"Staring at a screen, wondering if it’s staring back. Typing words"
20y old, my soul feels it’s been through three midlife crises
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Category: Writing and Poetry
Silence died a long time ago. There is no space left for emptiness, for breath, for waiting. Everything must be immediate, everything must be now. My hands ache, but they keep going. My eyes burn, but they keep going. My brain screams, but it keeps going. I don’t even know what I’m looking for anymore. The satellite cables have tangled into our veins, and we called it progress. We carry the e » Continue Reading
Category: Writing and Poetry
I am the pain that doesn’t heal, the wound that bleeds on cold days, the scar that throbs when the world grows too quiet. Healing? An illusion. A crooked line we draw to convince ourselves that one day we’ll be whole again. But the truth is, pain is a language we never learned to speak, yet it speaks through us, even when we try to silence it. It whispers in our bones, screams in our veins, and we... » Continue Reading
— 2 Kudos
Category: Writing and Poetry
The couch still calls. It always calls. Its siren song is soft, familiar, a lullaby of inertia. "Stay," it whispers, as the world burns outside my window. "Rest. The revolution can wait. It’s not going anywhere." And I listen. Of course I listen. Because the couch is warm, and the revolution is cold. The couch is easy, and the revolution is hard. The couch is here, and the revolution is out there—... » Continue Reading
Category: Writing and Poetry
I don’t give a fuck if the world crumbles, if the walls cave in, if the sky splits open. I’ll keep making art. Art is the wound I keep open the rot, the infection I refuse to let heal. I don’t create to be beautiful. I create to be alive. To remind myself that I’m still here, still breathing, still capable of feeling something other than numbness. I’ll carve my name into the flesh of the world if... » Continue Reading
Category: Writing and Poetry
We are not gods. We are not angels. We are not the enlightened beings we pretend to be. Strip away the layers of civilization, the polished veneer of morality, the carefully constructed myths of progress, and what remains? Flesh. Blood. Bone. Hunger. This act of consuming one another is not a poetic device, not a symbol of greed or societal decay. It is the raw, unflinching truth of our existence.... » Continue Reading
Category: Writing and Poetry
I don’t know when it happened, but one day I woke up and the world felt wrong. Not because you had just changed. Because it had been a while. Because the change came and went, and I only noticed now. No cracks in the sky. No alarms went off. No great cosmic hand reaching down to rearr » Continue Reading
— 1 Comment— 4 Kudos
Category: Writing and Poetry
I have witnessed atrocities once reserved for the hollow-eyed, cigarette-burned who stare past you at the grocery store. Atrocities beyond human comprehension, streamed in crisp HD resolution through the existential crisis rectangle I clutch to my chest like a dying prayer. Now, I sle » Continue Reading
Category: Writing and Poetry
It was a seamless process, in much the same way that tripping over a sidewalk crack and landing face-first into a pile of trash is seamless. One moment, thoughts flowed freely, rich and complex, and the next, they were neatly organized into ones and zeros, like a library where every book was replaced with a single sticky note saying, "Book exists." The engineers c » Continue Reading
— 4 Kudos
Category: Writing and Poetry
I have built towers that claw at the sky. I have carved cathedrals from the ribs of the earth. I have paved roads that stretch beyond the horizon, veins pulsing with the weight of a thousand wandering souls. Every stone I have laid has meaning. Every beam, a purpose. Every creation, an echo of my hands, my mind, my intent. » Continue Reading
Category: Writing and Poetry
There’s a fire inside me, but it burns slowly, like a forgotten candle in the back of a dark room. I feel the flame, I feel the heat, but I also feel the weight of comfort, this soft mattress that whispers, "Stay. Rest. Tomorrow you’ll set the world on fire." The revolution should be a roar, but here it is, whispering. It calls to me from the streets, from the headlines, from the voices screaming ... » Continue Reading
Category: Writing and Poetry
I don’t know how to say this without sounding broken, but I am. I’m broken. And I don’t know how to fix it. The pain doesn’t fade. It grows. It spreads. It’s in my chest, clawing at my ribs like a wild animal. It’s in my hands, trembling and useless. It’s in the back of my throat, choking me every time I try to speak your name. I don’t know how to do this without you. You were the air in my lungs,... » Continue Reading
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