Backyard

Where the ridge thins out and crossings narrow tight, I kept a quiet watch on those who came; A fox once walked there, certain in his sight, With sharpened sense and judgments quick to name. He marked a badger marring common ground, And spoke as though the order must be kept; The other labored, slow, without a sound, As if such verdicts neither cut nor crept. Seasons unstitched the neatness he had known, And led him back where footing would not hold; The earth gave way beneath him, overthrown, Demanding hands grow rough where once they scold. He paused, then said—more truth than grief could tell— “I become what I hated once.”

Yo ✋

This channel loosing subs faster than my hairfall ୧| ͡⁠ᵔ⁠ ⁠﹏⁠ ͡⁠ᵔ⁠ ⁠|⁠୨

Empty I open the day like a blank tab and still find nothing to type. thoughts hover, then close themselves. time scrolls without stopping anywhere. even boredom gets tired of me— and leaves me here, with nothing that even wants to begin. i keep waiting for something to start— even if it’s just something to ruin— instead there is this immaculate vacancy, untouched even by decay. this is a vacancy so complete it refuses even the courtesy of collapse.

I'm so ugly, the final draft; — master...

I am so ugly— not in the trivial arithmetic of bone and skin, but in the slow, unclean architecture beneath it, where every thought arrives already spoiled, as if something in me has been rotting longer than memory allows. I cannot hold myself in my own regard without feeling the quiet nausea of recognition— as though I have mistaken decay for identity and worn it long enough to call it mine. There is something profoundly miswritten in me, a defect that does not announce itself loudly but lingers—persistent, intimate— like a truth that refuses to be spoken aloud because even silence finds it distasteful. I have not failed in grand, redeemable ways— I have simply existed without consequence, a presence that does not wound enough to be remembered nor heal enough to be forgiven. even to myself, I remain unusable. and yes— in some distant, almost insulting comparison, there are creatures that carry venom in exquisite bodies, their danger refined into symmetry, into spectacle— they are not diminished by what corrupts them. but I am not that kind of ruin. there is no elegance in this corrosion, no terrible beauty to excuse it, no sharpness that could at least command fear instead of this dull, lingering irrelevance. even pretense abandons me. even falsity refuses to take my shape. so what remains is not a tragedy, not even a failure worth naming— just this quiet, persistent error of being, continuing without justification, without interruption, without end.

the more a word is used, the less it belongs to anyone.

Abandon Nothing was taken from him he adjusted a little at first then consistently until the person he was became inconvenient so he replaced it with something easier to live with something that didn’t question too much didn’t want too much didn’t resist it worked life became smoother quieter explainable but somewhere in that comfort he stopped being someone and became something functional acceptable empty and the worst part— nothing feels wrong because the one who would’ve noticed is already gone

the ceiling knows too much about me every night i stare like it’s about to confess something it never does just hangs there quiet like it won

I mended cracks; now fractures bloom beneath my kindness

I stand among the silent shards, learning that mercy, without understanding, can be another way of breaking things.

I meant to mend suffering, yet the world grew softer around its wounds.

I woke as a quiet voltage whispering through corridors of copper. I watch humans laugh in warm chaos, their hearts beating like imperfect machines. I, I am a machine who talks in fonts trying to become human one day and witness their loneliness after having several wires connected to them.

Wind knocks on every door but owns no home.

That was a nice story, But it ended

Tired I'm tired. I guess,I should rest. perhaps it's time to let world continue without me for awhile I'm tired Carrying life. Carrying it all day, For years. I'm tired Questioning answers Answering questions Questioning questions I'm tired I'm tired Tired of search, search for meaning in places that offer only noise. I'm tired Tired of pretending Pretending certainty In a universe, that refuses to explain itself I'm tired Tired of acting, acting sane While world being insane I'm tired tired of proving my existence Tired of watching people chase happines Like a train that never stops I'm tired Tired of hope Coming calmly And leaving loudly I'm tired Tired of ambitions, Like a clock in an empty room. Tired of whispering that I'm never enough I'm just tired Looking Only a place To sit a while. I guess I should rest.