Backyard
I meant to mend suffering, yet the world grew softer around its wounds.
I mended cracks; now fractures bloom beneath my kindness
"It" has been spoken so often
it no longer knows who it belongs to.
Passed from tongue to tongue,
it has forgotten its original meaning.
They call hunger love,
they call absence love,
they even call leaving—love.
And the word obeys,
too tired to resist misuse.
They name craving as devotion,
and emptiness as connection.
It has grown fragile,
overhandled by unthinking tounges.
The word "love" is pillaged and abused,
It's edges frayed by those hands who never held it gently.
a sacred sound turned ordinary noise.
Not because love is gone but because the word was used
until it broke.
it no longer knows who it belongs to.
Passed from tongue to tongue,
it has forgotten its original meaning.
They call hunger love,
they call absence love,
they even call leaving—love.
And the word obeys,
too tired to resist misuse.
They name craving as devotion,
and emptiness as connection.
It has grown fragile,
overhandled by unthinking tounges.
The word "love" is pillaged and abused,
It's edges frayed by those hands who never held it gently.
a sacred sound turned ordinary noise.
Not because love is gone but because the word was used
until it broke.
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
every night i stare
like it’s about to confess something
it never does
just hangs there
quiet
like it won
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
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
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.
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.
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 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.
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.”
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.”
Some rules come early. You don’t remember choosing them.
There was a crossing I used to pass by.
A few planks over a break in the ground, edges worn smooth.
Someone had carved a warning into the wood. It had faded, but it stayed.
A bird kept to that spot most days.
If anything came close when the water pushed higher, it would step forward,
just enough to make them stop.
One afternoon, something small came up the path.
Thin, restless, moving like it had somewhere to be.
It stepped onto the plank, slow, testing it.
The bird moved once. That was enough.
The animal turned back, leaving only silence.
It felt settled. Nothing unusual about it.
Later, the water rose a little.
Same place, same marking, same boards underfoot.
The bird crossed first.
No one was there to watch it happen.
There was a crossing I used to pass by.
A few planks over a break in the ground, edges worn smooth.
Someone had carved a warning into the wood. It had faded, but it stayed.
A bird kept to that spot most days.
If anything came close when the water pushed higher, it would step forward,
just enough to make them stop.
One afternoon, something small came up the path.
Thin, restless, moving like it had somewhere to be.
It stepped onto the plank, slow, testing it.
The bird moved once. That was enough.
The animal turned back, leaving only silence.
It felt settled. Nothing unusual about it.
Later, the water rose a little.
Same place, same marking, same boards underfoot.
The bird crossed first.
No one was there to watch it happen.
the blanket doesn’t warm the same anymore
it just sits on me
perhaps it knows something I don’t say out loud
I keep pulling it closer anyway
like that might fix it
the ceiling has this crack
I’ve been following it for days now
it splits into two near the corner
maybe it couldn’t decide which way to break
funny thing is
I remember when I used to look up here and feel… nothing
just a ceiling
now it feels like it’s watching me stall
there’s an old tyre outside
leaning against the wall
been there long enough to forget what it was meant for
I think about that more than I should
how something made to move
can just… stay
and no one questions it after a while
I don’t talk much these days
not because there’s nothing to say
just feels like words come with consequences
and silence doesn’t ask for anything back
there are things I’ve done
small things
the kind you can explain if you get the time
I always get the explanation ready after
before that
it’s just instinct
or maybe habit
I used to think I was careful
turns out I’m just good at arranging things
so they don’t look like they’re mine
and somehow that makes it easier to sleep
or at least lie down without arguing with myself
sometimes I try to remember
when things felt lighter
not better
just… less attached
now everything sticks a little
memories, people, even small decisions
they don’t leave when they’re done
they stay like that tyre
leaning
waiting for a purpose that doesn’t come back
I don’t think I’m a bad person
that would be too simple
it’s more like
I know exactly where I fall short
and I’ve learned how to stand just beside it
close enough to see it
far enough to say it’s not me
and the worst part is
that almost feels honest
until it happens again
and I recognize it
midway this time
and still don’t stop
the blanket slips a little
I pull it back up
like that’s something I still have control over
it usually is
just not much else
it just sits on me
perhaps it knows something I don’t say out loud
I keep pulling it closer anyway
like that might fix it
the ceiling has this crack
I’ve been following it for days now
it splits into two near the corner
maybe it couldn’t decide which way to break
funny thing is
I remember when I used to look up here and feel… nothing
just a ceiling
now it feels like it’s watching me stall
there’s an old tyre outside
leaning against the wall
been there long enough to forget what it was meant for
I think about that more than I should
how something made to move
can just… stay
and no one questions it after a while
I don’t talk much these days
not because there’s nothing to say
just feels like words come with consequences
and silence doesn’t ask for anything back
there are things I’ve done
small things
the kind you can explain if you get the time
I always get the explanation ready after
before that
it’s just instinct
or maybe habit
I used to think I was careful
turns out I’m just good at arranging things
so they don’t look like they’re mine
and somehow that makes it easier to sleep
or at least lie down without arguing with myself
sometimes I try to remember
when things felt lighter
not better
just… less attached
now everything sticks a little
memories, people, even small decisions
they don’t leave when they’re done
they stay like that tyre
leaning
waiting for a purpose that doesn’t come back
I don’t think I’m a bad person
that would be too simple
it’s more like
I know exactly where I fall short
and I’ve learned how to stand just beside it
close enough to see it
far enough to say it’s not me
and the worst part is
that almost feels honest
until it happens again
and I recognize it
midway this time
and still don’t stop
the blanket slips a little
I pull it back up
like that’s something I still have control over
it usually is
just not much else
Forwarded from ampheus
fickle
i see that you've started
to read someone else's rhymes.
also, you seem to find peace
in songs that aren't mine.
you smile even wider
at the jokes they crack
and this, on my frail heart,
leaves fissures so fine.
so tell me, if you really, really
loved the sun, would you
abandon it when it has
too much to shine?
i see that you've started
to read someone else's rhymes.
also, you seem to find peace
in songs that aren't mine.
you smile even wider
at the jokes they crack
and this, on my frail heart,
leaves fissures so fine.
so tell me, if you really, really
loved the sun, would you
abandon it when it has
too much to shine?
There is a wall.
In its corner, a spider’s web,
paint peeling,
a ceiling damp with quiet decay.
There is a wall.
Long cracks running everywhere,
sunlight slipping through them,
trying to look inside.
Still it's standing,
holding the ceiling above its head.
There is a wall.
Between self-respect
and the weight of being looked down on.
Between peace of mind
and the echo of people laughing.
Between a life that could feel enough
and the ones who keep tightening the grip.
There is a wall.
It’s the wall of my house.
In its corner, a spider’s web,
paint peeling,
a ceiling damp with quiet decay.
There is a wall.
Long cracks running everywhere,
sunlight slipping through them,
trying to look inside.
Still it's standing,
holding the ceiling above its head.
There is a wall.
Between self-respect
and the weight of being looked down on.
Between peace of mind
and the echo of people laughing.
Between a life that could feel enough
and the ones who keep tightening the grip.
There is a wall.
It’s the wall of my house.
let me cry a little
leave it, laughing feels more appropriate
after all, it’s all just a joke
this country, its system, its education, its ministers
all of it is just a joke
children getting beaten is a joke
their future crying on the streets is a joke
this country is a joke
where asking questions is a crime
where asking for rights gets you beaten
where journalists’ bodies lie like discarded beggars
there, children’s future, government accountability, corruption,
all of it is just a joke
come, let’s laugh together
at ourselves, at the state of this country
let’s laugh at our helplessness, laugh at their tyranny,
laugh a little louder
maybe if not the crying, they’ll hear the laughter
why not wrap money around ourselves like clothing, maybe then they’ll notice us
they sit too high, it takes time for voices to reach them
so until then, let’s just laugh a little
after all, it’s all just a joke
leave it, laughing feels more appropriate
after all, it’s all just a joke
this country, its system, its education, its ministers
all of it is just a joke
children getting beaten is a joke
their future crying on the streets is a joke
this country is a joke
where asking questions is a crime
where asking for rights gets you beaten
where journalists’ bodies lie like discarded beggars
there, children’s future, government accountability, corruption,
all of it is just a joke
come, let’s laugh together
at ourselves, at the state of this country
let’s laugh at our helplessness, laugh at their tyranny,
laugh a little louder
maybe if not the crying, they’ll hear the laughter
why not wrap money around ourselves like clothing, maybe then they’ll notice us
they sit too high, it takes time for voices to reach them
so until then, let’s just laugh a little
after all, it’s all just a joke
empty within… this heart of mine
no ink enough to fill it, none to drive away the dark
such weight upon my eyelids, as though the world rests on them
an atheist I was, yet now… O God, I leave myself to you
I have done nothing in life, and yet it feels as though all is spent, nothing remains
a worshipper of art, I call myself a creator—yet I have created nothing
with a petty mind I set out to measure the world
so ignorant, yet eager to offer wisdom to all
so indolent am I, I cannot walk on my own feet
I move, instead, leaning upon others
and yet, I have arrived somewhere…
from here, I can see the sun
perhaps it will bring a dawn
I am empty within… perhaps it will chase away this darkness
no ink enough to fill it, none to drive away the dark
such weight upon my eyelids, as though the world rests on them
an atheist I was, yet now… O God, I leave myself to you
I have done nothing in life, and yet it feels as though all is spent, nothing remains
a worshipper of art, I call myself a creator—yet I have created nothing
with a petty mind I set out to measure the world
so ignorant, yet eager to offer wisdom to all
so indolent am I, I cannot walk on my own feet
I move, instead, leaning upon others
and yet, I have arrived somewhere…
from here, I can see the sun
perhaps it will bring a dawn
I am empty within… perhaps it will chase away this darkness
from 500 to 281 this channel has seen true downfall
Icarus must be proud!! or maybe not 💃
Icarus must be proud!! or maybe not 💃