Poems by Him

You can if you have grit and aren't at the mercy of your dopamine like every other bot

Chapstick

I spent a lifetime building this intricate facade, a fortress of unquestionable strength and control. Every gesture, every silence, every decision was a carefully calculated brick in the wall. The fear was always that someone would find the weakness, the lie that would collapse the structure. But the real terror is the realization that there is no hidden room, no vulnerable self to find. The entire complex is merely an exterior shell, a beautifully maintained vessel with no purpose, no cargo, designed only to reflect the light of expectation. There is truly nothing left to expose.

The words I speak are the correct ones, the tones are weighted with perfect authority. I have memorized the script of The Capable Man. But the sound is not generated here; it is only an echo. When the applause fades, the quiet settles. I press my ear to the chest and hear no heartbeat, only the hollow resonance of a perfectly empty drum.

The competence is flawless, a mirror polished to a terrifying shine. It shows the world exactly what it demands, but when I turn it inward, I find only the glass.

I try to reinforce the present, to build a life on pillars of current success. But the history is not just water under the bridge; it is the aggregate mixed into the concrete. Every lie, every act of cowardice, every missed opportunity I try to discard is actually a necessary tension rod holding the whole structure up. If I were to truly tear out the memory of the failure, the entire self would collapse in on itself, a sudden, blinding implosion of identity. I am built of my mistakes. The ruin is the foundation.

I stood at a new crossroads, a new city, a new life built from clean, unforged materials. I swore I would choose the path that diverged, the route that led away from the original, defining error. But as I stepped forward, the ground beneath my feet began to unfold itself into the old terrain. The same flaw I buried a decade ago stood waiting at the corner, wearing a new face, offering the same, irresistible poison as a gift. Every new choice is simply a variation on the one mistake I tried to leave behind. The map of the future is drawn in the ink of the past.

I took the singular, most poisonous memoryand held it to the flame, determined to erase its mark. The paper curled, blackened, and turned to ash, but the image did not fade. Instead, the moment itself re-etched itselfonto the inner wall of my eyes, brighter than before. It was not recorded on the paper; it was stored in the chemistry of the hands that held the match. I learned that to burn the evidence is only to purify the painful truth it contained.

The vastness of consequence is meaningless, since there is nothing left to lose. I float, unattached, above the world's frantic gravity. This is not peace, but a dangerous, clean adrenaline. My every movement is final, unchangeable, because no promise binds the next hour. To be truly free is to be unaccountable to any living soul. And that realization is the purest intoxication.

I do not look back at the former self, the one who wept, the one who begged. That history is a foreign country now. The surface I present is flat, unreflecting. There is nothing left to feel regret for.

I see the true shape of things, unclouded by need or desire. This clarity is my highest, coldest prize.

The landscape of the inner world is a precise, empty square. No sudden warmth can breach the perfect geometry of the walls. I have found a brutal contentment in this vacuum, the exhilaration of having no needs, no pleas. Every choice is made without consequence, because there is no one left to betray or mourn. The only remaining desire is to maintain this flawless, self-imposed isolation.

The attachments were weights, chains tethering the soul to the ground. I cut them all with a clean, surgical indifference. My hands are now empty, light, and perfectly steady. This lightness is the true, terrible power.

To feel nothing is to fear nothing. I exist at the center of my own coldness. An unbreakable sphere of quiet control.

The back holds the heft, a burden of blood, not of work, but of failed promises. Every mistake is sealed into the tissue, a deep, cellular scar that does not fade. The muscle contracts in defense, protecting a wound that is not on the surface. It is the body's refusal to forget the violence of one's own past actions.

My sinews are woven not of fiber, but of unspoken lies and old regret. They keep the body rigid, upright, while the heart begs to simply fold. A permanent tension of compromised living.

The silence of old defeat is not forgotten by the bone. It resonates deep in the hollow marrow.

the ones who wont be forgotten

she was battling von and doodie lo in these streets man

MW3