silent night, holy night
free me from your brutal grip,
truthful grip, oh how I am falling
falling  
 falling
  falling
   falling
    falling
      to the wake of reality

time is a wave
pillow is depravity undeserved:
my head should rest in dreams alone
for races condemned to three hundred minutes of solitude do not have a second opportunity in past days

I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I      the stars are few tonight        I   Q. window window on the wall I       I        less for want of light              I    who's the weakest of them all?  I
I          than for having fled            I   A.  see for yourself                        I
I  the burden of being witnessed  I  Q. why can't you show me what I I              i too would dim               I   want to see?                                   I   I             if it meant no one              I  A.  0                                                 I  I         could name my sorrow        I   Q.Q.Q.Q.Q.Q.Q.Q.Q.Q.Q.Q.Q.  I
I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I

it shrouds me
this pale view of distances                     un-X-X-bridge-X-X-able
this nocturnal solo elegy                            ave falsus corpum
it brings me ever closer to death                                                    
my gentle repose

but do not pity me
even the darkening star burns
and the softest tremor in the chest
means i'm still reaching for something > 0
even if i call it sleep

so let me rest,
unmourned, remembered
for that dismal resilience;
bleak survival
through the depths of night
for one stanza longer

They said “Bad feelings are temporary”
Are they?

Is it the optimistic urge to let them go
And free the space for upcoming more?
And how do we know what’s coming isn’t as bad?
Can we mesure how much we endured
and how much is left ?

“Bad feelings are temporary”,
Do we at some point in life upgrade
and reach access to the sanctuary?
Is it fair share the amount of things
that are upsetting or scary?

How can you say it’s temporary ?
when every corner in me is hunted
with a heavy weight of a hurting feeling
How many did I drop and
How many do I still carry?
My shoulders are tired
And my bones are growing weary

“Bad feelings are temporary”,
How come they become bad in the first place?
Don’t they have a purpose
Or do they just occupy space?
Do we need to feel anxious or not enough
in order to grow more tough?
Couldn’t we just all agree to not be rough?
Couldn’t we change the rules
So the gentle one survives?

Couldn’t we care more
And help each other feel a little less
of the bad feelings that we call temporary?

-HexaWhirl<3

the precum drips out of my head
and my teardams crack
as i mourn the life i could’ve had
the self discovery ripped away
the friends who left, my heart shattered
by saying those two words

new identity made, but is it
just a farce?

new friends made, or do they
want me just for my body?

my heart reconnected with gold and lacquer
but is it all in vain?

i lie in my bed, riding a clarity i only feel
before the shame comes in

I look at the sun
And ask for his light
He stares on, silent
And then my eyes hurt
And then I look away
And I still don't know
What I am to do

The rain falls on me
She asks who I am
And why I lie here
But I cannot say
And I cannot move
So she can do naught
But drench me anew

We eat, we sleep, and we pray.
But who do we pray to?
Is it the ones who promise us salvation
but only give us disease, darkness, and blood?
Or promises of hope, love, and flair?

We starve, we wake, and we sacrifice.
But who do we sacrifice for?
For the ones who only take, take, and take,
and give not even a dime in return?
But only death, darkness, and blood.

I look at the heavens and see light,
but not lights of hope or redemption,
only lights made to blind us and bind us—
to show us we are unworthy of them, of the divine,
to make us feel like envying them is a crime.

I search wide and far for a story without any bar,
a story where they were selfless and not so afar,
a story to help us dream and reach the sky—
not act as silent observers of the moonless sky.
But all I hear are hopeless cries of mine.

Who are they to decide what we are, what I am?
Who are they to decide my fate and worth?
Who even are they, when they haven't felt the pain of existence?
only seen the suffering from their lofty thrones afar?
All I see is cruelty and worthless promises, hearts as black as tar.

who     was the first  
                           to     ask —  
               not pray  
                            not plead—  
                     just  
                             wonder
        where the silence ends?

        ››    did the stars       agree  
                 to be named?  
               or did we just      carve  
                            their deaths  
          into chalk lines—
                     & call it  
              science.  


      what kind of hunger  
                    swallows light  
             & asks for more?

   when we punctured         the sky  
         did it        bleed  
                     or simply  
         sigh?

                   (you never checked.)

         we build      machines  
             with spines,  
          launch them  
                to listen  
                           for gods—  
              or echoes—  
                    or maybe  
     our own guilt.


        she turned her face  
             like a coin:  
                  spent.  
                      flipped.  
                           dropped  
                in a wishing well  
                          full of lies.

        she said nothing.

          (but i swear  
              something grinned.)



          what is curiosity
                 if not  
         the first betrayal?

                  no sword,  
                    just a finger  
                          on the seam  
                  of heaven  
                        tugging—  

                         harder.  


          a child pulls truth  
                  out of a socket.  
               the lights flicker.  
         the room     gasps.  

     nothing burns.  
                 but everything  
                          smells like  
               wrong.



     ›› do we chase answers  
           or just fear  
                  what silence  
                        might say  
                              back?


     sometimes i think  
        black holes  
                are just  
                    mouths  
         tired of listening.  



         and still —  
           we ask.  
               we ask.  
                   we ask.

do you know  
   who planted          your thoughts —  
          or did they         bloom  
               without asking?

     opinions peel  
         like wallpaper  
   in a house          you've never  
        seen from      the outside.  

               you say:  
        this is right.  
   but who carved        that word  
        into the stone?  
     who handed you            the chisel?

      belief is just  
         fog     in a jar—  
  shake it           and swear  
           it’s       snow.

         who told you  
      fire      was holy  
         but water  
                was wild?

      i heard someone once  
         mistake a noose       for a necklace.  
           it shimmered.  
               it fit.  
                    they smiled.

         how do you know  
      you’re standing         on ground—  
         not        a painted floor  
   that flakes         if you question it?

           do your convictions  
                   creak  
        when you       lean on them?  

    have you ever  
       touched         your thoughts  
             with        bare hands?

       some days  
   i think the sky      is only blue  
        because someone  
              forgot another       color.

       maybe you     aren’t wrong.  
            maybe         no one is.  
         maybe we all  
        just swallowed         different mirrors.

         how do you know  
     the echo        isn’t lying?

               how do you know  
        the voice       is yours?