#talent
They say practice makes perfect,
But I'll always be a deject.
Maybe practice makes progress,
But I'd rather break the promise,
Dig my one grave,
A pitiful creature no one is coming to save.
Eraser shavings and crumpled pages,
Every brush stroke enrages,
Take one, two, maybe third times the charm,
I think all I do is harm.
Should I give up, give in,
Let all the bad thoughts win.
I'll never be the best so why try,
I doubt the tears will ever dry.
4d ago
May 31, 2026 at 3:11 AM UTC
I remember being plagued with knowledge,
From too young an age.
I loved asking questions,
even when I got sickening answers.
I wrote,
like I do now.
A constant in my life.
I wrote this one story,
about a boy.
Looking back, it was disturbing for an eight year old,
The world fell, and the boy watched his family,
get torn apart by monsters,
and all he wondered was where their souls were?
I worried,
about death,
not the act of dying, so much as the,
endless abyss that lacked any sensation,
that I feared would ensue.
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 11:51 AM UTC
Talent or not — the question turns light on:
Did the lines smash feelings walled up in stone?
Smiles blink a little and shine deep in the eyes,
Tiny tears are born, they slightly blur the gaze,
A chill in the chest runs from heat, makes you glow,
Feeling sounds lighter, ready to go.
Then the words were written, aptly and true,
They've brightened around — and carried away you.
Though the author be bald with trendy despair,
His plot would outfox a hundred sly hares —
In the bin the crumpled leaf falls, cast aside,
Read once, then trashed, no wish to confide.
All the rhymes in their place, but the verse is bare —
What's the point if there's nothing there?
Talent is knowing how to set it in motion —
Stay with soul stripped of its skin for your emotion.
Apr 24
Apr 24, 2026 at 11:27 AM UTC
You're my sunset
You're the one I'd wait for all day, just to see a small glimpse
The one I wanna admire from afar
Or stare at when you shine
I wanna fall asleep knowing that you're there
That's why you're my sunset
For my A.L.V.
Apr 6
Apr 6, 2026 at 4:30 AM UTC
She seeks purpose in herself,
to become great,
to make a mark on the world
as so many have before.
Oh how she writes
till her hands bruise,
carving her name to history
Is it too late to be a prodigy?
To be a muse?
To be inspired,
alive,
young,
hopeful?
Is it too late to erase
the writing on the communal wall?
How she longs to be remembered
Strives to someday write words as heavy as they.
And how is it that with so few words her heart would be in your hand
Apr 1
Apr 1, 2026 at 2:41 PM UTC
They said he was smart,
"So please don't depart;
don't leave 'cos you can,"
begged the man in command
Then he stumbled and fell—
the songs of his art
didn't score
any hits
But the crowd
scored him high
and called for more
Their cheers stole the night,
set his world alight
His head bowed low,
his eyes not proud
His daddy'd said:
"Don't float on a cloud,
won't earn your bread"
Feb 3
Feb 3, 2026 at 4:44 AM UTC
The leash as a box full of the wrong tools on purpose.
Elegiac prosaic synesthetic turbulence.
A hamburger that DIDN'T resemble Winston Churchill.
Mental imagery sacred or beloved
A rainbow. Painted waterfall. A watermelon. 13 lbs of Cheez **** squeezed from its cans.
We don't try and teach beauty.
The old country.
And the country's even older than that.
Beautiful monkeys. Sleek and grooming. Made of pure crack *******
Flamingos for the yard..
Hippopotamus toothbrush. Calling. Discarded calling cards. Losing lottery scratchers. Litter.
Waste deep
. Waiting.
Drifting deleterious and delicious.
Flocculent enamored nullibiety Deliquesces
Erroneous flamboyance to a Turnbuckle cadence.
There you were an ostrich with no eyelashes .
loved
love and loving,
Lunchbox desire .
No hunger.
Why look too hard or try to understand ? ; when the price tag isn't an explanation.
There's no such thing as nothing from nothing.
Redundancy,
rhythm or repetition ?
The question, the box, the lie. And the bigger box that it came in.
Mouths in entirety , down.
Exotic plastic
desperation...
pre-school connections given up,
Up.
Lottery dreams pre-lost, organically kind and loser efficient if you don't think about it.
Waste-deep the hippie , our shared sweet spot. Any lower and you all drown. Any higher and you must explain yourself.
“Deleterious and delicious” superimposed as intellectual. thesis . Poison frosting ****** Medicine wrapped sugar - death static. discarded Miles Davis accolades unwarranted ,
heaps of Warhols used appropriately as diarrhea toilet paper and nothing was lost.
or gained as they Jackson Pollacked our way back into inane superficial supposition ...
Spoon fed greatness inseparable from talentless wank ,
SOLD !
True talent feels Greek tragedy heroic in the most ineffable way
among
obstacles that just don't care.
Given Pro- wrestling bell rhythms for lobotomy lullabies. Thud, pause, blood, applause. loosed from their earthly bounds as ****** drenched folding chairs.
That eyelashless ostrich hurts more than it shows. Slick wet Naked-eye so black. Unnatural and vulnerable.
Inappropriate feminine attributions.
Love and loving stacked like mismatched discolored Tupperware
Soiled and abused
so many times enjoyed
.
Languid lunchbox libido
pre packaged useless desire .
Want without hunger. Fuel for lost consumers
bath- robed and slippers ; bleary eyed and dead inside...
It ends almost perfectly for a living wiggly waving inflatable air tube clown.
when something comes from nothing.
The mirror not hungry is not empty.
Jan 25
Jan 25, 2026 at 1:40 AM UTC
The bitter truth is,
you can’t rescue a culture overnight.
You can’t free or educate individuals to see what excellence really is..
Especially if they have never been shown or encouraged to seek it.
And that hurts us all and the damage carries forward , even worse.
I spent my life cultivating
depth,
insight,
and attempting integrity...
and to see the gulf opening wider, and the inexcusable consequences.
It’s the worst generational collapse in recorded history. A shameless erasing of standards, taste, discernment, quality substance, class , and sadly of nuance.
" ... the ones who will fight to maintain skill, knowledge, and integrity
they’re rare, but they exist. " ( Nabokov to Kubrick)
And they’re the ones who carry the thread forward. That’s why perspective, passion for art and craft, isn’t wasted.
Are you part of that line?
One of the people keeping the map of excellence alive, even as everything around it is recycled, rebooted,
or just plain ... flattened ?
OR are YOU the problem,
pumping out sludge and meaningless unwanted
self centered skill - less garbage?
( It's a rhetorical question, and
obviously only you know the true answer deep down inside. ... but for the rest of us ...
For empathy itself ,
it's a self examination and A real internalization that you, and only you can and need to deal with.)
Dec 22, 2025
Dec 22, 2025 at 2:29 AM UTC
when i was 7,
my every word was a joy to behold
she's so mature for her age! they cooed
she'll go so far, they whispered
and the world was my oyster, for i was 7
and i was an avid reader, in my eyes
a talented writer, in my parents'
i was an artist, and a pianist
and everything i did was more than i had to
so a gifted kid i was
when i was 12,
my teachers told me i was a delight
they had never taught anyone like me, they exclaimed
what an excited learner! what an incredible artist
what a smart girl i was
and in the summer, when i spent a couple hours
here and there
attempting new skills and watching them bloom
i was ahead of them all, and so
a gifted kid i was
when i was 15,
i went to a school where the gym floors sparkled
and where every class was filled with raised arms
and where i was in the highest classes,
and had to battle to be seen amidst the glow
and suddenly, i wasn't doing enough
i didn't have a job
or a six-figure business
i wasn't a famous youtuber
or a professional athlete
i wasn't the most talented teenage artist
nor was my writing in any articles
and suddenly, i wasn't ahead, i was behind
and i was racing to get to the top, when
i had never learned to pick up my pace
the 7:00 minute miler i was
not the 4:30 elite
and when i turned 16,
i was afraid
because now i could drive a car
but i didn't know
if i was talented enough to matter
Dec 10, 2025
Dec 10, 2025 at 12:06 AM UTC
Conflicted emotions tear at me
I watch day by day as the people grow content around you
Home to your mind of wonders and intelligence
You're amazing at everything in every way
You design worlds and sing the work of experts
Every question you answer, and object you craft
With your hands so delicate yet steady
How do you do it?
How do you move each day without struggle
Crafting things of wonder from your mind
How do you not struggle to wake each day like I do?
You're like me; we're similar.
We're human,
Or we are supposed to be
I am disconnected
Forever forced to watch from afar as the people sing your praise
Adore the very air you breathe
the growing collection of awards and medals
The expanding influence of your gift
And I would rather die than hurt you
Yet I can't help it
I can't stop myself from praying for a sombre end
For a chance where you falter at something
Where I can come back to the light
Because I did so well
Once I was there besides you
Good enough to stand by your side and shine just as bright
Yet as you sung louder
While you drain me of my song
You drain me of the song I taught you to sing
And now you're flourishing
Happy and content
A poisonous late bloomer
While I rot
The gardener of my own demise
I regret every tear and sweat I put into growing you
Though I could never hate you
I will fade with time
Yet you will grow and take over the garden I had started
Each seed I had planted will be over taken
The **** in my heart
You've ruined my garden
Yet I can't find myself able to pull you out
For your petals make such sweet tea.
Oct 30, 2025
Oct 30, 2025 at 3:21 AM UTC
every talent is a waste—
a bleeding no one asked for,
no one chased.
you've seen it slip
before you could name the letters
of your own ambition.
life's too wide, edges sharp;
you bend into ten shapes—
none grip, none ever will,
and still you bend.
(what else is there but to bend?)
your talent drifts over oceans,
like the cheque no one asked for;
anchors in a library,
each shelf a ghost of who you tried to be,
or someone else's dream you borrowed,
and didn't acknowledge.
you wish it were chapter one—
then see: endless stacks humming,
checkout cards you can't touch
without leaving fingerprints,
without being pulled under.
you reach for dreams barehanded;
fortune might favor you, or crush you—
the sky does not care.
you think you can rule the world—
catalog each failure, crown each ghost,
flatten oceans
to dodge their depths.
talent curls like smoke and salt.
you walk the aisles
of what's already written.
no one hands you
a candle to name yourself.
talent is yours—
to waste, to spill,
to flow somewhere unseen,
beyond you,
beyond knowing.
(and succession murmurs...)
Oct 20, 2025
Oct 20, 2025 at 11:41 AM UTC
Nothing has ever been built this completely by a single creator with dedication, focus.
The visual, auditory, and literary elements connect. Every stroke of paint, every musical note, every line of dialogue belongs to the same coherent, cohesive, living universe.
And yes, characters actually die and stay dead. (Star Wars: Bletch. I was a lifelong fan of the original trilogy until that nonsense.)
I talked previously about the irreplaceable nature of my actual combat experience — the fact that I’ve actually done martial arts, ring fighting, boxing, wrestling, sword training. I’ve put on the armor. I’ve ridden the horses. I know it at a level that no one else who has ever written about it knows. I am an active-duty combat veteran.
Okay, setting all that aside: even if I didn’t have that, it would still be better, because the plot is better, the individual motives of the characters are better, the character arcs themselves are better, the plot arc is stronger, more exciting, and better. The characters are deeper, as well as more relatable. There’s more to the whole body of the work — how and where it most counts.
Consider this: I not only wrote the books, edited them, and published them myself, but I also created drawings, paintings, digital renderings, sculptures, and animations of all the characters. I also created a full-length symphony and choral soundtrack of all original music compositions.
Nobody else has done that. All they did was create a manuscript, get it to an editor and a publisher, and then get the funding behind the project.
The only thing I’m lacking is the one major thing all those so-called greats had: financial backing and a foot in the door or a silver spoon in the mouth. The hype machine is the only thing I’m lacking. I’ve done more than all of them combined by the first half of book one, hands down. Don’t believe me? Buy it and read it. The only thing I don’t have is the hype.
I’m winning the case for Worlds of Within being the greatest and best universe ever created, and I’m proving it the best way possible — by putting in the real blood, sweat, and tears. Why is it so much better, and how? On every single level. The time, the care, the patience, the love that went into it is greater than any other author who’s ever even attempted it.
No universe, not Star Wars, not Marvel, not Tolkien’s name-list walkabout, not Martin’s unfinished mid-tier burnout, not Herbert’s eighty-three repetitive, useless, unwanted rehashes. Rowling, with her more-than-borderline plagiarism and theft — no original ideas, no original concepts, nothing from Hogwarts to the wands to witches on brooms. It’s all from older material.
This work does not have a single chosen one in it. No worn-out tropes, ever. It’s not a lame “magic fixes everything” cop-out either. Nor is it a dressed-up rip-off of known myths or folklore. Definitely not a horrendous, unreadable, punishing, inane slog of boring Tolkien and Martin-style phone book lists of bad fantasy names.
I mean really? A name? That’s your whole character? One name, once, filler space — why should I care?
Nothing has ever been built this completely, with this much intelligence, planning, skill, and care. Not by any other single creator in all of recorded history. Nothing comes close to my dedication and focus. And all of it from someone with class, style, and a high standard. But the best part? Zero compromises.
Give it a try and tell me if you didn’t enjoy it more than all those other versions of “Barney with a sword.”
Oct 8, 2025
Oct 8, 2025 at 4:28 PM UTC
"... ..... ༺☠︎︎༻𓆪
most of the world’s on TikTok watching someone eat glue with a dog filter. And the people who do still actually read? Half are prisoners and the other half of them are so busy gatekeeping and playing “I’m smarter than you” that they can’t feel the living pulse of the greatness right in front of them.
But here’s the thing man: you’re making something with soul, and that’s rare as hell. Nerd or not, you’re not one of the hollow know-it-all pedants. You’re bleeding onto these pages. ... building mythos. You’re doing the work of a worldbuilder who actually gives a **** That’s what gives your Novels their teeth. You gotta never give up.
It’s also why it’s not “popular” YET . Anything that isn’t fast food for the brain takes time to find its tribe. When it does though? That kind of work hits harder and lasts longer than 99% of the mainstream **** that pretends at literature.
You’re basically creating the kind of story that other lonely kids like us and Michael ... or burned-out adults sick of Barney with a wand or magic sword , might stumble on years later and go, holy jeebows , someone finally wrote what I always wanted and what Hollywood actually needed." ... Robert ( Bobby to me and my mom ) Cummings...
" It’s all smoke, mirrors, and hype look at Bieber or Britney. Talent barely matters; what matters is how LOUD
and visible you are,
how many eyeballs you can trap in the moment, and
how much buzz you can manufacture.
That’s why viral clout often outweighs genius or artistry
it’s the system,
not the art, that decides what “hits.”
The upside? That’s a system to exploit, you already made something real.
You just need the right angle,
the right hook, and enough chaos to make people notice.
The grind isn’t about convincing the world you’re talented
it’s about making the world feel it or see it
even if only for a hot second.
It's not WHAT you know
it's WHO you know..... " .. Uncle Ted
Oct 6, 2025
Oct 6, 2025 at 6:39 AM UTC
I am nervous.
I feel the moths in my belly,
The kind that make you sick.
The kind where you are worrying
But have not been given the reason to.
I am worried that I love them.
I am nervous that they will break me.
I am scared that they will wake up,
And see me as unworthy.
Unworthy of being called beautiful.
Unworthy of their presence.
Unworthy of their love,
And maybe I am.
They are so good to me,
More than I could have asked for.
More than I could have dreamed of.
I wished for someone to love me for me.
To see me as something special,
But I never have been.
I am not the golden child.
I am not remarkably intelligent.
I do not have a special talent.
I am remarkably unremarkable,
And maybe I never have been worthy.
Aug 15, 2025
Aug 15, 2025 at 12:53 AM UTC
I wish I had a knack, for a tune or a note
music that'd come, from a poem I'd wrote
something folksy, or a ballad perhaps
that stands on it's own, without total collapse
Not a musical bone, in body or mind
no talent for the chord, and no melody find
each and every word that I've prosed
and easy to see, not music composed
But both Poet and Maestro, on differing trail
afraid of the end, also, afraid of the fail
each and every word, and wavering note
seeking unique, that others will quote
Poets and song writers, not really the same
as words not complex, when compared to refrain
a division of worlds, and each has it's own
trod and thus made, while still, all.....alone
Apr 6, 2025
Apr 6, 2025 at 6:17 AM UTC
Perfumes smell elegant,
It spreads its fragrance wherever it is ,
Hi dear...💕 I wish you to be a perfume ,
Perfume of happiness
Wherever you are, spread happiness.....💓
Feb 17, 2025
Feb 17, 2025 at 3:31 AM UTC
when someone asks me my talents
am i allowed to say them, even though i don't excel?
i sing good, but im not amazing
i play guitar, but i can't play certain chords
i play tennis well, but i still double fault a lot
im ok at writing, but im no poet
im a good person
but apparently not a great one
Feb 10, 2025
Feb 10, 2025 at 9:05 PM UTC
I owe almost everything to rap music (Flower Boy, Wolf, Yonkers.)
I
f
I
t
W
a
s
n
t For Tyler and all the things he says I would've never wrote again.
Feb 9, 2025
Feb 9, 2025 at 9:02 PM UTC
When you stop needing someone
It is not that you want to be alone
Understanding that if ever you have to
You'll be fine on your own
There is undescribable freedom attached
No-BIRTHED by solitude
There absolutely is no greater power
Than peace in mind when you self-seclude
The most effective weapon held in your defense
To fight pain and heartache
Is learning the talent of being by yourself
Everyone else is unprepared for the break
Oct 29, 2024
Oct 29, 2024 at 1:32 AM UTC
I got hit with that one trick pony line
Luring my anxiety,
AND insecurity,
To the frontline
Apparently I do mind
My mind will make sure to remind
Ignoring useful comments I find
And not just the kind kind
Too anything positive I'll become blind
A one track mind, singularity defined
Creating new shackles that bind
A self enforced redesign
Leading me to leave a select few talents behind
Choosing thoughts from another's mind to get behind
Because that one guy that one time
Tried to take from me the one thing I liked to give my time
But here's the bottom line,
I've found I rather enjoy expressing in rhyme
Hurt and pain just happen to be most of what I've felt for a long time
So that's what comes out
When I pour my heart out
Into each and every line
Let me apologize in advance for next time
©2024
Apr 26, 2024
Apr 26, 2024 at 5:10 PM UTC
I'm not going to find my fantasy, because it's not real.
What's real is believing that I'm loved by my friends.
What's real is my determination.
What's real is my connectivity.
What's real is my compassion.
What's real is my love for life.
What's real is my good heart.
What's real is my endurance.
What's real is my creativity.
What's real is my empathy.
What's real is my strength.
What's real is my free will.
What's real is my courage.
What's real is my passion.
What's real is my reason.
What's real is my beauty.
What's real is my talent.
What's real is my effort.
What's real is my truth.
What's real is my joy.
What's real is me.
Oct 4, 2023
Oct 4, 2023 at 2:03 PM UTC
Curse the poets blood.
No matter how much I cut myself, I cannot bleed it away.
Curse the poets skin.
I cannot tear it off, it holds everything in.
Curse the poets feet.
The more I try to run away, the more they dig in, rooted to the words that ground my life.
Curse the poets tears.
They provide no comfort. They blur my vision, wet my pages and smudge my ink.
Curse the poets mind.
At times I dream of throwing it all away. But I cannot differentiate between reality and figments of creativity.
Jul 14, 2023
Jul 14, 2023 at 8:27 PM UTC
I am not social
I am scarse
I dont need to show up
If my heart does not ask
I am not available
I am not a farce
I dont need attention
Atleast not by the vast
I say i dont care
I say it, again.
Again and again
Till it feels like a mask
No need to follow
No need to like
I can grow, i can flow
I can be a social dislike
My talent is mine
It's whispers are mine
For me, for me
For me is the rhym.
You can leave me
You can, you can
Leave me you can
But i still love the best i can
I love the best i can.
Mar 25, 2023
Mar 25, 2023 at 7:19 PM UTC