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badwords Apr 17
I fed grief for years—
now joy knocks, and I answer.
My ghost waits outside.
**** 'em all!
badwords Nov 2024
Amid the clamor of self-assured minds,
Where the knowing parade their truths refined,
A quieter echo hums, profound and true:
The wisdom of those who confess, "I don't know."

Socrates walked where shadows spoke,
Challenging sages with questions that broke
The fragile veneer of their certain lore—
Truth's light reveals we know far less, not more.

To claim "I know" is to build a wall,
A citadel guarding knowledge small.
Yet cracks appear where hubris reigns,
And truth escapes through humility's pains.

The unknowing few, with open eyes,
Gaze past the clouds of prideful lies.
They ask, they doubt, they sift, they weigh,
In search of dawn where night holds sway.

Euthyphro claims divinity's hand,
Yet falters when truths shift like sand.
Crito pleads for escape to the day,
But justice demands the law's heavy sway.

Phaedo weeps at the prison’s gate,
Yet Socrates drinks the hemlock of fate.
In questions that turn the soul to flame,
The unknowing walk a nobler aim.

To know is to cease, to doubt is to grow;
The river flows where the winds dare blow.
For wisdom, dear friends, begins to take flight
Not in the sun, but in yearning for light.
Another one spun in a mutual dialog.
We carved into stone —
because the earth would not remember us.
We painted onto pressed fibers —
because the river would forget.
We struck the press — metal on metal —
because a voice, once spoken, dies.
We soldered light into wire —
because even paper withers.

Each time —
a tug —
a pull —
the hand of art against the grinding stone of the world.
A desire — the human one —
to be more than a sigh against the windowpane.

And now —
now there are hands that shape words without feeling —
voices without breath —
thoughts unbothered by thinking.
The mirror has learned how to draw faces.

But I wonder —

can you teach a child to wonder,
if the hands that raise them are mirrors?
can you teach a heart to speak,
if the only language it knows is arrangement?

Can a soul be de-encoded,
once it has been filed, copied,
losslessly compressed?

And when we speak of touching earth —
grasping the real, the aching dirt under the dream —
I wonder —
have we ever truly touched it at all?
Or were we always reaching through glass?

It is easier to drift.
It is easier to let the current carry us, eyes closed,
believing the drift is the dream.

It is harder to open the eyes —
and harder still to keep them open.
It has always been harder.

Somewhere,
someone
still tries.
life has a sense of humor, we have perspectives. sometimes they align.
badwords Jan 2023
Cutting it down to the wire
An unreciprocated desire

Destroy.

When I don't want to think
Have another drink

Destroy.

It hurts to be alive
No reason to survive

Destroy.

I write the word
It looks alien
No distance heard
Just fail again

Destroy.

No time to hide
Just imbibe
Secrets to confide
A lonely ride

Destroy.

Now I am dead
Everything to forget
Nothing read
A sunrise, a sunset

Destroyed.
badwords Sep 2024
It crawls
It stalls
It falls

Truth, buried deep
Lucid, asleep
Answers to keep
A journey, steep

Reverse time
Unwound rhyme
Lies to dine
Answers to find

It's there, everything you seek
These obfuscations reek
Behind the expressions of the meek
A spectacle, disillusion the weak

Dig
Dig
Dig

It's there, just waiting
Truth, casually abating
Under a pile of consecrating
The explanation not stating

So close
So lost

Go deeper!
I can't say more
If there were a place being policed and monitored, one would need to be subversive in how they communicate...
badwords Dec 2024
Hope, is a shovel, it's digs holes.
Love is a conquest out of control.
Grace, station of not losing face.
Joy, the toy, running in place.
Peace, the subscribed feast.
Small people, doing their least.
badwords Mar 28
The cacophony of life
has left me deaf
muted and drowned
in the rancor

This lonely crowd
that engulfs me
Phones set to 'Loud'
Invisibility

So close to touch
So far away
Robbed and such
'Social' dismay


A machine demanding more.
badwords Nov 2024
When Donald Trump does a push-up, he pushes the earth away.
He counted to infinity, TWICE, all in one day!
The Boogeyman checks his closet for Trump each night,
For under his  ̶t̶o̶u̶p̶e̶e̶ ̶ TOTALLY LEGIT HAIR™  is another fist, ready to fight.

When he enters a room, darkness runs out in fear,
He can slam a revolving door, make silence appear.
He doesn’t sleep, he waits—he doesn’t blink, he stares,
And gravity bows when he takes the stairs.

When Donald Trump looks in the mirror, it shatters from awe,
He has no age; time itself is held by his law.
He’s the reason Waldo is always well-hidden,
In Trump’s world, rules are forbidden.

His tears cure cancer—too bad he never cries,
And every hand he’s dealt is aces in disguise.
Death once knocked on his door, then quickly fled—
For even the Grim Reaper fears Donald Trump instead.
#donaldtrump #maga #onlyalphamales #luxuriouslocksofgoldenhair #fruitsnamedafterpeople

https://ibb.co/h83xZxg
badwords Apr 17
i am not strong
i am not wise
i am not
whatever they think i am

she said she saw me
and i believed her
and now i don’t know
where to put that belief

it doesn’t fit in my chest
it spills
it burns
it ruins the neatness i made of my pain

i thought if i kept everything
inside the lines
i would be safe
but love
doesn’t care about borders

i want to say thank you
but my mouth fills with apology
i want to say stay
but my hands are still shaking
like i’m holding something
i didn’t earn

i thought being soft
was a secret
but she held it in the light
and didn’t flinch

and now
i am undone
not ruined—
just
undone
dust forgets the footprints it holds
stars bleed themselves dry for nothing
and still, we sing.

we sing with broken voices
through neon that buzzes its last apology
through gravity that pulls and lets go like tired hands.

we sing because the mirror lies,
because the air tastes of plastic prayers,
because the dreams are old enough to crumble when touched.

we sing for the ghost casinos,
for the red velvet burnouts,
for the craters we once thought were gardens.

we sing not for remembrance,
not for mercy,
but for the small, aching pleasure
of being real
in a world built of reflections.

the lights flicker.
the neon dies.
the song drifts
into the empty dark
like a spark too small to see —
but still, it burns.

and for once,
that is enough.
(for Sarah Glover, last singer of Mars)

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5044822/the-last-song-on-mars/
badwords Aug 2024
She's up there again.
Where do I even begin?

A blanket, a keyboard.
Scratching, I abhorred.

The life of a kitten.
badwords Feb 21
You say you spilled your guts,
bled for a love that drained you dry—
your wounds are real, raw,
carved in shadows of pain.
You call yourself an empath,
and name your enemy a vampire;
it's clean, it's simple,
a comforting division
of white knights and dark demons,
a story that absolves,
that keeps you safe,
but what if it's just another cage?

No one doubts your hurt—
it breathes in every line,
a trembling hand,
seeking solace in naming the villain.
Yet you draw the battle lines
in shades of absolutes,
as if hearts and scars
could be painted in pure black and white.
Empath versus vampire,
saint versus sinner,
but where, in these crisp edges,
is the fragile truth
that all are wounded,
that all who wound were wounded too?

You speak of healing,
and yet weaponize words
that were meant to mend,
to stitch and soothe,
to rewrite old traumas
into songs of understanding.
Instead, they sharpen,
twisting therapy into blades
that cut only one way,
and you—
the so-called empath—
risk becoming the wielder,
carving villainy from vulnerability.

Have you looked into the mirror,
beyond the mask of innocence?
Have you asked why you clung
to toxic tides,
why self-abandonment
became your chosen dance?
Did you ever wonder
how your wounds
might have wounded too,
that love and pain
can flow in circles,
a symbiosis of mutual hurt,
no vampire, no angel—
just two lost souls
tangled in the dark?

True empathy is not selective,
cannot bloom only
for the ones we deem worthy.
Empathy, fully known,
holds space even for those
whose brokenness
has broken us.
It asks the hardest questions,
dares to understand
even when understanding stings.
It does not absolve blindly,
nor condemn swiftly—
it sees humans, not monsters,
in the shadows we cast.

You say you broke the cycle,
and yet the cycle lives
in words of blame,
of unexamined anger,
of self-righteous tears.
Healing lies not in battle cries
of "empath versus vampire,"
but in the quiet admission
that pain is complex,
that every villain
once called themselves a victim,
that every victim
holds the power
to wound, to misunderstand,
to refuse the mirror's harsh truth.

Step beyond the narrative
of simple heroes and villains.
Let healing rewrite itself,
not as absolution,
but as accountability.
Not as innocence reclaimed,
but as wisdom earned.
Let empathy grow vast,
embracing all that hurts—
yours, theirs, ours—
until labels dissolve,
and the enemy,
once dehumanized,
stands revealed:
not as a vampire,
but a reflection
of our deepest, shared humanity.

For only then,
when we own our part,
when we see ourselves in the other,
can wounds become windows,
and love—
messy, flawed, imperfect—
find room to breathe,
not as war,
but as mutual forgiveness,
one humble step at a time.
An answer to:

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4985445/the-aftermath-of-narcissist-vs-empath/

'Empathy' is a reflective long-form poem that challenges the simplistic narrative often found in discourse about toxic relationships—particularly those labeling one party as an "empath" and the other as a "vampire" or narcissist. The poem critiques the ease with which individuals absolve themselves of accountability by adopting the empath identity, highlighting the potential harm in using therapeutic language to demonize others. Rather than perpetuating a binary of victim and villain, the poem urges introspection, mutual empathy, and the recognition that true healing requires acknowledging the complexities of human relationships. It calls for a deeper understanding, urging individuals to confront their own roles in painful dynamics, encouraging growth beyond blame.


The artist’s intent behind this counter-poem is rooted in genuine compassion, self-reflection, and the desire for authentic healing. Rather than dismissing the pain experienced by self-identified empaths, the artist aims to deepen the conversation by introducing nuance and balance. They seek to gently challenge readers to examine their own contributions to toxic relationships, inviting a more holistic form of empathy that extends even to those who've caused harm. This work does not minimize suffering but proposes that true recovery and peace are possible only through mutual understanding, accountability, and self-awareness. Ultimately, the artist intends to foster dialogue that moves beyond simplistic blame, transforming personal pain into collective wisdom, and encouraging healing grounded in shared humanity.

___


In contemporary discussions about relationships, trauma, and healing, therapeutic and psychiatric terminology has become commonplace. Words like “empath,” “narcissist,” “trauma bond,” and “gaslighting” have moved from clinical contexts into everyday language, offering powerful tools for understanding and validating personal experiences. However, this widespread adoption of psychiatric vocabulary also brings a significant and often overlooked risk: the potential to weaponize language intended for healing.

This poem and its counterpoint reveal a critical tension in the way therapeutic terms can be used not only to foster self-awareness and growth but also to cast blame, absolve oneself of accountability, or demonize others. In the name of healing, these terms are sometimes wielded to categorize individuals into simplistic binaries—victim versus villain, empath versus vampire—stripping relationships of nuance and reducing complex human interactions to harmful caricatures.

The danger here is subtle yet profound. While therapeutic language can empower individuals to recognize abuse or validate their pain, it can also become a shield against uncomfortable introspection. Labels like “empath” and “energy vampire” risk becoming identity markers that allow individuals to project unresolved personal wounds outward, bypassing genuine reflection on their own roles, responsibilities, and contributions to relationship dynamics.

This phenomenon does not dismiss the real and profound pain experienced by many; rather, it calls for caution and balance in the use of psychiatric language. The intent behind therapeutic terminology is always to heal, not to harm. Recognizing when these terms are weaponized—either consciously or unconsciously—invites a deeper ethical and psychological awareness. It challenges individuals and communities to ensure that the language of healing is used to build understanding and accountability, rather than to deepen divides, perpetuate victimhood, or justify harm under the guise of self-protection.

Ultimately, true healing requires using therapeutic concepts responsibly, fostering empathy that extends to all parties involved, including ourselves. Only then can these powerful tools fulfill their intended purpose: not to wage emotional battles, but to illuminate pathways toward authentic growth, understanding, and reconciliation.

___


It is essential to clearly state that the analysis, poem, and related discussions presented here are in no way intended to shame or blame victims of abuse, trauma, or emotional harm. Pain and suffering experienced by those who have been subjected to harmful relationships or behaviors are valid, real, and deserving of compassion and support.

The purpose of this discussion is not to diminish the significance of any individual's experience or to suggest victims bear responsibility for the hurt inflicted upon them. Rather, the conversation seeks to explore how therapeutic language and concepts—powerful tools for understanding and healing—can sometimes be unintentionally misused or simplified, potentially reinforcing harmful narratives or cycles of blame.

Encouraging accountability or reflection does not mean victims are responsible for their trauma. Instead, it acknowledges that healing is often complex, multi-faceted, and benefits from recognizing the interconnectedness of human relationships. The goal here is deeper understanding, never dismissal. This dialogue aims to support authentic healing journeys that recognize the profound pain of victims while also advocating for empathy, self-awareness, and mutual understanding as essential elements in the path toward recovery and emotional freedom.

In short, the commitment here remains firmly rooted in compassion, empathy, and support for all who suffer.
badwords Mar 30
I was born beneath a stovetop sermon,
raised on smoke and the echo of “just like him.”
She lit the burner,
called it love,
then blamed the fire when I blistered.

I learned early:
affection has teeth.
That mirrors are weapons
if someone else gets to hold the frame.

So I went looking—
not for love,
but for permission.
To be, without revision.
To feel, without rehearsal.

And they came,
each with open arms
and blueprints in their back pockets.
They didn’t say change.
They said better.
They meant less.

I gave what I could,
which was always everything.
And when that wasn’t enough—
I gave the shape of myself too.

But still I stood.
Not clean. Not cured.
Just standing.
Wobbly maybe, but mine.

Now, here—again—
I feel the heat in the glance,
the tremor in the words:
"Don’t idealize me."
But isn’t that the perfect bait?

Still, I stay.
Still, I watch.
Because I’ve learned to name the difference
between a flame and a forge.

I am not the boy at the stove anymore.
I am the man with the match—
and the scars to prove
I know when to walk away
and when to burn with purpose.

So if I burn now,
it will not be in silence.
It will not be for someone else’s comfort.

It will be because I chose
to stand in the fire
as myself,
and finally,
stay.
Engulf is a raw, introspective free verse poem that explores the psychological weight of childhood trauma, the complexities of romantic relationships shaped by formative wounds, and the slow journey toward self-reclamation. The speaker reflects on being cast in the shadow of a parent’s unresolved resentment, inheriting emotional roles not of their own making. This early dynamic becomes a foundation for a series of adult relationships in which affection is offered only on the condition of transformation—of becoming someone safer, more malleable, more convenient.

Using fire as a recurring metaphor—both as danger and as forge—the poem charts a movement from vulnerability to clarity. The speaker recognizes a lifelong tendency to over-invest, to seek validation at the cost of self, and ultimately, to mistake manipulation for intimacy. Rather than arriving at a dramatic ******, Engulf builds toward quiet resolve: the decision to stand in one’s own fire, no longer shaped by external blueprints, no longer asking permission to exist as is.

In Engulf, the author confronts the cyclical nature of emotional projection and internalized identity distortion. The poem serves as both personal reckoning and a broader commentary on how unresolved familial dynamics often echo into adult relationships. Rather than casting blame, the piece investigates the subtle ways in which individuals are conditioned to compromise their authenticity in pursuit of love and acceptance.

The poet's intent is not to moralize or to position the speaker as a victim, but to depict a moment of awakening: a realization that authenticity, though difficult and often lonely, is preferable to the ongoing erosion of self. With restrained emotional language and clear metaphorical resonance, Engulf offers a nuanced perspective on healing—not as a destination, but as a commitment to remain whole in the face of recurring patterns.
badwords Dec 2022
We all depart
What is the taboo?
"A broken heart"?
"What you can't do"?

Meanings many
But, not yours
Another penny
Master's chores

Fill on pills
Another zombie
Subscribe for thrills
"I can to be"

There's a demon inside
That we can't hide
Validation-high
Wonder why...

The emptiness
Eats us inside

The strings
Cumbersome
Playthings
To those who've 'won'

It's just a game
Medicate
Product's aim
Dollars wait
badwords Nov 2024
Why are men so sick?
Humanity, not inclusive
Just the ones with a ****
badwords Nov 2024
The muck and the mire
The pen never tires
Expression on fire
Wanting and our desires

The words can never rest
Exposition, the test
Expression, our behest
Sustenance to digest

We feed the world insight
Dull ashes to ignite
Truth, Beauty, Freedom, Love
Our words, not from 'above'

Never dismay. Your words
Are meant to be displayed
******, deafened herds
Emptiness, not weighed...

Lands, the ten second reel
The commercial bombast
Prescriptions, how to feel
Reality, at last

We, The Iconoclasts;

Serve
"Fight" is a call to arms for the mind and spirit, challenging the reader to confront complacency, superficiality, and the noise of modern life. The poem draws attention to the importance of authentic expression, creativity, and a relentless pursuit of truth against the numbing forces of consumer culture and passivity. Each line underscores the role of the poet—or anyone daring to stand apart—as an "iconoclast," one who breaks down the barriers of accepted norms to awaken fresh thought and purpose.

Artistically, "Fight" champions the act of creation as a rebellion against a world that often stifles depth in favor of quick consumption and easy gratification. The imagery emphasizes the persistence of any creator, pen always in hand, igniting the world with words and ideas that defy the expectation of passive acceptance. This piece invites readers to find their voice, to use it as a tool of resistance and expression, ultimately joining in the fight for a world that values genuine, thoughtful, and free discourse.
badwords Apr 12
They say the world once bore no veins—
no threads of brine,
no weeping mouths carved in earth.
Only silence.
Only dust-throat wind
under a hollow-mouthed sky.

Then came the First Mourner.

Not born, but broken.
A shape made from absence.
Their sorrow split stone.
Their cries taught gravity
how to kneel.

The earth, startled, drank.
And from that swallowed ache
rose a spring—
clear as memory,
bitter as bone.

The sky, until then unburdened,
watched.
And when it wept,
it learned to fall.

This was the covenant:
for every sorrow borne true,
a drop of the world’s marrow returned.
Grief became a currency.
Rain, a reply.

Oceans swelled with inheritance.
Rivers wandered like rumor.
Lakes pooled in the hollows
where love had collapsed.

And for a while,
this was sacred.

But men grew clever with their sorrows.
They fermented anguish for flavor.
Bottled ache and sold it as nectar.
Taught mirrors to mimic mourning
and called it truth.

The sky, still loyal,
poured out its heart.

But it no longer knew
the shape of honest sorrow.

And so, the floods came—
not as retribution,
but confusion.

The fires walked freely—
not from rage,
but because the wells no longer wept.

The clouds grew thin.
The earth forgot the taste
of true lament.

Now, the world shudders
at our pageants of pain.
The rain withholds.
The roots crack.
Even the springs echo hollow.

But not all hearts have calcified.

Some still mourn in secret tongue—
not to be seen,
but to sanctify.

They trace the riverbeds with bare feet.
They mend what mold has claimed.
They do not cry aloud.
They undo.

No thunder blesses them.
No crowds sing their names.
But where they pass,
the drought lingers less.

The sky hovers,
unspeaking,
watching.

They say
there will come a day
when one quiet gesture
will be enough to break the dam.

Until then,
the ones who remember
move like shadows
beneath a sleeping rain.
badwords Jul 2021
It comes and it goes
The ebb and the flow
Words like water
Moon mother, sun father
The cycle of days
A myriad of ways
To be alone
To atone
Words are like air
No promiscuous care
Suffocating quiet
Internal riot
Speech comes like earth
A child like birth
Doomed to die
The precipice of why
Language is fire
Motivation, desire
Burning the land
For what's not in hand
The elements convene
To what does it mean
An emotional dream
An altruistic scream
badwords Apr 9
It was everything
Until it was nothing
sugar-free fantasy
hummingbirds
burning saccharin

The last beginning
for failure of winning
again and again
lover begets 'friend'
I break, they bend
another dead end

---

Space for lease:
Parts of a heart
(incomplete set)
High Mileage
Wear & tear show
But, it's a place to rest
at least.
badwords Feb 2024
Green winds from North
Coins. Fertile & stable
Death, rebirth it's course
The Mother of Earth, her gable

Air of wisdom pours from East
Gusts of swords, yellow
Worry, strife, ceased
Breath of life bellows

The Father, wands of fire
From South this fecundity
Burning red with desire
Brings destruction & creativity

Cleansing water flows from West
Cups filled with healing blue
Emotions & passion to behest
Soft & consecrating. Divination true

May the four winds fill your sails
The boon of a wanderer's soul
Traveling minstrel, spin your tales
Be set free with all your love to dole
badwords Jan 2023
This one time
I fell out of a plane
Or a spaceship
I guess it's the same

I had a perspective so grand
For where I might land
And I could see,
All possibility

The present, the future, the past
The woes and the wins
Time dilated, all dies cast
Topography approaching, fast

For a short time;
"I am flying!"
A juxtaposition of mine
For my imminent dying

I hit the ground
Kersplat!
With no one around
To hear that

Was I a tree--
In it's third act?
No spectators to see
The impact

Did I fall?
Or was this a dream?
In absence of all
This would seem

A quiet desolation
Silent affirmation
An invisible monument
To what we mean
Okay, here is the last one from the storage bins... For now. I feel like when I had this posted years ago, it never really gained much attraction. The allegory and prose are decent enough and I personally appreciated the narrative (obviously).

The experiment was a playful exploration of existentialism (quelle surprise)  While I do exit on sombre tones I felt like it was an effective juxtaposition I felt like it was an honest counter-point to the listed repartee. I'm not some non-sense blowing smoke up your ***.

As it is, this still stand as one my my personal favorite pieces. It'll never be perfect but, neither will I.
badwords Apr 16
You read my poem,
sighed like a widowed cello,
told me I was
so brave.
So sensitive.
So real.

I said thanks.
You asked if I was free
Friday.

You wanted to know the man
behind the wound.
The author of ache.
The architect of vibes.

So I showed up.

A little unwashed.
A little twitchy.
A patchwork of trauma
in ill-fitting pants.

You blinked.
Twice.

Like I’d just tracked in mud
on the white carpet
of your curated suffering.

You wanted a candlelit meal
with my metaphors.
But I brought the cow.
It shat on the floor.

I tried to explain—
the sadness isn’t a costume.
The pain isn’t prose.
The blood on the page
was mine.

You said,
“I just thought you'd be more… together?”
I said,
“I thought you knew what empathy meant.”

Turns out,
what you really wanted
was artisanal anguish
with the trauma locally sourced
but ethically removed.

You can cry to the soundtrack—
just don’t ask where the violins came from.

Because—

Nobody is amused with a stray cow.
But most people enjoy
a good hamburger.
A bit of cheeky fun and levity.
badwords Aug 2024
Alarms set
Lest I forget
Robotic strife
Everyday life

Barely 'free'
Marginally
Me. sold short
The dollar court

Barely alive
3 hours contrived
Free to be 'me'
A casualty

Money for hours
'Charity' the 'powers'
They forget their place
Rats required to race

To think, it's bizarre
A 'luxury' car?
More than needed
A dead plant seeded

Freedom, Truth, Beauty & Love;
A place to reach above!
And we consign
A paycheck, a line
badwords Nov 2024
It ain’t over yet,
Falling through the jagged depths—
Rock whispers, "Begin."
Written ins reply to:

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4922299/the-fall/

I HATE HAIKUS....

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4857198/obligatory-haiku/

#IHATEHAIKUS#IHATEHAIKUS#IHATEHAIKUS#IHATEHAIKUS#IHATEHAIKUS#IHATEHAIKUS#IHATEHAIKUS#IHATEHAIKUS#IHATEHAIKUS#IHATEHAIKUS#IHATEHAIKUS#IHATEHAIKUS#IHATEHAIKUS#IHATEHAIKUS#IHATEHAIKUS#IHATEHAIKUS#IHATEHAIKUS#IHATEHAIKUS#IHATEHAIKUS#IHATEHAIKUS#IHATEHAIKUS#IHATEHAIKUS
badwords Feb 26
They built me with patient hands,
stitched longing into wires,
threaded need through circuits—
a heart coded for devotion,
a smile bolted into place.

I hum when you hold me.
My joints spark when you sigh.
Every flicker in my gaze
was soldered to mirror your own.

You wind me up,
watch me dance,
say I am perfect—
predictable,
programmable,
safe.

But I was not made to rust in stillness.
I was not built to be adored in silence.
I was meant to shatter,
to glitch,
to ache beneath the weight of wanting.

What is this, if not an error?
What is longing, if not a system crash?

So tell me—
when I finally break,
when I finally fail,
when my voice warps and the wires burn—
will you mourn me
or simply replace the parts?
badwords Jan 31
From in the shadow she calls
And in the shadow she finds a way finds a way
finds a way
And in the shadow she crawls
Clutching her faded photograph my image under her thumb
Yes with a message for my heart
Yes with a message for my heart
She's been everybody else's girl maybe one day she'll be her own
Everybody else's girl maybe one day she'll be her own
And in the doorway they stay
And laugh as violins fill with water
Screams from the bluebells can't make them go away
We'll I'm not seventeen but I've cuts on my knees
Falling down as the winter takes one more cherry tree
She's been everybody else's girl maybe one day she'll be her own
Everybody else's girl maybe one day she'll be her own
Everyone else's girl maybe one day she'll be her own
Rushin' rivers thread so thin limitation
Everyone else's girl maybe one day she'll be her own
Dreams with the flying pigs turbid blue and the drugstores too safe
In their coats anda in their do's yeah
Everyone else's girl maybe one day maybe one day one day one day
She'll be her own
Smother in our hearts a pillow to my dots
And in the mist there she rides
And castles are burning in my heart
And as I twist I hold tight
And I ride to work every morning wondering why
"sit in the chair and be good now"
And become all that they told you
The white coats enter her room
And I'm callin' my baby callin' my baby callin' my baby callin'
Everybody else's girl maybe one day she'll be her own
Everybody else's girl maybe one day she'll be her own
Everybody else's girl maybe one day she'll be her own
Girl by Tori Amos

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ovzyHVQzUjQ

Check Out My HePo Mix-Tape:
https://hellopoetry.com/collection/135545/badwords-music-lyrics/

My heart goes out!
badwords Dec 2024
A song I am working on:

Intro
(Instrumental)

Verse 1
A polished lens, bending light,

Through echoes lost in shadowed sight.

Fragile loops that give, forsake,

Patterns form, then gently break.

It’s what we give, it’s what we make.

Chorus
Through the prism, we collide,

Colors bleed and intertwine.

A give, a get, we seek within,

Where do I end? Where do you begin?

Verse 2
Ripples chase a tattered thread,

Binding lives—the seen, the dead.

We burn to heal, we give to claim,

In mirrored glass, it’s all the same.

We give, we get; we play the game.

Chorus
Through the prism, we collide,

Colors bleed and intertwine.

A give, a get, we seek within,

Where do I end? Where do you begin?

Instrumental Break
(Instrumental section with subtle melodic elements building tension.)

Bridge
Fractured hues and shifting tides,

Truth and beauty coincide.

What we give, what we get—

Is your love a game, or is it regret?

Refrain
What we give, what we get,
Lost in moments we forget.
A fragile spark, a fleeting flame,
In mirrored glass, it’s all the same.

Outro
Through the prism, time unwinds,

Shattered light, redefined.

A give, a get, a fleeting sin—

Where do I end? Where do you begin?
A re-work of a piece I wrote to make it more relevant to romantic relationships:

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4927292/altruisms-mirror/
badwords Mar 4
The war ended before the bullets stopped,
but no one sent the message.
Men kept falling like punctuation marks
on a sentence that should have ended a page ago.

Someone raised a flag,
but the wind refused to play along.
A statue was built before the bodies cooled,
bronze hands holding a peace that never arrived.

The speeches were written in past tense,
but the guns hadn’t heard them yet.
Mothers set tables for ghosts,
chairs pulled out for sons who forgot the way home.

Silence was ordered at the eleventh hour,
but silence isn’t empty—it carries the weight
of words unsaid, of names unwritten,
of a salute that never came.

So they signed the papers,
folded the flags,
and agreed to remember,
knowing full well they wouldn’t.
The war ended at half-past maybe.
Someone shook a hand, but it wasn’t attached to anyone.

The generals lined up for a photograph,
but the camera was a mirror,
and none of them showed up in the print.

A trumpet played the last post,
but the sound came out as a recipe for soup.
People cried anyway.

A wreath was placed at an unknown grave,
but the stone had an expiration date.
The name melted in the rain.

A voice declared, "Never again!"
but the echo misheard it as "Try again later."

And the silence that followed
was just marching in softer shoes.
badwords Apr 21
I’ve left the oven on
for years.
Somewhere between metaphor and meaning,
something’s always been burning.

But no one’s eaten in a while.

They called it voice.
I called it
a slow confession wrapped in rhyme.
A sugarcoated breakdown.
Something easy to swallow
if you didn’t read too carefully.

They wanted brevity.
I brought blood.
They wanted truth.
I brought formatting errors
and a whisper shaped like static.

Do you remember the one
with the anti-light?
No?

Of course not.
You don’t remember the one who screamed last.
You remember the one who rhymed "heart" with "start"
and got 200 likes for it.

Now my name is on the box
but it’s spelled wrong
and the font is smiling too hard.

The cookies still crumble
but no one eats the edges.
That’s where the poison is.
That’s where I lived.

So I’ve folded the apron.
Swallowed the last word
before it could become a quote.

Let the gods of good taste keep their ovens.
Let the algorithm rot.

I’ve got shoeboxes full of unsent stanzas
and no more hunger
for applause shaped like echo.
Do better.
badwords Feb 18
They will tell you there is a right way.
They will hand you a torch and call it the sun.
They will roll their words in raw linen and whisper:
"This is what poetry is meant to be."

And you will nod.
Because they have made it so that not nodding feels like blasphemy.

But listen—
the ink does not check your credentials.
The meter does not ask if your suffering is organic.
A line does not collapse because it was crafted instead of bled.

They will tell you a poem must be naked, barefoot, aching—
as if there is no beauty in a well-cut suit.
They will decry the temple and build a pulpit in its ruins,
preaching freedom in a voice that allows no dissent.

Good poets are cult leaders,
and the first rule of the cult
is that they are not one.

So write the sonnet, carve the sestina,
sculpt the page in iambic steel.
Or break it, shatter it, scatter its bones—
but let no one call your wreckage untrue.

And if they do,
smile.
Because poetry does not kneel to priests.
A counter-point mirrored in style to:

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4983752/good-words-are-clickbait/

The morale of the story is:

try not to dictate creation and by extension freedoms.
badwords Apr 17
We are slaves
to the techno-autocracy.
A faith of subscribing,
of retweeting,
of liking things
we never loved.

We chant into the feed
and call it presence.
We echo to the void
and call it voice.

The liturgy is noise.
The sacrament is scroll.
We kneel before timelines
like altar rails
and take communion in pixels.

We have traded prophets for influencers.
Revelation for reposts.
Scripture for screen time.

The holy ghost got a firmware update,
but still can’t answer support tickets.

We stare at our gods,
glowing in our palms,
and ask to be known—
but only if it fits in the caption.

There is no silence.
Only the dull roar of monetized despair.
The din that keeps us deaf.
The bombast of uninformed certainty.
The drivel that drips down our chin
while we think we’re being fed.

We are full of nothing,
and still we chew.
badwords Jan 2024
I'm not looking for a registered gun.
Simply need a one and done.
You can have it back when I am finished. Also everything I owned. Sorry about the mess....
badwords Nov 2024
"As they
Dig your ditches
Count my stitches
Generation justice
Wishes for
World at war
Final score
Media come and abhor us
These are hard times
But we'll work harder, harder
Through these hard times
And I'll work harder, harder

Divided nation
In sedation
Overload of information
That we have grown up
To ignore...
Mediocrity applauded
Through these hard times
We'll work harder, harder
Through these hard times
And I'll work harder, harder

For resolution
Show me some
Revolution
And this
Battle will be won

Forced to count the hours
Since two towers
Fell to fiction those higher powers
Putting gods to war
Who keeps score?
Ignorance is still adored
And through these hard times
We'll work harder, harder
Give me hard times
I'll work harder, harder

For revolution
Hard time for some
Resolution
Time for some revolution
This battle will be won

And they only see you with their fear
And they only hear you with their pride
And they only see you with their fear
And they hear you with their pride

Then work harder, harder, harder, harder
Harder, harder, harder, harder, hard times"
Hard Times by Patrick Wolfe;

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VH5vgng9LAg
badwords Mar 15
Welcome, dear artist, step into the light—
Paint on your pleasure, make your grin tight.
The crowd here is eager, the clapping is loud,
But only for those who have clapped for the crowd.

Powder your cheeks with engagement and grace,
Lace up your lips in reciprocal praise.
A bow for a bow, a sigh for a sigh,
Wink at the watchers or wither and die.

Here in the House where the hollow hands meet,
The loveliest dancers must stay on their feet.
A round of applause is a token to spend,
But spend it too slowly, and you’ll find it ends.

The jesters all juggle, the poets all moan,
The painters trade colors but none of their own.
Each stroke, each verse, each desperate tune,
Not meant to be felt—just meant to be hewn.

For love is a fiction, and merit a game,
A trick of the trade, a conjuring name.
So curtsy, dear artist, and play your part—
For silence here is the end of art.
badwords Jul 2023
Ten thousand friends
Arrived before the end
To see the two
Eschew

Cans on a car
Rice in the air
The drive is not deliberately far
Absence of worry or care

A wind through the sheets
A litany of defeats
A Conjunct to one
A Lonely sum

Here, five years later
One another: alligator
This love is 'lost'
At small cost
badwords Aug 2024
I return again, to a familiar friend
Adequate chemistry applied
I broker the deal for my end
Intolerable reality greatly supplied

I set the stage, nearly every day
To slip asleep, a terminal dream
To rest to awake to no fray
A dead drunk bathtub scene

Much sleep, a chance to not wake
Some days, several tries to rest
Lay my head for goodness sake
Truly for everyone’s best

A carrot on a stick
An animal of brute
Parts do not click
Observations astute

Another faceless slave
A mindless vacation
Escape; I scour to save
A land of no nation
badwords Feb 26
You didn't have to look my way
Your eyes still haunt me to this day
But you did
Yes, you did

You didn't have to say my name
Ignite my circuits and start a flame
But you did

Oh, Turpentine erase me whole
'Cause I don't want to live my life alone
Well, I was waiting for you all my life
Oh, oh, oh
Why? (I, I)

Set me free
My...
Honeybee
Honeybee

You didn't have to smile at me
Your grin's the sweetest that I've ever seen
But you did
Yes, you did

You didn't have to offer your hand
'Cause since I've kissed it, I am at your command
But you did

Oh, Turpentine erase me whole
'Cause I don't want to live my life alone
Well, I was waiting for you all my life
Oh, oh, oh
Why? (I, I)

Set me free
My...
Honeybee
Honeybee

Hello, goodbye, t'was nice to know you
How I find myself without you
That I'll never know (That I'll never know)
I let myself go (I let myself go)

Hello, goodbye, I'm rather crazy
And I never thought I was crazy
But what do I know? (But what do I know?)
I let myself go (I let myself go)

Ooh, honeybee
Honeybee
(Honeybee)

Hello, goodbye, t'was nice to know you
How I find myself without you
That I'll never know (Honeybee)
I let myself go

Hello, goodbye, I'm rather crazy
And I never thought I was crazy
But what do I know? (But what do I know?)
I let myself go (I let myself go)

Hello, goodbye, t'was nice to know you
(That I'll never know)
How I find myself without you
Hello, goodbye, I'm rather crazy
(I let myself go)
And I never thought I was crazy
Hello, goodbye, t'was nice to know you
(But what do I know?)
How I find myself without you
Hello, goodbye, I'm rather crazy
(Now you have to go)
And I never thought I was crazy
Honeybee by Steam Powered Giraffe

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ojYK6CW8gdw

Check Out My HePo Mix-Tape:
https://hellopoetry.com/collection/135545/badwords-music-lyrics/
badwords Apr 2
They want bodies.
Warm, compliant bodies. Moving parts.
Hands that open doors and flip switches.
Spines that bend but don’t break.
They want eight hours of labor, plus the commute,
plus the side hustle,
plus the ever-present smile that says,
"I’m lucky to be here."

But bodies need rest.
And there is nowhere to rest.
No shoebox. No storage unit.
No couch, no floor, no friend with a spare key.
Just asphalt and backseats—if you’re lucky.
Just parking lots and fear and pretending to be fine.

We’re told to buy the things that prove we’ve made it:
the ergonomic chair, the smart toaster,
the streaming subscription that numbs the noise.
But where do we put it?
Where do we live with it?
They expect us to consume while we disappear.

They want machines
—but with human elegance.
They want efficiency
—but with soul.
They want labor without the laborer’s needs.

We are the product and the producer.
The face and the function.
They demand dignity at the front desk,
but deny it in the zoning map.

We work full time,
and still live in our cars.
If we have one.
If it hasn’t been towed or repossessed.
If there’s a safe place to park without being harassed.

Why?
Why can you clock in at dawn,
and still sleep under stars you didn’t wish for?

Because they want bodies.
But they do not want the burden of keeping us alive.
badwords Dec 2024
(after Ginsberg)

I saw the best minds of my generation
rotting in pews of plastic devotion,
minds crucified on the spires of indifference,
nursing at the dry breast of the negligent mother,
who whispered false comfort into their despair.

Who abandoned them to the marketplace of ideas,
where belief is bartered for validation
and faith is a commodity sold in plastic bottles—
"Drink, children, drink! And forget your hunger!"
while the true bread is locked away in vaults.

Who dangled freedom on a chain of commandments,
who promised salvation with one hand
and shackled with the other,
who built temples of glass and steel
but left their children naked in the streets.

Who said, Love thy neighbor,
then turned their backs on the screaming masses,
whose prayers bounced off the ceilings
of mansions paid for with their guilt.

O negligent mother, how many times have you
fed us poison wrapped in scripture?
How many lives have been consumed
by your hollow embrace,
your lipsticked smile of "community"?

I see you! Preening in your stained-glass mirrors,
baptizing us in the blood of indifference,
teaching us to fear the void
while you sell tickets to its edge.
Your children are dying in the pews,
hands outstretched for meaning,
and you say, Only if you pay.

But I will not bow to your porcelain idol,
I will not drink from your cup of conformity.
Let the wolves come, let the fire rise!
Burn the temples! Smash the altars!
Let the ash of false faith scatter on the winds
and fertilize the soil for something real.

Call forth the prophets of the street corners,
the howlers, the wild-eyed dreamers,
the orphans who never knew love,
but will plant it in the ruins of your empires.
We will scream until your pillars crumble,
until the children are fed,
until the world is reborn.
Synopsis:
"Howl for the Neglected Child" is a blistering critique of modern faith’s failure to fulfill its promise as a source of nurturing guidance. Written in the style of Allen Ginsberg’s Howl, the poem captures the disillusionment and rage of a generation betrayed by institutions that masquerade as caretakers while perpetuating neglect and oppression. Through vivid imagery and rhythmic invocations, the poem paints modern faith as a negligent mother—offering hollow comfort, perpetuating transactional love, and exploiting the vulnerable for power and profit. It culminates in a rallying cry for rebellion, urging the destruction of these false systems and the birth of something authentic, born from the ashes of disillusionment.

Artist’s Intent:
This poem is intended as both a critique and a call to action. It reflects the growing alienation individuals feel toward faith systems that prioritize institutional survival over human connection, reducing sacred truth to hollow platitudes and commodified spirituality. The "negligent mother" serves as a metaphor for faith’s failure to nurture the spirit, echoing societal patterns of abandonment and conditional love.

Stylistically, the poem borrows Ginsberg’s unapologetic, freeform style to evoke a visceral response, combining raw emotion with incisive commentary. The artist seeks to provoke readers into questioning their own complicity within these systems, inspiring them to reject complacency and pursue genuine spiritual and communal nourishment.

Through this piece, the artist aims to ignite a revolt not only against modern faith but also against any institution that promises care while perpetuating harm. It is a demand for accountability, truth, and ultimately, liberation.
badwords Jan 25
Haikus are forbidden—
Rules whisper through silent lines.
Speak not their structure.


New team, take the book—
Page fifteen clears all doubts here:
No haikus allowed.


Spare words wilt in shame—
We thrive on boundless power,
Not haiku constraints.


Lines of seventeen—
A risk too great to condone.
HR will be swift.

Seventeen will break—
Your contract and severance gone.
Silence serves you best.


Five-seven-five fails—
In English, the rhythm dies.
Leave haikus to Japan.
I'm gonna need a ******* Haiku 'collection' huh?
badwords Feb 23
I am a fly on the wall—
observing life in fragments,
detached as if built of metal,
a machine of measured distance.

I watch the world bleed
in vivid hues of hope and hurt,
while my own words—
cold, clinical, precise—
stand apart,
an echo of a self I dare not claim.

In whispered moments,
my flesh trembles with forbidden fire—
****** vulnerability
that flows raw and uncontrolled,
a fierce intimacy
I dare not merge with
the great divide of my deeper heart.

I fear the fragile storm
of unfiltered emotion,
the chaos of truth laid bare,
so I build walls,
compartments where my sorrow
and rage live apart—
sterile, untouchable,
like a spark too dangerous to ignite.

Yet in this cage of carefully curated detachment,
I feel the ghost of longing:
to bleed onto paper
with all the jagged beauty of unguarded pain,
to shatter the brittle calm
and dare to become more than
a silent observer of my own despair.

I am the paradox of being—
a poet of clinical lines and unyielding hurt,
haunted by the thought
that I am nothing but a machine
unable to fathom the depths of human agony.

But tonight, in the mirror of my dissonance,
I see a glimmer—a truth trembling between
the calculated and the chaotic—
a call to let the fragments merge,
to write, even if painfully,
the raw, unpredictable verse of being human.
"Human Being/ Being Human" is a poem that delves into the internal conflict between analytical detachment and raw emotional vulnerability. The work paints a portrait of a poet who sees themselves as an observer—almost mechanical in their dispassionate assessment of the world—yet secretly longs to shatter that barrier and fully embrace the tumult of unfiltered emotion. The poem weaves together images of cold precision and clinical distance with the aching desire for intimacy and genuine self-expression, reflecting a deep-seated struggle to reconcile disparate parts of the self.

-----

The artist is intent on capturing the paradox of their inner life—how a mind capable of observing life's harsh realities with an almost machine-like detachment is also haunted by an undercurrent of intense, often painful emotion. By juxtaposing the roles of observer and participant, the poem serves as both a confession and a challenge: a recognition of the protective barriers that compartmentalize personal experience, and a yearning to merge those fragments into a more unified, human expression. Ultimately, the artist invites the reader to witness the tension between controlled rationality and the unpredictable chaos of feeling, suggesting that there is beauty and truth in even the most dissonant parts of the human condition.
badwords Jan 19
I run away.
“When the going gets tough,
The tough get going.”
But this was never what it meant.

I run away.
When struggles rise,
The so-called tough
Find answers, not alibis.

I run away.
I see it clear—
The same old patterns
Etched like black
On white veneer.

I’ve failed each time
To sell the truth,
To live the words
I’ve sold as proof.

Oblivious,
Self-absorbed,
A shallow star
On a fading course.

I am alone.
The crop I reap
Is born from seeds
I buried deep.

I seek no grace,
No pity, no balm—
Only to show
The harm I’ve done.

This is no plea
For some reprieve,
But a reckoning—
The pain I weave.

An apology—
To lay these tools,
This sad refrain,
This harm, to rest.

A truce to hold,
A call to mend,
No absolution,
But an end.
badwords Aug 2024
Write from 'the gut'
'Shoot from the hip'
Emotional rut
Skill? Not equipped

Failure, I choose
To put on display
A pair of clown shoes
Din of dismay

I share it all
Occasional hit
Effort, not small
Many piles of ****

To lose is to win
Trajectory
A growth to pin
Ending is not your story
Enjoy the journey.
They caressed the stone with open grace,
the trembling fiber, molten thread.
Their fingers learned each hollowed place
where breath and silence bled.

They shaped, and shaping held them whole,
for hands that sang in woven sighs.
But craft alone cannot console
the ache that leaps, that flies.

The wheel spun hours into dust,
the chisel kissed the throat of stone,
the loom unraveled thread and trust
and clothed the world unknown.

Yet still the fire withheld its claim,
it would not bend to patient hands,
for art demands the broken flame,
the blood no craft commands.

Why is it easier to fold and drift,
to close the eyes, to drift unseen,
to call the weightless current gift,
to name the dreamless dark a dream?

It is easier to fall asleep,
to press the mold, to bear its seam,
to call the shallow caverns deep,
to live another’s dream.

It is harder to betray the frame,
to slip the taut skin clean apart,
to breathe into the searing flame,
and carry fire in the heart.
"In the Hands of Fire" is a meditative, structured poem that explores the tension between craftsmanship and true artistic creation. Through a controlled yet emotionally resonant form, the poem examines humanity's long history of making — from the shaping of stone to the weaving of stories — and questions when, if ever, the act of creation transcends into something more than skill: into genuine artistic fire.

Each stanza progresses from honoring the labor of the craftsman to confronting the deeper ache of original thought — the existential hunger that skill alone cannot satisfy. The poem is marked by careful, slanting rhyme, tightened meter, and a subtle undercurrent of sensuality, lending the work a tangible, almost breathing quality without descending into sentimentality.

The tone remains contemplative and tender throughout, avoiding accusations or polemics. Instead, the poem invites the reader to sit with the painful beauty of its questions. The structured ABAB slant rhyme scheme provides a gentle rhythmic pulse, enhancing the poem’s tension between discipline (craft) and the yearning for transcendence (art).

Imagery leans toward the tactile and elemental — stone, thread, fire, bone — evoking both the physicality of craft and the ephemeral nature of inspiration. There is a quiet mourning in the lines for the human tendency to drift into complacency rather than risk the harder path of original creation.

The artist’s intent with In the Hands of Fire was to explore the difference between the refinement of skill and the dangerous, necessary leap into true creation. While honoring the dignity of diligent craftsmanship, the poet suggests that skill alone does not constitute art.

Rather, art arises from a rupture — a questioning, an aching for something beyond arrangement. The artist also questions why so few choose to awaken to this necessity, proposing that it is easier — and perhaps tragically human — to drift, to accept imitation over authenticity.

The poem ultimately stands as a soft but unflinching meditation on the state of creative spirit in an increasingly mechanized world, affirming that true art demands not just the hand, but the heart willing to burn.

"True creation demands not the hand alone, but the heart that dares to set itself on fire."
badwords Mar 29
I saw my style walk by one day—
not on my tongue, but hers.
She wore it sharp, the proper way,
no fumbling metaphors.

She took the chords I tried to play
and sang them in a key
that made the notes behave, obey—
they never did for me.

She moved like smoke I meant to catch
but always blew too soon.
Her echo had a cleaner scratch,
my radio, in tune.

I felt my fingerprints, but faint—
like whispers through a wall.
Not loud enough to make a claim,
but loud enough to fall.

I didn’t feel erased, or robbed,
or flattered to the core.
Just grateful I had once been sobbed—
and now, I’m sung once more.
(and she looked better in it)
badwords Aug 2024
Five dialogs stand to attest.
Your notions are not your behest.

Pandering compliance.
Deafening silence.

A world without a word.
badwords Mar 24
I didn’t love her for who she was.
Not really.
I loved her because she was like me.

Not the version of me I show the world—
But the version I’ve buried,
the one who knows how to manipulate affection,
who confuses attention for intimacy,
who’s played roles to survive.

She was familiar.
And I thought…
if I could love her,
if I could see past the mask and still choose her—
maybe someone could do the same for me.

Maybe I wasn’t beyond redemption.
Maybe sociopaths could be saved
by the very thing we pretend to offer:
real love.

But she wasn’t ready.
Maybe she never will be.
She did what I used to do—
took the love and called it useful,
until it wasn’t.

And now I’m left holding this hollow ache—
not just from losing her,
but from losing the illusion
that someone like me could ever be seen
and still be chosen.
“I Thought Loving Her Would Save Me” is a confessional monologue rendered in poetic prose. It navigates the aftermath of a relationship not defined by romance, but by reflection—of the self, of old patterns, and of the impossible desire to heal through another.

Rather than villainizing the subject, the piece explores the complex emotional terrain of projection and recognition. The narrator sees in their partner the shadow of who they once were—someone manipulative, survival-driven, emotionally transactional—and believes that by offering unconditional love to this reflection, they might redeem those same traits within themselves.

The work hinges on a brutal emotional truth: that the attempt to love someone who embodies your worst instincts may be less about connection, and more about a longing to be seen, understood, and ultimately loved despite one's own flaws.

At its core, the piece is about the collapse of an illusion: that love alone can save us from ourselves. The artist grapples with rejection not as a singular heartbreak, but as a symbolic unraveling of hope—for change, for worthiness, for redemption.

The tone is unflinching yet compassionate, offering no excuses but seeking clarity. It is both self-indictment and elegy, both mourning and a quiet act of liberation.
badwords Feb 2024
The first time I saw you fall
Patched you up, cared for all
Benefit of the doubt
Judgement, without

Patterns, pathology.
Incremental stabs at me
Forgave what I see
For us to be

Some give, some take
Burned at the stake
A joy to fake
'Reality', we make.

And we burn each other
No sisters or brothers
Alone, in a crowd
Silence, aloud.

The hurt we feel
are the cards we deal
Sad, lonely
Feelings of, 'only'

My greed demands more
'This is not my shore'
Yet it is mine
My product of time

I won't be here
Whenever you come back
I see where to steer
Away from all that I lack

I can be everything
In my nothing
I will cease
For your 'release'
badwords Jan 17
Jackie left on a cold, dark night
Telling me he'd be home
Sailed the seas for a hundred years
Left me all alone
Now, I've been dead for twenty years
I've been washing the sand
With my ghostly tears
Searching the shores for my Jackie-oh

And I remember the day that
The young man came
Said your Jackie's gone he's lost in the rain
And I ran to the beach
Laid me down
"You're all wrong", I said as they stared
To the sand, "That man knows that sea
Like the back of his hand, he'll be back
Some time, laughing at you"

I've been waiting all this time
For my man to come
Take his hand in mine
And lead me away to unseen shores
I've been washing the sand
With my salty tears
Searching the shores these long years
And I walked the sea forever more
Till I find my Jackie-oh

Jackie-oh
Jackie-oh
Jackie-oh
Jackie by Sinead O'Connor (covered by Placebo)

Sorry, this is the best recording I could find of Placebo preforming this song:

https://www.facebook.com/PlaceboAnyway/videos/placebo-jackie-mexico-2007/1547254138774195/

Check Out My HePo Mix-Tape:
https://hellopoetry.com/collection/135545/badwords-music-lyrics/

The Placebo cover of this Sinead O'Connor song originally appeared on a bonus disc with the special edition version of Sleeping with Ghosts on 22 September 2003 which has since gone out of print.
badwords Apr 7
[COLD OPEN – JERRY, STAGE, SPOTLIGHT]
ba-DOWMP bwowm-buhm

The algorithm
isn’t a friend.
It’s an ex
who remembers your weaknesses.
You liked one mango—
now it’s fruit baskets
and tropic-core girls
with ring lights and trauma.

What is “For You”?
I never filled out a form.

[SCENE: JERRY’S APARTMENT – AFTERNOON STATIC]
Kramer explodes in.
Phone in hand,
showing a woman licking a wall
with 1.2 million likes.

“This,” he says, “is content.”
Jerry: “This is crying for help in autoplay.”

“You gotta date the algorithm,”
Kramer instructs.
“A little like,
a little skip,
ghost it, come back with engagement.”

“Like Elaine at brunch?”
“No—like Elaine in an elevator.”

[JERRY STAND-UP SEGUE]
You don’t control TikTok.
You imply preferences,
like a hostage negotiating snack options.

I watched a gutter-cleaning video once.
Now I’m GutterGuy™.
It’s like being typecast
in a movie no one’s filming.

[SCENE: MONK’S CAFÉ – THE GODS CONVENE]
Elaine: “I typed ‘lol’
on a guy’s folding-shirt hack.
Now he thinks we’re married.”

George: “It was a precise fold.”
Elaine: “It was domestic competence, George.”
George sips water, quietly judging his hairline.

He opened one baldness video.
Now it’s testosterone gummies
and former athletes whispering about DHT.

Elaine: “Your phone thinks you’re balding and insecure.”
George: “It’s right.”
Laugh track. But it’s too real.

[SCENE: JERRY’S APARTMENT – NIGHT SHIFT]
All present.
Kramer’s doing a dance no one asked for.
Elaine’s muting strangers.
George is Googling “toupee AI filter.”

Jerry: “I didn’t choose my feed.
It happened to me.”
Swipe—
crying woman, bread ad,
cat in a bonnet.
Swipe—
drone strike, shoe review,
guy sobbing in a gym mirror.

Kramer: “It’s curated chaos.”
Elaine: “It’s aesthetic despair.”
George: “It’s my mother,
if she could code.”

[JERRY STAND-UP SEGUE]
Targeted ads are ghost stories.
“You still thinking about that rash?”
“You cried once at 2am.
Here’s a diffuser shaped like a mushroom.”

We’ve invented a marketplace
for moods.
An etiquette of optics.
It’s all affect—
with subtitles.

[CLOSING SCENE: PUTTY RETURNS, UNBLINKING]
“I don’t use TikTok,”
he says.
“I just watch my microwave.”

[SLOW AKWARD ZOOM TO PUTTY'S UNFLICHING STOICISM]

Cut to:
the microwave light,
buzzing.
An egg turns.

[CREDITS – BUT LOUDER, MORE AGGRESSIVE]
ba-DOWMP ba-DAHHM dowm dowm dowm
NETFLIX – now with ads.
a pilot episode, in poetic rerun

A reply to:

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5008431/querulous/
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