I'm pretty new to writing and frankly, my stories are horrible writing-wise when I read them. Any piece of advice would appreciated.

I've published and self-published a bunch of books, but publishing an audiobook (and working with a voice actor) is a completely new experience for me. There are also paperback and ebook versions available. The Amazon link is here. Someone also uploaded the ebook to libgen.

Here's the blurb for the book:

It’s never been easy being a high schooler, and for four students stuck in detention, it’s about to get a whole lot harder. After opening a magical board game they find in a dark closet during detention, each is teleported to another world—the world of Byzantium.



What’s worse: this place is in trouble. A slave rebellion has overrun entire cities, and barbarians from the east and west are on the march. On top of that, fantastic monsters and mystical warriors have joined the fray, throwing Byzantium into chaos. Our four high school students find themselves in four different bodies, taking four different sides in the conflict. Each must now fight desperately to survive. 



Byzantine Wars is the first book in a complete trilogy: an historical fantasy isekai with LitRPG elements. Enjoy four different main characters with varying strengths and weaknesses, deeply immersive world-building, and endless humor and adventure. And, most importantly: don’t let the farr fade.

Your support—comments, tips, shares—helps me keep telling the truth and staying alive while doing it. Thank you for being here. Ko-fi

What We’ve Lost

My eyes flutter open, everything blurred and swimming in and out of focus, like I’m surfacing from a dream I can’t quite leave behind.

The first thing I notice is the brightness—harsh fluorescent lights burning overhead, sharp and unforgiving, making my head throb.

I blink slowly, my senses creeping back, though everything feels heavy, distant.

The room is cold, sterile—white walls, too white, as if they’re trying to wipe away what’s left of me.

The sharp smell of antiseptic clings to the air, mixed with the faint metallic scent of blood.

But beneath it all is the stench of my own sweat—thick, sour, and rancid, the kind of smell that only comes from detoxing off drugs.

It clings to me like a second skin, thick and unbearable.

It’s the smell of every toxin I’ve pumped into my body, pouring out all at once, and it makes my stomach churn with nausea.

The steady beeping of the heart monitor hums along with the slow drip of fluid through the IV, the rhythm almost hypnotic, dragging me deeper into the haze.

My body feels frail—cheeks sunken, skin pale and clammy.

I try to move, just a twitch, but my limbs are useless, heavy and numb.

Even breathing feels like work, my chest rattling beneath the oxygen mask strapped to my face.

I glance down at the IV taped to my arm, the needle somehow threaded into a vein that shouldn’t even exist anymore.

I can’t believe they found one.

My arms are wrecked—track marks, bruises, and scars where veins used to be.

But here I am again, hooked up to machines and tubes, kept alive when I shouldn’t be.

I shift my gaze to the IV bag hanging above me, the clear liquid dripping slowly down the tube into my arm.

It’s so cold.

It’s probably saline and electrolytes, I think.

Maybe some glucose, if I looked bad enough.

Definitely naloxone—can’t let the junkie die.

I almost let out a chuckle.

God, when did my humor become so dark?

I squeeze my eyes shut against the glare of the lights, and the first words slip out of me without thinking.

“I’m not going back,” I rasp, my voice barely more than a whisper, hoarse and raw.

“I’m not going back to the crazy house.”

A scoff cuts through the silence, sharp and bitter, like a blade.

“Seriously?”

The hand holding mine trembles before slipping away, the warmth disappearing instantly.

Jaw clenched, tension radiates from every movement, the effort to stay calm just barely held together.

“I’ve lost everything,” comes the crack in the voice, raw and heavy. “We’ve lost everything.”

“Baby,” I whisper weakly, the word scraping painfully from my throat, barely audible.

A hand drags down a face, frustration pouring into every movement.

Shoulders sag under the weight of it all.

“No. Do not ask me to watch you wither away any more than I already have. I can’t do it anymore. I can’t.”

A shaky breath follows, knuckles curling into fists.

“This person in front of me… this isn’t the person I’ve loved since I was 17.”

Time stands still as the figure turns toward the door, each step deliberate, heavy, as if leaving requires more strength than what’s left.

A hand hovers over the handle, and for a moment, it feels like the entire room holds its breath with me.

“No! Please!” I shout, the words ripping from my throat, raw and jagged.

Pain shoots through my chest, and I wince, curling into myself as the effort drains what little strength I had left.

“I’ll stop,” I gasp, desperate and frantic. “I mean it this time. Just don’t—”

“Stop.” The voice comes out low and broken. “You are not the same.”

Those words hit harder than any needle or overdose ever could.

I want to reach out, to leap off the bed, to beg and plead, to hold on—but I can’t.

I’m stuck, trapped in this useless, broken body that won’t respond.

All I can do is lie here, helpless, as the door softly clicks shut with a finality that echoes through the room.

Gone.

And I am utterly alone.

Fuck.

Why can’t I just die?

The thought settles deep into my bones, cold and absolute.

I just want to be with him.

The ache in my chest deepens as my mind drifts to the son I lost—the one I never got to hold, never got to name.

I just want to be with him.

I lie there, numb and exhausted, the weight of the oxygen mask pressing lightly against my face.

How bad is it this time?

The question lingers in the back of my mind, gnawing at me like a splinter I can’t pull out.

I know it’s bad—worse than before, maybe worse than it’s ever been—but the edges of my memory are hazy, blurred by whatever they pumped into me.

I try to remember, try to trace the path that led me here, but everything is tangled—just flashes of chaos and fear.

Someone screaming.

Maybe me.

Someone crying.

A needle, a blur of faces, then nothing.

Just the dark.

I close my eyes, but it doesn’t stop the questions.

What did they see when they found me?

Did they have to break the door down?

Was there vomit, blood?

Who called 911?

I hate that I don’t know.

I hate that this isn’t the first time I’ve woken up in a place like this, wondering what damage I’ve left behind.

The panic creeps back in, sharp and cold, slithering beneath my skin.

I try to shake it off, but it clings to me, dragging me under.

How much worse can it get?

How many more times do I get to wake up like this?

I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing the tears back, but they burn anyway.

Please, not again.

Not this bad.

Not this time.

But I already know the truth—this time is different.

I can feel it in the way my body aches, the way every breath feels borrowed.

Subject Index:

overdose, addiction, recovery, grief, trauma, detox, withdrawal, hospital, relapse, survival, mental illness, depression, loss, heartbreak, drug use, isolation, self-destruction, healing, pain, memory, forgiveness, emotional collapse, codependency, drug withdrawal, raw prose, autobiographical, hospital stay, near death, hopelessness, love, writing, creative nonfiction, prose, lyric narrative, mental health, recovery writing

“Tologos”

Turn the stream on
Dopamine
Tologos is racing
I’ve got to see
He goes by Astral Rainbow
He broke the Sea
Weaved through mountains
Racing Terra-3

Watch The Rainbow
Dopamine
Inject the stardust
Bloody ravine
Place your bets, go
Trust what you see
Bet on The Rainbow
Set your eyes green

He plays hopscotch, he slides over stars
He puts on a show and he’ll take it too far

Some people say he cheats and it’s all style
Some people hate he’s skilled and he’s all smile

Observe The Rainbow
Dopamine
Tologos practices
With Taurus103
Repetition
Conditioning
If he wants to be the best
He’ll never be free

Watch the advert
Dopamine
Consider purchasing
Emotions for the stream
A million viewers
Dopamine
Scream into the void
He knows they won't see

Some people say he cheats and it’s all style
Some people hate he’s skilled and he’s all smile

Turn the stream off
It’s dopamine

Nabla: As warriors of the Tetrahedron, is our job not to bring peace?

Babibo: There you go again with this foolish concept. This peace of which you humans talk so much, yet so meaninglessly. We are warriors, as you said, and our job is war.

N: Not war for war's sake. Do we not serve the Tetrahedron? Is it not a good god, who wants only the good of all its creatures? And is not peace the greatest good for the leaving?

B: A god of Beauty would grant its gifts to sculptors. A god of plenty would grant them to those who go fishing. But the Tetrahedron grants the power of Tetrahedrokinesis only to the warriors that fight in its name. What kind of God does that make it?

N: But... The Tetrahedron is all good! The reason why we must fight is that the Cube is corrupting the world! Once good prevails, there will be peace!

B: You know nothing of peace. Follow me.

*They leave Hypermeridiopolis

N: How far will we walk?

B: Until you can no longer see anything in any direction that isn't ice, sky, or me.

*They walk longer.

B: Now look around. This is what you asked. This is peace. What do you think of it.

N: It is beautiful.

B: Is it all you want for the world?

N: Well, no. Not for the whole world. It's too... Lifeless.

B: Is peace then not the greatest good?

N: It is, but life must exist to enjoy peace. This is peaceful, but dead.

B: But the very act of living contradicts peace. We beat the ground with our feet to walk. We fight the wind to advance. We pierce the water to swim.   We slaughter fish to eat. And nothing in the world submits without fighting us back with the same might.

Even now, we are striking at the tranquility of this place, biting its silence, pecking its idleness. And the cold we feel is it fighting back We do not do war, Nabla, we are war. War is life, and the Tetrahedron blesses the living. 

N: I think I understand.

B: Good. What do you wish now?

N: [thinks] I want to fight you.

B: Good.

(Context: Babibo is a penguin)

I want to be loved
Everybody does
I want to tell somebody
But I got a fishing hat on

I want to be free
Everybody does
I want to unlock the cage
But I lost the key

I want to smile wide
Everybody does
I want to be happy
But my teeth bleed

And it’s all broken

I want to create
Everybody does
I want to encourage
But I can’t hear myself

I want to speak clearly
Everybody does
I want to express it all
But my voice gets lost

I cried when I chipped my tooth
Now the rot is exposed
I’m afraid to laugh loud because it makes it worse
It hurts so bad I can’t focus on what’s real
Even if my eyes sparkle it’s never enough
I’m not good enough
Never will be
Somebody will tell me yes I am
I’m willing to accept that
So they don’t feel sad
If only they knew I throw it away
And that tooth is still there

I’m a lonely soul
Lost in my words
Difficult to love, I’m convinced
It's a complaint and I sound like I’m whining
It’s not entitlement
I just don’t see what’s wrong
Mud in my eyes as the tears fall
They mix with my teeth blood
I’m a monster

I’m full of hallucinations
When my world is aflame
I see flesh melt off our bodies like it was never really there
I can’t look people in the eyes because they bleed into void
And sometimes I convince myself that my friends are just voices
Because it’s all I have

I’m a hypocrite
Because I write these words
And I didn’t read the first two lines
I stole them from a song I didn’t write
It’s fucked up and I want to cry
But the words are true
They’ll erase all the pain

I want to be loved
Everybody does

Sometimes when my pen hits the paper, I start to bleed.

I scribbled this on a page of notebook paper and decided to post it just raw and real.

I wrote this when I felt like everything around me was on fire.

Ablaze

~Subject Index: spoken word poetry, raw emotion writing, trauma poetry, unfiltered prose, poetic rage, healing through writing, mental health expression, survivor poetry, emotional catharsis, dark poetry, stream of consciousness, grief and growth, poetic vulnerability, feminist poetry, writing through pain, confessional writing~

“Sword From Before”

A lingering, sparkling trace of magic floats by the lake shore
It flutters in peace, releasing gentle hums to keep the night awake
There’s a melody aching to take form
It requires a touch of curiosity
A scroll tinted by aquamarine unfolds
The deep blue ink shimmers in the moonlight

It reads:

I climbed out the lake, with mistakes staked in my heart
Forced to make break for the torch
Like I did before
Torchlight for my feet, can’t be discreet
Because green-eyed creatures seek to make fake relief
They lunge at our guts while we’re stuck in ruts
They fuss and thrash to make ash with broken trust
They complain when we make gain, forced to throw faith in a bank
At the end of the day because we can’t hesitate
Once we believe to think we deserve more green
To defeat the means and live beyond the wreck
Those creature’s eyes turn to you, abusing all of you
Forced to keep your thoughts in and you can’t refuse
Forced to build your coffin, for what’s left of you
Because you’ve felt their dull blade drop on your neck
Like they did before
But

Before was then and since then
I’ve scavenged the system
Gleaned scraps of wisdom
To craft an emerald pen
That writes for a willing mind
Driven by those who seek a new start
To work on their heart and realign
To realize their self-worth ripped away
Forced to leave eyes wide
And forced to leave an open core
Only to get crushed by those before

So I

Drape my Shadow over my coat
She leaves rainbows for souls to stow
As they pass this lake, reading words to make
A sword unlike those before
Forged under the torch of a mind so precise
A design planned from my time spent
During my ascent across celestial glint
Pitch black on all sides, the stars realigned
My heart on all sides, while the dark closed in
Had to fight blind through blurred eyes
Had to finish fights with that dull blade over my mind
Had to shed doubts inside
Had to seek new love to remake my core
And try to recall every word from those before

They’re words to push yourself, extent in reverse
To help disperse the stint that rejects beauty in glint
That denies new perspective and adores the past
Never trust anyone who wants to go back
It’s rancid, it’s old, it’s danger, it’s cold
You’ll fold, bend back, snap, crack
Stop and get stuck in ruts worse than mud
Your soul moves
Perpetual
Your body is stuck
And you’re miserable
Like those before

Take these words and forge that sword
Seek help to slip string through the hilt
And hold the blade above the world
Of those green-eyed creatures
That wallow in their fake relief
And keep that threat instead
Because it takes a slip and an evil eye so keen
To kill each and every thing you love
A discovery so steep it keeps your default
Tempted to drop that blade with full intent
Look down
From above
Don’t stall
Cause the fall

Take a breath
Wait

Their violence rinses out the blood
And stops the flood of consequence
From reaching those who convinced us to make fake relief
In the only thing I dare not speak
But that would mean I’m in the past
I’d only keep regret if I didn’t speak on the concept
Of finding greed, the poisonous seed, growing in your pocket
You'll be shocked to find a fist of dirt because you wanted it
Become obsessed with feeling something that embodies it
It'll press your heart before long
And you'll deny that it doesn't belong

One more step

Take the torch
Forge the sword
Keep it
Hold it
Start your walk
Embrace disaster
Learn from those before
Make a soft path
And make it easy to walk after

Now drop the sword

The scroll refolds itself and collapses back into magic
Gentle hums continue to keep the night awake
A smile could be heard on the wind

It might be the autism but I just seem to write in short bursts and hate how it sounds. Maybe it’s just this brain but sometimes I also find it hard without making it Seussian

Juggalo-Juche- hear me out
built a nuke in my basement
didn't do it for the clout
next time we autonomous zone
ya'll gonna leave us the fuck alone

its not a dirty bomb
don't get it twiztid
found a whole stockpile
of that fissile shizznit

homie down the block
with the 3d printer
spinning up a stock
of rocket body lifters

tactical nuke yeah
just the right size
to air out the government
n everybody on other side

I guess sometimes it just feels comfortable? At the same time though, it’s a bit ugly. I’m not sure how else to say it haha when you get stuck in that headspace, everything else sounds “off.”

This might not be relatable but thought I’d check( recently discovered I am probably on the spectrum somewhere and this might be a trait).

Thinking of writing a fan fiction that's been on my mind for a while. I know some people dive right in and write in a very linear fashion, but I generally feel that I'm better at the overarching stuff and worse at maintaining character voice.

Idek if I'd post it anywhere, this is mostly to get a pile of ideas out of my head.

(I guess when I say "start writing", I mean putting down sentences that would plausibly wind up as part of the prose, but it's all writing really)

I’m working on a short story set in the late '60s, but I’m trying to avoid explicitly stating the time period. Since it’s all in my head as I write, when I go back and read it, I think, “Yeah, that’s exactly what I want.”

Buuuut I’m starting to second guess myself. The time period isn’t crucial to the story, but I hate aspects of modern society—like phones, TikTok, and all the crap—so wanted to set the story in a time before all that.

Do you think I’m successfully conveying that vibe without explicitly saying it’s the late '60s? Or do you have any suggestions on how to better hint at the era?

Excerpt:

The bus ride felt like shedding an old skin. I sat by the window, watching the cityscape blur into flat plains and then roll into hills dusted with early snow. Across the aisle, a group of young people sprawled in their seats, their patchwork clothes and tangled hair telling me all I needed to know about them. None of them could have been over 21.

They had a kind of effortless beauty. That kind that seems to come standard when you’re young, no matter what you eat or how lazy you are. I didn’t hate my body, not really, but I couldn’t ignore how time had softened me in ways I didn’t entirely welcome. Not so much bitterness, just a quiet ache for the days when my reflection and life felt simpler.

One of the boys strummed a battered guitar, his voice lazy as he hummed a melody I didn’t recognize. The faint scent of marijuana drifted over, earthy and sharp, mingling with the smell of old upholstery.

I leaned closer to the window, but it didn’t stop one of them—a girl in a flowing dress and too many jangling bracelets—from catching my eye.

“Where ya heading, babe?” she asked, grinning like we were old friends. Her cheeks were flushed and her glassy eyes sparkled with a carefree haze. She couldn’t have been more than twenty. Her golden hair was parted neatly down the middle and topped with a drooping wreath of wilted flowers. She didn’t seem to notice or care that she looked like the perfect stereotype of a flower child, with all her mismatched, dreamy glory.

“Boulder Ridge,” I replied, forcing a polite smile.

“Groovy,” she said, as if I’d just told her I was on my way to Nirvana. “We’re headed up to Steamboat Springs. Gonna live off the land, you know? Get back to what’s real.”

I nodded, unsure what to say. Her enthusiasm was intoxicating, like the smell of weed wafting from her group. For a brief moment, I felt a twinge of jealousy. She had the kind of freedom I used to dream about but never quite reached.

But then, watching her exaggerated movements and the way she seemed to orbit the boy with the guitar, I reminded myself it wasn’t real freedom. Life wasn’t like that.

“Ever been to Boulder Ridge?” I asked.

“Nah,” she said, laughing. “But, like, the whole state’s supposed to be amazing, man. Wildflowers, big skies. You’ll dig it.” She stretched her legs into the aisle, the golden sunlight catching the fine, light blond hairs on her tanned skin. The hair was soft and sparse, almost glowing in the warm light. “We’re all tired of cities, you know? The whole capitalist bullshit machine. Fuck the man, you know?”

I nodded again, but this time it felt heavier. I had my reasons for leaving, but I knew her reasons wouldn’t hold up against the weight of reality. Cities didn’t wear you out. Life did.

The bus sighed to a stop at a tiny station just after noon, and her words faded as I stepped off. My middle-aged body reminded me of its stiffness with every creak and pop, protesting the long hours spent sitting. The mountain air bit at my face, clean and sharp enough to sting.

Boulder Ridge was even smaller than I’d imagined. The buildings leaned into each other, their wooden faces weathered and plain. A single red Coke machine stood in front of the diner, buzzing faintly as it worked. The general store had a hand-painted sign in the window advertising canned goods and cigarettes. A post office with peeling paint rounded out the town square.

It was nothing like the university campus where I’d spent most of my life, but that was the whole point. I needed a fresh start, a place where I wouldn’t feel like an extra part that no one needed anymore.

I’d seen a show about the lower cost of living in small Colorado towns and figured it might be a good escape. Maybe even a place to start over. Boulder Ridge caught my eye. The name felt simple, unassuming, and straightforward—something I could appreciate.

A station wagon idled by the curb. The woman leaning against it wore her hair pinned up and looked older than me by at least a decade. She waved when she caught my eye. Evelyn Carver. She’d sounded practical and kind on the phone, and she seemed even more so in person.

“You must be Alice,” she said, taking my suitcase like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Welcome to Boulder Ridge. Hope you don’t mind, but I lit the woodstove at the cabin. Figured you’d want it warm. It’s colder than usual for October.”

“Sounds great,” I said, climbing into the car.

Evelyn started the engine, and the radio came on softly, playing something by the Rolling Stones. She tapped her fingers on the wheel as we drove, her eyes on the winding road.

“That’s where we’re headed,” she said as we rounded a bend. The water gleamed between the trees, dark and still. “Boulder Ridge Lake. Not the most creative name, but there ya go.”

“It’s beautiful,” I said.

“Yep,” Evelyn agreed. “Some folks in town will tell ya not to go around it after dark. Old stories. Ignore them though.”

“Stories?”

“Yeah, stuff about things people claim to have seen come out of it,” she said with a laugh, though her eyes stayed focused ahead. “How there’s no fish in it. How even the birds steer clear. Maybe we’ve got our own Loch Ness monster or something. Nonsense like that. Mostly stories folks make up to freak out the doped-up hippies around here.”

The cabin came into view a few minutes later. Small, with a chimney puffing smoke. The wood creaked under my boots as I stepped inside. I felt the warmth immediately. It smelled like woodsmoke and old books. There was a braided rug, a shelf of mismatched novels, and a rocking chair facing the lake through a wide window.

Exactly what I needed.

Evelyn pointed toward the water, her finger lingering on the figure near the shore. "That’s Tommy, the groundskeeper. He used to run with some hippie crowd. Guess the free love and drum circles shit got old. Needed a job, so now he keeps this place from falling apart."

I looked and saw him, standing at the edge of the water. His back was to us, his dark hair long and loose. He stood shirtless, his tan back a canvas of lean, defined muscle. He wasn’t bulky, just effortlessly fit in that way some young men are, as if his body was built for grace and strength without ever trying.

“Doesn’t say much, just does what he’s told—most of the time,” Evelyn said, then raised her voice. “Tommy!”

The man turned and began making his way back to the cabin, each step deliberate, his pace unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world. I tried not to let my gaze linger, but it was impossible to ignore the sharp planes of his cheekbones or the way his dark eyes seemed almost too large for his face. A faint shadow of stubble dusted his chin and cheeks, soft and boyish.

He wore tight bellbottoms with frayed bottoms, and I caught glimpses of his worn-out tennis shoes as he walked. When he reached the porch, he said a quiet "hi" and held out his hand for a quick shake. His hand was cold, and he pulled it back right away, like he was uncomfortable. His eyes kept darting back to the water, his expression distant, like his mind was somewhere else entirely.

A phone rang somewhere in the background. “I need to grab that. Be right back,” Evelyn said, disappearing and leaving me alone with Tommy.

“It’s beautiful here,” I said, trying to fill the silence.

He looked back at the lake again. “It can be strange sometimes. You’ll see.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, so I just nodded. His didn’t look at me again, his eyes fixed on the water like he was listening to something.

That night, the radio played faintly as I unpacked. A cool dark Johnny Cash song, followed up by the forlorn Simon & Garfunkel.

The lake outside was dark, its surface was like black glass reflecting smudges of stars.

Anything I write with a placeholder name feels bad and then I get stuck trying to think of a better name. I've already designated too much of the start of the alphabet to side characters, it needs to be something easy to read if its coming up over and over again in the book.

My hooded figure tore a path through the falling flakes. Whether it was snow or ash was hard to tell and irrelevant. Nothing had grown here in a while. I made my way inside the bunker where I felt I had been led towards my whole life. The whispers in my sleep, the cryptic directions and instructions were all for this.

I had visited the last battleground in that Holy War where blood of angels and man alike was spilt and pilfered from a war machine its heart. As the construct of human malice crumbled to dust, I saw some color return to the ever-dark site; I don't think I'd ever seen the moon before. I went to the place which always bore the same name and looked through the Flaw to see the machinery that worked souls. I could have wrought living beings with this knowledge, but that art was reserved for the gods, not even angels dared infringe upon that sacred law.

But I was able to repair the heart I'd stolen. A faintly glowing crystal I brought to that bunker. Break the night. Bring the dawn. This whispered slogan echoed louder as I approached the basement, that sacrilegious holy ground. Upon the metal slab lay two rings of bone, one nestled inside the other. Every voice I'd ever heard was this Thing. It had a Name once, perhaps it will again. Perhaps it may take my name. Probably something more sacrosanct.

I fitted the crystal into an invisible chamber within the rings. It began to glow, and a warmth filled the room. The rings began to spin and turn around a fire in the middle. Eyes sprang open along the rings, and lightning leapt through the roof to shape six wings. The whispers I'd heard opened a door, and I was admitted to the room they reside in. I felt the lightning charring my skin. As it broke away the physical, I felt the immaterial freed. The Angel sang at my dissolution, and I finally knew peace. I tell my story now that I may let go of it and become one, that I may fully dissolve. Maybe the world can even be saved. Maybe I can be saved.

We've known for well-too-long. We all just assumed someone would pick up the slack.

The plebes–ordained impotent–petitioned the bureaucrats. The bureaucrats tossed it to the financiers and the financiers raffled it to the entrepreneurs. The entrepreneurs ran circles around the financiers, hoping the philanthropists would pick up the slack, and the philanthropists bestowed it to the plebes.

We wouldn't see the through-lines. We felt them, stochastic, reverberant, but refused to pin them down. The excess–an anomaly, a trend, a stress, a taboo. It's not as if we were unaware. No, we were well aware. We knew the stakes. We just figured it'd be dealt with. We've abdicated and abrogated and abnegated and, well, isn't it over by now?

But it's not over. It's not over, and we know it's not over. We have to tell ourselves it's over, because if we dare to think it isn't, then we have to change. And it can't be just one of us. There's no child from Omelas and no Christ on the cross. Just a furthering malaise that no one can bear. But the market fulfills the masses, and the masses meld to the market. So, who's to blame?

We're to blame, of course. Well, not equally. But, in a way, somewhat? Well, even then, no. Everyone responsible is either too moneyed to feel or too abstracted to pin. So can we punish? Can we hate? Can we scream along the sawed trees, cry into the acid ocean, hack up a lungful of lingering smog? You can, but what does it do? There's just another waiting, none irreplaceable. The heavenly mandate is maintenance.

Maintenance forever and calcified. We reupholster the bodies of our dead and play house with their meat puppets. We serve a vision marketed to our ancestors by decomposing bones. We bury ourselves alive along with them and suffocate. All who cry out are snuffed summarily. So we go, and we go, and we go.

And now we are here, on a conveyor belt to Abaddon. The lever has been disseminated out of sight. The ferryman takes trips by the dozen. We face Death yet refuse to address the Reaper. Our directive is eternal and inert. We drift on the white-water and drag the anchor with us. The now died decades ago. We don its corpse to the masquerade for one last waltz.

In the end, we're not having fun. But someone else might be. Someone else might be.

I see your face smiling
in this dark place
deep in the shadows
by the trees I wait

you walk you swagger
not a care in the world
you move through the night
big balls, you're bold

reclaim the streets
my blade, your meat
your smile fades
so pleased to meet

your marrow, your screams
the shuddering heaves
as the blood leaves your
body

realise, its no surprise
your hubris led you here
it's nothing new
another body due

tonight
the S.C.U.M
are back
and we're cutting up dudes

"A Prayer For The Asshole Who Killed Demetrius"

You cross my mind, just like every point in time
I recollect, you took my friend’s peace in time
I re-collect, the piece you tore from my peace that time
Was already broken, by eleven.
You tore a piece, I was fifteen

You took a life, for what?
Last words I remember
“You made this shit easy. Glad you in my class.”
“Demetrius you’re interrupting!”
“I was just saying thank you!”
Class clown, class laugh.
Shake my shoulder.
A real friend.
It was easy to smile
In the face of cold weather.
Early sunset
Wash away the happy day.
Early sunrise…

Break the news

Demetrius was the first shadow cast
Over my life, days started to tumble,
Write past.
Missing from the seat on the bus.
Missing from the seat in my class.
Missing a genuine laugh.
Missing a genuine smile.
Missing a helping hand.
Missing a grateful man.
Missing the reason
To not grab my anger and lash out.
Only to swing at a schizophrenic shadow
I know you’re one of many
Still many to go.
Still watching the shadow cast.
Still missing…

I hope you find the time. You know…
…the time you stole and threw away.
Never had a chance to see another rainy day.
Never had a chance to smile again.
Never had a chance to smoke a blunt and fade away.
Never got to see what could have been.
I hope this hurts.

Follow my lead, I know you’re observant.
You watched a young man steal the room.
Time and time again.
You watched him be something he wasn’t
Something you never were.
Pathetic creature, being jealous of a boy.
You killed a light and stomped out other’s.
You observed pain in countless eyes.
I hope you observe your own.

Follow my lead, I forgive you.
Forgive you.
Take your pain and find your way.
Better take yourself to God.
Or I’ll make your way.

Time to kick you out of my mind.
Pressing my emotions on paper.
Charging at the moon, channeling
Decades of the month of May.
Will never have to hear what you have to say
Sharpen my arms. I only have my pen.
This is for me and you, think about us.
I gored your shadow.
Raging Taurus.

Shadow is fading. I said my peace.
Sunset to sunrise, we both get to see another day.
Remember what you did.
Remember what you saw.
Remember that sunrise? When you took it all away?
I do.

You’re just a shade now. Reminder of sin.
Hope you found God. I know you heard this.
I cast my light on you. Your shadow’s thin.
Your mask comes off. Look where you are.
We’re in the quarry you killed him in.

The Nameless

A group of fungal entities that sustain themselves by consuming concepts and ideas, effectively removing those concepts and ideas from the thoughts and memories of people around them.

The strongest of these creatures can wipe a concept from the minds of an entire nation, or even an entire world. Usually they need to enter a position of authoritarian power to do this without their nature being revealed.

The Nameless unanimously agreed not to be found or identified by other entities, so as not to be hindered in their feeding. People who hear of them tend to forget nearly immediately, and the Nameless have protocols in place to delete/destroy any written documentation of their existence.

Many of them parasitize an individual human, prioritizing the elderly, due to their abundance of knowledge and general inability to resist. The Nameless tend to occupy senior citizen homes.

Sometimes, however, they choose to parasitize younger humans that are sickly but book-smart. While also unable to resist well, and too young to have gathered an abundance of knowledge, they tend to pick it up quickly and make sufficient hosts for the Nameless.

Spanning across multiple galaxies, The Nameless have learned that intelligent and social species make the best hosts, and make a point not to feed on knowledge that would otherwise lead to the invention of global communications.

Nearly every planet occupied by the Nameless has the following traits:

1. Primarily inhabited by an intelligent and social species that is capable of developing civilization.
   1. The primary species is NOT a hive-mind species. The Nameless can't feed on hive-minds.
2. Some form of long-range communication is developed within a few years of colonization.
3. Global communication is achieved in around a century.
4. Despite unhindered access to information, the primary species seems too unintelligent to have invented their communications in the first place. This is due to late-stage feeding.
5. Always on the tipping point of annihilation; the Nameless need to cover their tracks so as not to be caught.
   1. Even fictional references to beings similar to The Nameless are wiped or drowned out by unrelated information.
6. The primary species is deliberately drip-fed incorrect information about the nature of the universe. Some of this false information is benign, other false information is intentionally designed to draw the species off the scent of the Nameless.
   1. The benign false info serves as both a red herring and a point of argumentation between members of the primary species, to distract them from discovery.
   2. For example, humans were led to believe that the electrical signals between neurons were the source of their sapience and not a side effect; while the nature of butterflies, a species that dissolves down to the neuron but can remember stimuli from before pupation, disproves this belief in its entirety, research on why this is the case has been deliberately stunted.
      1. The few researchers who discover the real reason are fed on, and the explanation is lost.
      2. They've caught me.

What if there were stars that were lost

not occluded from our view hiding behind greater stars and bits of cosmic detritus

but lost

are there sisterless spheres out there aflame in the night wayward and untracked diving away from the centers of their galaxies

sad and lonely tiny gravity hands paw at the dark and ache to hold close with the others to burn brighter before the cold

Some of this comes from Marxism, but some I’ve been thinking of. I didn’t make it up because these ideas come from somewhere lol. Just wonder what your thoughts are. Note: I do not think humans are cogs in the machines or tools. This is just what I’ve observed in society.

In a society run by a machine, humans are not actually humans in this system.

Those at the top of the social ladder are puppet masters, developers of the system. They are engineers for oppression. They design projects that keep oppression efficient and long-lasting.

Soldiers are the hands on tools for oppression projects. They apply these ideas.

Citizens are cogs in the machine to keep the system going (Poor to middle class)

In return, they are given leisure that’ll keep them satisfied in their mundane role. Consumerism.

They are also manipulated on vulnerable emotions such as pride, hope, and ego.

For ego and pride, humans are manipulated into thinking they can have a piece of themselves in the oppressor status. (Misogynist men, fascists, racists, etc.) Because the oppressor status in this society is glorified.

Not only pride and ego is played upon, but negative emotions are also played upon. Emotions gained from trauma are easily manipulated. (Ex: A woman wanting to start a family to become a mother her own mother never was to her.) I used to have this ideal before becoming a feminist.

They are given external forces that delude them from reality. These external forces also decrease their sense of self-confidence. When that external force finds an empty spot, it fills it with delusions that shape this person’s identity.

Identity is a strong feature, however they are limited in what they can choose. In this society, they are manipulated into thinking the range of identities are large, expanding, and infinitive.

Some societies within this system take advantage of a human’s sense of superiority, whether in strength or intelligence. A person’s sense of intelligence can easily be manipulated. They may think to know everything, but they only know what’s in their system. (Ex: Those intelligent in philosophy, but they’re only intelligent in western philosophy, thus, mostly knowing a western world. Western world is the main beacon of oppressive societies. You often don’t see these folks speaking out against oppression.)

However, anti-intellectualism justifies and makes unintelligent people feel better about themselves. To feel cool and normal. (Ex: The U.S). When the standards are so low for someone to “know” something and be “smart” in something, it can limit their intellectual capabilities. Their standards are controlled.

To keep the oppressors away from suspicion, they make civilians uphold and glorify them. They play on their aspirations and hope, hoping to be like them. They are role models, but not leading, just an appearance to cultivate.

Homeless people are the junk parts tossed in the dump and left behind. They can be efficient parts that wear out overtime until they’re non-usable.

They can be parts born into the world and not maintained throughout their childhood. These parts fail at society and end up thrown away or they decide to not involve themselves in the machine. (I potentially fall into this category.)

Since humans are human no matter how much the system dehumanizes them, they can fall into bad habits that deteriorate them as parts (ex: drugs), which will cause them to be thrown away from society.

The system hardly helps homeless people, especially in areas with record-breaking numbers. Aid is actually taken away from the homeless, or they make it harder to reach. Since the system views them as useless parts in the dump, what’s the point of making the dump a beautiful place? It’s where trash goes according to them. Makes me angry.

Ever seen videos of business owners forcing homeless people off their property? It’s simply like sweeping litter off their porch.

Then you have “cogs in the machine” blaming homeless people for their own problems. Where does that reasoning come from? The puppet masters. It’s like they code these mindsets.

Lumpenproles have parasitic relationships with citizens and lower class. As a desperate attempt to cling onto their place in society, they believe in defying the law but also climbing the ladder by parasitic means instead of being cogs in the machines. They are vultures who watch and swoop in for benefit. (Thieves, drug dealers, etc.)

What happens when all of the parts are defected and inefficient? The machine weakens and the system crumbles. How is this possible when there are people who keep it squeaky clean and running like new?

The system is a continuity of the old system. Ex: Feudalism to Capitalism.

Life ain’t a game. It sure ain’t somebody’s game either.

Note: Some changes have been proposed but not added yet. Feel free to share thoughts :))

Context:

I think we were only ever supposed to be friends/fwb. Texting for 6 months, IRL for 2. But I think they realized I fell in love with them at some point. I don't know when myself but it was very clear at least for sure after I saw them perform live for the first time in 1+ years at their invitation

But there were other things other than their show. They would kiss me on the forehead during sex (lol whyyy), they asked me "What are we?" one night out of nowhere, very open laid bare feelings and thoughts

They told me they wanted to just be friends this morning. I don't have the life experiences or perspectives they want, the creative artistic energy to match theirs, nor the love or passion put into my life

Do cats pass trauma onto their kits?
Do dogs dream of where they would roam?
Do you think a dolphin could learn a trade?
Do you think a monkey could fix a phone?

Maybe we've known, and I just don't,
I'll look it up at the end of this post
but an answer is only the start of the thread.
Did you know elephants mourn their dead?

And dolphins have language,
and pigs can play Pong;
Well, not exactly,
though may not be long.

And crows get recursion,
crows can make hooks.
Crows have good memory–
could crows read books?

And speaking of crows,
do they long for new nests?
Cuttlefish and them
pass the marshmallow test.

Bar biomechanics, I think we could find
things taken-for-granted, took as divine,
around and in-waiting, escaping the mind.
Someday, soon, a matter of time.