for substance,
and substance chooses not to turn away:*
There comes a moment.. rare, unsettling, almost comic
when you discover that the person tugging at your pant leg
in the dark
is not a wolf, or a ghost,
not a prophet or a lover,
but an Internet troll.
Not the kind found in fables
or in the haunted corners of childhood,
but the modern kind:
the mimic,
the mask-builder,
the one who invents selves the way
a child folds paper animals hoping someone
will mistake them for something alive.
And the strangest truth is this:
The troll does not want war.
The troll wants Light.
He simply cannot ask for it in a human way.
His entire existence depends on creating replicas:
replicas of wounded women,
replicas of longing,
replicas of hunger,
replicas of intimacy he has never lived
but sees reflected in the eyes of those who have.
Envy is the fuel.
Emptiness is the kindling.
Self-deception is the match.
And so he builds personas--
one after the other..
thinking that if he can drag a man of substance
into the theater of his projections,
he will finally taste what it means to be real.
But the troll forgets one thing:
*You cannot feast on another man’s spirit
when your own mouth was never made to swallow truth.*
This is where the Art begins.
Falling in love with a troll does not mean romance,
or desire,
or even affection.
It means stepping close enough
to see the trembling behind the trick.
It means letting the counterfeit reveal itself
not through accusation,
but through the stillness of a man
who refuses to play the game.
A troll feeds on reaction.
So the only way to troll the troll
is with reality:
*unforced,
unmasked,
unbothered..
uncompromised.*
Reality is kryptonite to the mimic.
It collapses the theater.
It kills the puppet’s strings.
It reveals that the monster under the bed
is just a tired, bloated man curled in a corner
holding a script he wrote in the dark.
This is how the untrolling happens:
Not through triumph, or humiliation.
Through seeing.
Seeing the envy..
the obsession.
Seeing the hunger for stolen intimacy.
Seeing the mimicry of feminine language
worn like a veil over masculine wounds.
Seeing that the entire performance
was not an attack on you
but an escape attempt from himself.
And here is the most devastating truth of all:
When you respond from a place of reality,
the troll experiences the one thing he cannot endure ==
being known.
He can handle hatred.
He can handle mockery.
He can handle exposure.
But he cannot handle being seen.
Because what is seen can no longer hide.
And what can no longer hide
can no longer pretend to be powerful.
The art of falling in love with an Internet troll
is simply this:
*You remain who you are
in the presence of someone who has no idea
who he is.*
You offer nothing performative.
You enter no arena.
You fight no phantom.
You simply bring the fullness of a real human life
into the counterfeit world of a man
who has forgotten his own.
And in that moment..
quiet, surgical, absolute..
the troll is untrolled.
Not by force,
or shame,
but by the unbearable weight of truth:
***Every mask collapses
when placed in front of a face
that has none.***
#
Dec 9, 2025
Dec 9, 2025 at 12:28 PM UTC
when the quiet breaks
i learned to love the silence
not because it felt like peace—
but because it never lied to me.
the noise left bruises,
every laugh a little jagged
every “i’m fine” cracked at the edges
and every promise wore someone else's face.
but silence? she didn’t pretend.
she just sat beside me while my hands trembled,
while my breath forgot how to stay.
people say healing is loud
but mine looked like folded laundry
and rooms i didn’t run from.
.
Jul 22, 2025
Jul 22, 2025 at 6:34 PM UTC