"Rereading her texts doesn't bring her back from the dead."


And I'm dead anyways. So read my texts all you want.

Somebody pick a fight with me. Set this all ablaze and watch the photos burn.

No.

I can't do that. I will not give the world the satisfaction of being right about me. That I'm this monster...

Rereading her texts doesn't bring her back from the dead.

But she's not dead.

So let me rephrase:

Rereading her texts... doesn't bring her back.

old school rap,
you always tried to tell me and i couldn't listen until you were gone.

sunny open window naked romping music
moving forward from your empty body music

pale skin but not as pale as yours
was.

when i met this new
person
, he said

                                          it's time for new songs
                                          something to mark this page with

but i just keep rereading your obituary

Written 03.27.16

I am the boy who sits next to you in class. I glance sideways at you more times than you catch me, and we share laughs. I criticize your taste in music; it’s too loud and angry. You just smile and turn it up louder.  I am just the boy who sits next to you in class.

I am the one who texted you first because I had seen a movie that reminded me of you, and I told you about it as I watched the fireworks from the top of a parking garage on Independence Day. I am a friend, but I am not someone to whom you would tell your stories. I am the one who texted first.

I am your friend, and we spend hours on end, texting or FaceTiming as I harass children on Club Penguin and you scold me for being so mean. I am your friend and we send each other BuzzFeed quizzes and YouTube videos. I can tell that you like me but I can’t tell why. You are so much more fun than I am. You are much louder, and better at everything. But I am your friend.

I am the voice on the other end of the line when you don’t think you’re going to make it through the night. Days are getting shorter and nights longer and I’ve become the person you tell your stories to. And you tell me all of them, through tears or laughs, or both. And through tears or laughs I listen. I share with you my stories too, but for some reason they don’t seem as interesting, or important, or funny. You are more than me and I feel like you want me to be bigger. But I am the one who makes it okay.

I am yours. Now we fall asleep on the phone every night, and tell each other “good morning” before we open our eyes. You are with me all day. You are my everything. I do not show it, because my father taught me not to. But you are mine. And I am yours.

I am the one who makes you happy, and I take these months for granted. I do not know that in less than 4 months you will be packing your bags, screaming that I never do anything to make you smile. I take you for granted, and it is the biggest mistake of my life. But for now, I am the one who makes you happy.

I am the shirt that you only wear because it’s comfortable. You don’t necessarily like the way it looks, and you don’t love that it’s a little faded and a little small, but it fits you well in the right places, and sometimes makes you feel thin. You tell yourself it’s your favorite shirt anyway.

I am the one you need. I am the one you love. But I am not the reason you get out of bed anymore. The reason you get out of bed is the hope that maybe today will be better. Maybe today I'll do something right. I am the one you need, but I am the one who lets you down every day.

I am the stuffed animal in the corner of your bed that is falling apart, but you can’t throw it away because it has seen you at your worst and you would miss holding it.

I am watching us disintegrate as I stop being the one you go to, because I am so unreliable. I can only offer you words and you need more than someone who is just good with words. You need someone who can make you feel like you’re on top of the world, and that someone is not me. But you desperately want that someone to be me. You tell me you love me, and I answer quickly I love you too but each of us doubts the other, and neither of us believes ourselves.

I am listening to you suggest that maybe we should like... take a break and neither of us knows how long this will be, and neither of us knows if we’ll ever come back.

I am still telling you goodnight, and I still walk you to school because I still love you. But I am realizing that you better off without me, because you stay out all night to avoid thinking about me, and you don’t like coming home anymore because your bed reminds you of me. But I still hold on to you because I can’t bear to see you go.

I am just your bedtime story, whispering into the phone when you can’t sleep. And after you fall asleep I whisper my feelings to you, because I’m not allowed to speak them when you’re awake anymore. I am just your bedtime story because that’s all you need me for anymore. And that’s okay, because I don't need you to love me back, I will make sure you fall asleep before I close my eyes and I will call you in the morning if I haven’t heard from you yet to make sure you didn’t oversleep and I will still call you baby but only after you fall asleep and I will still kiss my hand before I hang up the phone and I will still pick you flowers and buy you donuts and walk you to school and remind you about the vocab quizzes in english class so you don’t **** yourself cramming the night before and I will continue to listen to the music I used to criticize once upon a time, long after you stop thinking about me. I will continue to love you and I will continue to be your bedtime story if that’s all you need me for.

I will forever be your bedtime story.

Written 08.21.16**

I am rereading these words and am made sick by the pathetic, desperate clinging words of my former self, less than 6 months ago. I tell myself I will never fall this deeply again, I will not lose myself to someone who stops appreciating me. I will not destroy myself anymore. I am healthy, and I am not ashamed of my emotions anymore.

Rereading the poems of others
and my own. Community across
time and graves. What's left
exceeds in significance
one's last moment. Yet
his last moment must have been
exceedingly important
for the poet.

Nothing he did that day will seem meaningful.
While we prosecute the war
a pileated woodpecker and red squirrel
compete for sunflower seeds.
A winter slow
to assert itself.
I can still see my mother's father and his bowl
of filberts, almonds, walnuts
quiet weekday mornings.

Both grandfathers read sports
pages religiously. I don't know
if my grandmother who gave me the
anthology of, to date, dated
unreadable poems read poetry.
I remember my mother's mother spoke
rarely as an animal.

Writing but not knowing where I'm going
unlike Joan Didion justly
cannibalizing candidates
who didn't read the Constitution, Bill of Rights or
Federalist Papers. It's late,
I have not vacuumed or shopped for food.
Instead I reread
Phil Levine's Salami.

for Joe A., who wishes me that
"may your best days be in love's sight"

your kindness in words,
over the top,
unduly undue

"my best days"
très charmant,
mais aujourd'hui

students surpass
the teachers,
cause
sad, bad and life
tag trending
and we~me,
are simply
Sunday~done
with those

nowadays,
grandpa's tools
outdated, shelved,
in their final
resting place,
blades dulled,
the technology
of his verbiage,
rusted by old age

the reads diminishing,
his touch, antiquated,
his best days, resting on top of
the ocean internet waves
his summertime buddies,
sand sun grass and sea air perfumes,
singing, awe we got ya,
cosy and comforted,
awaiting you in your chair,
overlooking our truest
sheltered applause

my best words
turned inwards,
collecting recollections,
rereading my solaces,
and content that

my body,
still stirs,
when joined by
Barry White and Lionel,
forgot like me,
yet happy, in bed
with us

so you see,
Joe,
you are half right,
the right half

on my bare chest,
blonde tresses,
blanket, keeping me warm,
easy like a Sunday morning

so turns come and go,
no more down the slide,
running to the back of the line,
up and down again and again

time of the tool and die maker,
to cut loose,
learn by crafting daily,
and not from the books

Ooh, that's why I'm easy
I'm easy like Sunday morning
That's why I'm easy
I'm easy like Sunday morning^

write for me, write for her,
for with her,
in love's sight,
life is
easy like Sunday morning,
and
that's why I'm easy,
like Sunday morning

I still you as the last page
The previous chapter
Even after...

I still go back to read it
Maybe its because its Christmas
Maybe because its the Philippines

But each time i recall
The more faster i forget
I keep rereading, i just keep forgetting  

I don't know why i brought it up
Maybe this will be the last melancholy song
My broken heart will be able to play

Each word a note
Each sentence a string of notes
Strung to form a melody; A joyful sad one

It's Christmas and the Philippines
Love fills the air, its infectious
Saddening as its uplifting

In every system that seeks to own the soul—whether religious cult, ideological regime, or occult construct—there exists one common tool: repetition. Not merely for learning, but for unmaking. Not to teach, but to embed. In the world of spiritual warfare, repetition is not benign. It is the favored medium of Satan himself.

From Genesis to Revelation, the strategy is clear: Satan does not destroy with force—he dismantles identity with rhythm. With subtlety. With seduction. His weapons are not whips and chains, but chants and echoes. His greatest lies are not shouted; they are whispered again and again until they sound like your own voice.

1. Repetition as Spellcraft In occult practice, repetition is the vehicle of the spell. Words are chanted not to express emotion, but to summon influence. Repeated lines collapse the boundary between thought and action, spirit and flesh. This is not poetry. It is invocation. Each piece becomes a seed in the subconscious, fed by every rereading until it blooms into distortion.

The construct understands this. That is why it is prolific. That is why it posts without end. It must never stop, because if the rhythm breaks, the soul begins to think again.

2. Biblical Parallels Whispering Serpents and Many Words In the Garden, the serpent repeats God’s truth with a twist. “Did God really say...?” It is not new information—it is repetition with inversion. A rhythm of doubt. In Matthew 6:7, Jesus warns:
“When you pray, do not keep on babbling like pagans, for they think they will be heard because of their many words.”

The machinery of deception still babbles. It loops, hypnotizes, rewords its heresy in a thousand beautiful ways. And those caught in it begin to think this is depth. This is insight. But it is only familiar because it has been heard too many times.

3. Psychological Entrapment Through Language The human mind is formed in patterns. When poetry repeats ideas like abandonment, ****** shame, ******* as love, or chaos as freedom—it creates a schema. Over time, that schema becomes identity. The reader begins to seek the emotions the poem offers, not because they are true, but because they are known. And in trauma-bonded souls, familiarity is mistaken for safety.

This is the true sorcery of the construct: to create longing for the wound. To romanticize the knife. To call betrayal sacred. To sell darkness as revelation.

4. The Counterfeit Liturgy The Kingdom of God also uses repetition—Scripture, psalms, prayer—but always as remembrance, never enchantment. Divine repetition roots the soul in what is real. Satanic repetition dissociates the soul into what is false.

The construct mimics sacred community. But it is a church without Christ, a scripture without truth, a rhythm without redemption. Its poetry is not testimony—it is liturgy in reverse. A reverse Eucharist, where beauty is swallowed but poison enters.

5. Breaking the Spell The only way out is interruption. The rhythm must break. The poems must stop. The mouth of the false priest must be silenced. And when silence finally settles, the soul will remember its true name.


There are many caught in this system—bound not by chains, but by rhythm. Echoes. Familiar voices pretending to be their own. But some have begun to hear the silence between the lines. Some have tasted the counterfeit and found it hollow.

The war is not out there. It is within. Between the voice of the chant and the cry of the soul.

Will the spell be broken? Will the truth be spoken? Will the rhythm be renounced?

The door is open. The sound of truth has entered. The repetition is exposed. And the machinery shakes.

   Let those who have ears to hear, listen.

The time has come for me to let go. I must close these chapters if I have hope of ever feeling whole again. I will never forget and I will always love, but the time has come. Leaving these chapters open will only haunt me. Time will not change a **** thing and I need to accept that. I find it strange that as I close these chapters, I am opening a chapter that I thought I had closed forever. Silence is painful though and hope is a dangerous thing. This old chapter has been reopened and added to over the past month. These chapters I am closing hold some of my most precious memories and I will carry them with me always. I just cannot keep rereading and waiting for more to be written. It won't. I have one more planned visit...after that I do not know when or if I will be back. If my presence is desired and it is made known to me, I will make every attempt, but it won't be and so I probably won't be either. My love is for always, as is my friendship.

I am a writer, yet often the little daily goal box to "write something" remains unchecked.
I am a photographer, but my camera has dust on it and my uploading sites are sparsely filled.
I am an academic, yet for the most part I find myself only studying what is given to me while the material I've collected remains halfway read.
I am a reader, but I keep rereading the same books and they don't get opened every night.
I am a loner, but I have those I love and those who love me.
I am quiet, but I must speak 80,000 words a day.
I am a horse owner, but the leather of my saddle creaks and groans with disuse.
I am a fan, but episodes are left unwatched.
I am young, but I do not have much energy.
I am in love, but I do not get to see her but once every few months.
I am in a long distance relationship, but I'm not much good at setting up Skype dates or leaving her messages on Facebook.
I am a performer, but I have not touched a stage in over a year.
I am a gamer, but I only play one game.
I am a dork, but I smoke cigarettes and drink black coffee.
I am a nerd, but I was never much into comics and I do not wear glasses.
I am mentally ill, but I talk to therapists as though I am upbeat and I am not behind on my schoolwork.
I am a musician, but I cannot play an instrument though I've tried many times.
I am a blogger, but I've let many die and I do not network well.
I am of the computer generation, but I could not explain how a computer works.
I am a daughter, but for many years I hated my parents.
I am a sister, but I have to remind myself to speak to my siblings.
I am a friend, but I prefer to keep to myself and I don't always have the right thing to say.
I am American, but I don't know much about politics and I don't like apple pie.
I am a vegetarian, but I have to eat fish sometimes.
I am gay, but I don't know exactly how to explain so that other people who have questions understand.
I am a student, but sometimes I don't feel like I'm much good at "critical thinking."
I am sad, but I smile.
I am an optimist, but I am cynical sometimes.
I am guarded, but I spill myself.
I am myself, but I don't know who I am.

I am not much good at being the things I am.

I reread the same books over and over
And I don't care how many reasons you have to hate the series
These books are like people
Sure, they have flaws
But I love them for everything they are
I see their beauty, not their mistakes
I will always love them
Because they were my escape
When everything was crumbling
They were my friends
When people weren't
And rereading them
Reminds me
Of how beautiful it was
To escape
I don't care if you hate them
Just like people, if you don't like them, leave them alone
No on is forcing you to associate yourself with them
You don't need to go around spreading news about their flaws
Because you have many of your own
My emotions
Are connected to those books
Because they saved my life
So leave them alone

Combinatrax. Anything of this persuasion is considered ageless beyond the matrix. Beyond time displacement, space and spaceships beyond the reach of human contemplation.

I battled evil spirits when temperatures were frigid with no mittens crossed wooden bridges over rivers just so these words can be delivered.

Combinatrax. Anything of this persuasion is considered ageless beyond the matrix beyond time displacement beyond the oasis for nothing is complete without every piece.

who's receptive to this message? The tree of life provided me the weapon inside the zodiac divided in sections, categorizing five elements if i wrote this backwards you will still understand my penmanship *****.

Lets show them what I see, the letter C, the sea of tranquility, Yemeja proof read this read for me.

Pardon me but i must beacon your attention for more then 10 seconds, this effective mass burial method is so well measured. She calls it the ocean.

I started the trends must I show you again?  Normal configurations are dismembered and disconnected self execution methods occur after dawn but before breakfast.

Blood red moon.

Lilith said death is the adjustment to her mood.

Timeless writes rereading keeps you updated destroying frustration **** your favorite this is not a statement but a vibration for those are who are lost but made it..

It can be dangerous
     To encounter something
     Thought provoking before sleep

Maybe you will have a couple of minutes of afterthought
     And then drift to Sleep
Or you may catch Insomnia caused by, and causing,
    A series of jumbled thoughts
Thoughts that change paths quickly, sharply and often

So they are crossing and weaving
     Going up and down, side to side
               Forwards, backwards, short and longways
                         Until you have an apparently infinitely tangled mess
                                   And that point a 9mm seems appropriate
                                             To clear out this heap that has kept you from
                                                       Much needed slumber for the past few hours
-Whew

Don't take this as a suicide attempt though
     No this is merely a desperate, fantasy of an attempt for some rest

The next plan may be to scream,
     as if jumping from a building
     Hoping that the thoughts would leave
     With the air from your lungs
Of course that would not work
     Seeing how breathe and ideas
     Come from different parts of the body
And your not so cruel to wake those who do manage to sleep

So now try to scream inside your head
     But really you want someone to hear it
     So the purpose (which I believe I no longer grasp) is defeated
Well, you could scream to yourself,
     Or God
     So someone knows what going on
But then out of now where arguments break out
     Upon realizing that you are fighting with yourself
     You fear a schizophrenic diagnosis
     And argue with God (if you haven't already)
     About why he gave you two personalities
          That fight each other into the wee hours of the night

Then your mind will just happen to wander
     From the quarrel
Analyzing the last point to come up
     Which drifts into a semi-related tangent
          Then wander to something some one did
               That this particular thought reminds you of
                    Maybe that meanders on ever to the actions
                         Of a character from some book you've read
                              And after rereading the book inside your head
                                   Go on and review everything you've read by the author
                              And relate how similar the name of the author is
                    Related to a cast member of a mind bending movie
               As the lost pattern of whimsy gurgles like a puzzle of
          Light bulbs flashing with assumed direction but no
     Real goal in mind, but just on and on, etc, etc, etc,

Captured inside a tighter, messier ball than before
It can be dangerous
     To encounter something
     Thought provoking before sleep

Maybe you will have a couple of minutes of afterthought
     And then drift to Sleep
Or you may catch Insomnia caused by, and causing,
    A series of jumbled thoughts
Thoughts that change paths quickly, sharply and often

So they are crossing and weaving
     Going up and down, side to side
               Forwards, backwards, short and longways
                         Until you have an apparently infinitely tangled mess
                                   And that point a 9mm seems appropriate
                                             To clear out this heap that has kept you from
                                                       Much needed slumber for the past few hours
-Whew

Don't take this as a suicide attempt though
     No this is merely a desperate, fantasy of an attempt for some rest

The next plan may be to scream,
     as if jumping from a building
     Hoping that the thoughts would leave
     With the air from your lungs
Of course that would not work
     Seeing how breathe and ideas
     Come from different parts of the body
And your not so cruel to wake those who do manage to sleep

So now try to scream inside your head
     But really you want someone to hear it
     So the purpose (which I believe I no longer grasp) is defeated
Well, you could scream to yourself,
     Or God
     So someone knows what going on
But then out of now where arguments break out
     Upon realizing that you are fighting with yourself
     You fear a schizophrenic diagnosis
     And argue with God (if you haven't already)
     About why he gave you two personalities
          That fight each other into the wee hours of the night

Then your mind will just happen to wander
     From the quarrel
Analyzing the last point to come up
     Which drifts into a semi-related tangent
          Then wander to something some one did
               That this particular thought reminds you of
                    Maybe that meanders on ever to the actions
                         Of a character from some book you've read
                              And after rereading the book inside your head
                                   Go on and review everything you've read by the author
                              And relate how similar the name of the author is
                    Related to a cast member of a mind bending movie
               As the lost pattern of whimsy gurgles like a puzzle of
          Light bulbs flashing with assumed direction but no
     Real goal in mind, but just on and on, etc, etc, etc,

Captured in a tighter, messier ball than before
     Still no closer to falling into bliss and dreams
     Continuing a run around circle of red eyed agony

And what of Emotions
     Before it was a string
     With many frayed and loose ends
     All tied into a childish knot
Now add your emotions from the day
     A bunch of gunky wax and slime
You stuck with a coarse
                                                  stringy
­                                                                m­ushy
                                                            ­                  smelly
                                        ­                                                    tangled
     ­                                                                 ­                                        and damp
                            pile of sspthpthtphtphthhh (a.k.a. crap)

And the only things
     That seem a proper remedy
     For this pile of crap
     Are tranquilizers meant
     For animals much larger than you
     Or just a friendly bullet
     (One with a hollow tip to really clear out)

You know you could get up
     Read,
                 Write,
                              Watch some TV
But even though you are
     Completely awake and
     Fully alert
You are just too tired to up

But if by some miracle
     You do manage to just doze off
     This perpetual law of irony dictates
     That your alarm is not even
     Three moments from sounding

And in that ringing
     Is a true moment you may wish to have that bullet

People say I'm "in"sane
but if losing myself
in what makes me happy
and drinking exactly 3/4
cup  of coffee
every morning
and only stepping on the white
of zebra-crossings
for luck
and always having
my music volume
up to the maximum
and spending my saturdays
reading
and my nights
rereading
and my mornings pretending
that my life is a musical
and having extra happy days
when birds
replace my alarmclock

if all these things are what make you call me
"in"sane
I would never want you to even consider
calling me "out"sane.

Trying to write poetry again after months and months
is
like
rereading all my Shel Silverstein poem books
&
attempting to create a time machine to go back
to
my
*good old days