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zebra Sep 2018
have you ever seen beauty in a silky nightmare
have you  ever seen the monster of deprivation in heavens promise?

we speak of private things
we should never talk about
about vailed women
and their terrible secrets
and about myself who remains no longer a secret to myself

somewhere i went off the track
like a  daisy chain saw of honesty
to ensure you knew i was sick
a sick **** with a trick
as if i ate some ****** up hallucinogenic' s
making me spill my obsessions all over you
like some weird perfumed *****
down a swirling rainbow toilet
that turns out to be only jelly and whipped cream
wrapped in colored ribbons on cellophane tampons

i feel like  having *** or going to the toilet in public
while waving my hands up in the air
screaming yahoo i'm free
to blow to kingdom come
the temple of normalcy
you know
the church of rose gardens, cemeteries and deprivations
except of course for the sneers, smears
and self loathing vanilla demons
who wear long see through dresses and crosses
like dash board plastic virgins
with bobbing heads
that make hissing sounds about sin

i confess
i'm attracted to the darkest women
strange *******
and  ******
the stranger the better
who shake their butts
like hoodoo enchanted show girls
doing what they shouldn't do
crying and scrying like cooing moons calling
"drink me like ****** Mary
daddy **** lollypop"
all inky tats and razorblade ouchies

or
you can join those
covered in white collared black as death habits
begging the invisible *** cake in paradise
waiting for mercy and a little ****
that never comes
stuck in an empty
loveless bar of crucifixes that only serves up theology

oh baby
***** dreams do come true
pink ****** ***** gladly widen their haunches
like **** without boots
not caring if they go to hell
playin
like a joy ride of fiddle **** sticks
all freaky tongues and tingling licks
thick saliva multi lingual blow jobs
lathering flashing lipped saliva for the squirt  
with fiery wet hypodermic kisses
that make screams
like creamed upleaping lava and ash
for a million hungry sexed up twisting tongues
in occult ecstasy
fecundating shrouds of steamy clouds
in stained red black lighted rooms
with cherub crowned *****
and their drooling snatches buttered ****

eat quivering
like fowl mouthed piranhas
crying more raw meat please
while you drag your perfect person visage
into hollow caves of despair
cold and lonely

so you forlorn love struck weeping
horney pathetic scarecrow
socially engineered robots
if you want love
like heated buttery waffles with sweet jam
just give your self away like slutty putty
to lust criminals and *** addicted pervs  
until
you feel someone swallow you whole
soul and all
and lick their lips
like your their cherry pie

then look passed your
rats nest of pride and exhaustive approval list
and love them back
like free beer
bang their brains out
be their slave and make them yours
in the mad house of love
of warped shimmering mirrors, straight jackets, and squeezy insertions

and if one day they don't appreciate your imperfect perfection
if they weaponize like critic's
teach them respect
shove it where they breathe
lick your wounds
be brave
throw them in the trash bin of history
and move on

Eros and Venus
take a million forms

look around
your swimming in a giant bowl of broken hearts
hungry mouths, drenched ***** and hard *****

you whimpering little beasts
dress to ****
undress to live

its a movable feast
advice to the lovelorn young
thank you to Lora Lee for the line
" swirling toilet rainbows"
Solaces Feb 2022
I could remember the cycle.  
I could remember the movements..
So simple yet so complex.

The series of activation protocols.
And the unknown science the brings life to them..
The Astra auras and the elemental mixtures..

The hike into the light and dark wilderness..
The other side of the other side..
The calling of shadows and reflections..

The tones of outer world..
The songs heard past the stars..
The convolution of me and my memory..

The moment I remember..
What was forgotten..
On how to combine light and darkness..

On how to Weaponize my imagination.....
Anjana Rao Apr 2016
What would be like
to be
100%
safe?

I mean
to be that perfect combination
of visible
and invisible.

I mean
to be
left alone
while walking the streets.

I mean
to be
respected.

I mean to be a
white
straight
man.

-

I have to drill it into my head
that I love myself
as I am –
queer, ace, woman-read, brown, crazy, femme –
because if I didn’t
I’d never be able to leave the house.

I have to say
that to be otherwise
would be boring
so that maybe one day
I'll actually believe it.

But I cannot say
I have never wanted to be
100%
safe.

-

Today
I put on a short dress
I have never felt pretty enough to wear,
and walked to and from a café,
knowing what would come.

I kept track –
four honks, one leer, one whistle,
told myself:
                   you knew this would happen,
                     this is nothing,
                     you’re lucky,
                     it could be
                     so
                     much
                     worse.


It still hurt.

I practiced the motion
of flipping off the bird
as I walked,
tried to get it
as reflexive
as a cop with a loaded gun,
knowing
that it would make no difference.

-

To dare to be feminine in public
is to perfect
the art of looking straight ahead
the art of being hard of hearing
the art of fast, fast, fast walking
[just in case].

So often
we have to weaponize femininity
because that’s all we’ve got.
Emma Nov 2018
Wash away your expectations of me using soap and water.
I will sharpen my teeth
And weaponize my words
If it will force you to understand
How lovely it is to hate you
I was not born with such truth
To hand feed you lies
Emanuel Martinez Dec 2012
***** water lilies
Fiery wondering thoughts
Precise eagle eyes

Ego, they guard

Mankind better run
Material eating; nature
Purifying souls

Change's gaining ground
Man you're going down
Always thinking weaponize

Raising minds' vice
Fast blind downfall

Self-inflection; death's allure

Trapped man
Life's insecure

Hunting own kind
Fools reigning mad
Blood drenched rule

Cycle mind around
Sense losing force
Just ****** man

No blink, grant death
Leave fellow man
Only one win

Mankind better run
Material eating, nature
Purifying souls

Change's gaining ground
Man you're going down
Always thinking weaponize

Human demise
You canonize
Only trivial

Mankind better run
Man you're going down

Child keep up
For you, we're waiting on
December 14, 2012
Weaponize your loneliness,
As your rose takes on thorns
Till it hurts in that hand
Crushing the stem in your own
Michael W Noland Jul 2012
secrete hate

let it fill your skies

breathe the flames

that you weaponize

the inhibitions of the average citizen are in their composition

lost

our prohibitions are leveraged in manipulation of indentured cost

its character assassination

alienation of a nation

built to look like suicide

and i

am so sick of these ridiculous syndicates of clueless idiots

i got no time for the intermediate silly ****

they dont know what the **** they are talking about and i am supposed to submit to it

I already screamed into loose winds

I already know the angels are gone

I already grew the **** up

And the fear is gone

******* Gone
Tyler King Feb 2017
I. Palingenesis: The Spirit We Inherit

We were born on top of graves,
Headstones from sea to sea,
Some places they put flowers over their coffins, some places they put gold plated markers in the street, some places they don't put anything,
No matter how far you run, you are not faster than the ghosts of this land
No matter where you go you will pay for the sins of your fathers,
You will incur their debts on top of your own and you will be wrapped in this when they put you in that ground
They will tell you that this isn't your fault
They will tell you that this isn't their fault either
They will blame this on The Other
They will tell you who your enemies are, and you will believe them
They will tell you to defend your blood, your soil
They will tell you that this is what your father did, and his father before him
They will tell you that patriots do what they must, and so must you
They will out that gun in your hands, and when you pull the trigger, they will tell you it is your fault, that they just don't know,
Where you inherited all this violence

II. Kenogenesis: The Spirit We Create

You will speak up,
You will tell them, in no uncertain terms, that you will not carry those crosses,
You will not fire their guns,
You will not tie their nooses,
You will not die for your fathers legacy
You will not surrender to your history
You will climb the rib cage of empire and spit in its eyes
You will wave whatever ******* flag you please
You will learn, you will fight, you will burn, you will live, you will love, you will survive and you will become greater for it
We were all born on top of graves, but that does not make us mausoleums
Let us not be haunted by our heritage, let us weaponize it
Let us say never again and let us mean it, never again, to anyone, anytime, ever
Let us be stronger than our fathers,
Let us pass through the crucible and come out steel, diamond, and fire
Let us drag ourselves forward, chains and all, and never look back
Let us break through the clouds, and watch the day rise upon this land, and let's remember what all those people died for, and let's make them proud of how far we've come
neth jones Nov 2022
the city's moon                                            
       fixated in its peoples tics and behaviour
                    crass and mentally fractured
traction acts
the loony satellite makes sway for rude construction          
                                          ­        padding our ego psychology
nothing    simple    allowed
we are all a manic reference of each other

the city weather is steered                              
       by currents of gossip
withhold your info
               culture clutches
misguiding alliances
    treasure your details                                              
                      it is your only insurance

this city                                            
it's a view to thrill                                              
            ­ but it odors me til ill
****** privacy and get undressed
too much time here   harbouring thirst      
quibbling hurt feelings                          
         signals ;  Life Emitting Distress

so                                                    
lock up the night city stars                                 
                 mar-glaring bulbs of pity-me
                          staring about for vagrancy
i flip up my hood             
lucent pandery eyes span the communal routes   
search us out       merchandise and mood
i turn down an alleyway
and am confronted
                                          a vain and voyeuristic fan tail
varieties cocktail of sales and entertainment
ad lights send out sonar 'pings'
wing-ed ; fencing judgement
i wear pricy contacts to veil my retinas
and my hood is lined with aluminium

     i cough and concentrate on breath
commemorate each step undertaken
weaponize my walk
eyes low
my being is voided into guise

heading further from the city centre
i can straighten from my defensive pose
in amongst the dwellings              
             the urban effect dwindles
kindled   instead   by the dosey soup wash of streetlights
delights;   the holy crop of them
webbing outward    retching past our boundaries          
              shored back upon natures breath                      
(so i imagine)
Martin Narrod Dec 2015
Come to me great entangler of speech, until the mouth
is a thicket of word mash, you
who rakes strain out of the day to day visions.

Four nights last week you came in the dream-sweeps
flying at forty-one thousand feet. Encrusting this crimson suitcase of blood production with aurulent Trojan footstep rumbles in the hundreds of thousands.

Are you the new blues guitar, the trill bliss in satirical Dutch painting;
you who wrestles the languages of sleep. To get to keep you we'd **** all mystical beasts, sew treason, and wait naked for the dead things to come.

Remoteness in the time of the lonely.
Where you shed shivers of  sharks
In wild dance and wicked tantrum, lilting
Beside the androgyny of days and Time.
You the dashboard Jesus of sin and canter.
No scurrying footsteps to barge the heavy moods of ****** or abscess.

In half breaths you weaponize yourself,
A take of drink and then with the rest of the aves,
Swallowed by the colossus of entanglement,
Taken beneath the blue awning amidst the company of the sea.
LC Nov 2020
I walked around, arms always crossed,
never speaking until I was spoken to.
I kept my head down, subservient to a ruler
who knew and preyed on my every weakness.

Lately, I've been fighting back.
My arms are outstretched, accepting what comes.
I released the anchors that sank my heart for years
without waiting for anyone's approval - only mine.

My head is held high.
The ruler can't weaponize the truth anymore.
My acceptance drained the poisonous power
of the ruler's previously potent weapons.

Now I am not ruled by anyone.
Try as they might, they'll never trap me again.
I'll never let them for as long as I draw breath,
and my spirit can finally soar to the greatest of heights.
It's been a while. I would love to know who you think the ruler is or symbolizes!
L Jun 2019
It becomes clear to me that growing into an adult has little to do with leaving anything behind, and more to do with the responsibility of knowing.
Forget your worries about keeping your soft animals. You can keep them. You can keep your colorful things. But think: what will you do with what you know?
This is the real question.

You are an adult, which only means that you have lived long enough now that you must decide what to do with your knowledge. It is your duty.
What will you do now that you have seen the world is not kind? Will you be kind in its place? Will you be kind to everyone you meet? Or will you hoard your kindness, like a tired dog whose fur has fallen in all its scars?

What will you do, now that you know fear and all its soldiers? Will you hurl rebellion in a glass bottle to those who weaponize it? Will you scream back at it when it tells you to silence yourself? Will you hold the other’s hand, when they tell you quietly, that they too are afraid?

What will you do, now that you know love and all its terrors? Will you embrace it? Will you work to move through it? Will you want it even after it shows you your lover’s own fears? Will you learn to swim in it, so that you don’t drown like children do?

What will you do now that you know suffering, despair, the state of all around you? Will you sit and watch? Will you turn away from duty, to keep your soft animals close and sigh, “I’m nothing but a pretty babe in the wood”? Or will you pick up your fists, and march towards that which needs changing, with all the colorful things in your pocket, and the soft animal, sleeping safety back home?
What will you do, darling babe, now that you’ve grown, now that you know?

Decide. That is what the adults must do.
Apparently,
it takes networks of terrorists
to point out the networks of terrorists.

Thank God our terrorists
wear suits and weaponize propaganda
using cameras, microphones, and satellites.

Otherwise,
we might look just as bad
as we make others out to be.

Oh, wait...
Ken Pepiton Mar 2021
Taking and giving
respect,
see once more the flaw in the flow
of knowledge,

weaponize a wall, ha,
who thought
a wall ever held a garden?
Honest,
it was a poor fellow, outside the wall.
Yep, no lie, if once there were
a tree
that bhor good fruit, full of words to wise,
knowers, after one bite,
sublingual receptors ready, salivate,
no waiting lick the dew from the cortex,
slip the tasting probe deep into that
sulci, there
just over the left ear, there,
scratch that itch, gentle
scritchy scritch scritch

are you truly experienced, impressed upon
the truth you seem to think
we all see same as you,
same optics,
same alchemical ATP to ADP energy source,
sunshine
comes softly through my window today,
I looked out after all,
saw you looking
through the old tear in the curtain.

Inside and outside are easily seen as unreal,
in certain pre-envisioned vessels

can't not, gotta say, must make, say do you see?
SEE, see me, see me, come see
the freak, come hear the mad man scream back
from the abyss,

don't come this way, getting out takes
all the time you ever realized
was wasted,
lying piled idle words that were high fashion,
back when
acid
tore the prudent stitchery my princess stitched,
while waiting, in truth, in truth, waiting
for the soldier boy, returning as the man,
who kept the peace,
and painted the picket fence white, to prove
I dreamed the valid dream,
and swore my children's allegiance,

-- PTSD, circa 1950, it was secret,
what broken men did to broken wombed men,
who broke the children,
fit them to the harness, taught them manners,
and how to carry a tune,
in time with the marching band, hurah hurah
- little light right then - see
dark days during semper fi why why why
last call, … no soul sits, all rise
or I black your ****** eyes, rise up, o men o'gawds,
ye gads, meet this in m'gut,

here here, to the dead and gone, who rule
our hearts and minds 'cause we be left behind.
Thinking of friends, and foe, and folks I'll never know, but need not ... never did... need to know... lotsa stuff is good to know, and BTW knowing and doing are different in good and evil times/terms
Delta Swingline Dec 2017
Music is not a weapon I wield with such grace these days.

It's mostly a necessary thing I try to master in the comfort of my own room.

A new year, a new start. Or at least it seems that way. I don't really care to know where I'm going to start over in this new year.

My hands feel frail and coarse, like they've never gone swimming, or like they've always gone swimming.

I barely type with the swiftness I used to. My arms grow tired, and I grow just as tired. I am not myself these days, but these days are getting longer and longer.

I fear my death most nights.

Thanatophobia is a type of illness unlike insomnia, but similar no doubt.

Every day I wish you were here to hold my hand, but when I ask what will I do without you here, you tell me "I'm honestly going to be fine."

What part of that is fine anyway?

But you're right.

I shouldn't cling to you as much as I do.

I said before in a previous poem that I didn't want to scare you away while trying to be a friend.

I just hurt so often and pray so little.

Falling apart while you move away and yet, there is no safe haven for people like me.

But people like you seem to think the I'm okay.

And I wonder every day...

Why you think so.
Baer
Jeremy Betts Feb 27
We live in a time far beyond parody
"One nation, under god..." heresy
Belief with an astrix *hypocrisy
Brain rot the byproduct of conspiracy
Write a holy book to weaponize theocracy
Cherry picking for convenience should be piracy
Do as I say not as I do type diplomacy
A sketchy love thy neighbor as thy self theory
"Except for that guy a different shade from me" apparently
I'm just the mirror being held for all to see
If this raises questions bring out up to "the almighty"
If there is a creator, we are it's atrocity
A dark comedy
A beautiful tragedy

©2025
Your demons don’t play well with mine,
They bite and they bruise and entwine.
Yours weaponize tears,
Mine whisper, come near.
The chaos is purely divine.

We drift toward escape, dark and slow,
They bloom with our secrets and grow.
Yours pull at my seams;
Mine knot in your dreams.
A dance only demons could know.
Light limericks inspired by the psychological tension of Anne Sexton's work, who frequently explored intimacy’s darker shades.
We are children with skinned knees and hope for tomorrow
Tucked into our back pockets.
Children with selfish wants who are blindly stumbling.
Children of the sun, children caught between the cracks.
Children who are sloppy in love with people
Who don't love us back.
Children with hands stretched out like daggers towards the moon.
Children begging for the ability to weaponize our words.
Children carved from granite and marble,
Laced with gold and stardust
And we just want to be heard.
Michael W Noland Nov 2013
Women weaponize love
And the men
They eat it up
Until the girl
Has had enough
And the men
Are left with nothing
But their

[Freedom]
Sea salt hair with windchime charms
Fireworks in my chest the solar system in my  hip pocket flap
Tobacoo coat stained green with stones from my throat
A daughter of the North with toothpick heels
Sunken ships and bruised lips as I curse your name
Scar you with my thoughts
Regurgitate our  indifferences in this Melancholy sea
Stardust loveless and lost
I weaponize your words
Kelly McManus Dec 2020
Think your something more
than a primitive species
about to vanish

                      Kelly McManus
Satsih Verma Oct 2023
A biological split
divides the water of a well to
become weaponize.

A riverbed bed comes
up to see the result. It has
brought the lotus from the mud.

The ocean has a very
deepstay. Earth was not sliding.
The man returns to collect the pearls.
Lawrence Hall Nov 2016
Conscripting the Dead

Saturday Night, 12 November 2016

They’ve drafted now his hymn of innocence
Into their revolution against the poor
To sing in praise of dreamers they despise
To canonize the poverty of the rich

They weaponize the poetry of love
And drive sweet words into cold camps of hate
There to be regimented and uniformed
And beaten into a tribute unwilling

His alleluia is not their war song
It cannot be; it is his hymn of hope
Traveler Oct 2017
What wondrous power
a word possess'.
To start a war
or to clean up
messes

Threatening letters
in your alpha message,
will only lead
to sudden regresses
in your numbers
and friends - even your bestest.  
So try to be kind even if counter-intuitive
For the words you weaponize affect how you will be digested
Traveler Tim
And Friend
ash Jul 22
pronouncing beauty, eloquism i've dealt with,
a lit-up candle resembling a snowflake
in the middle of weary summer—
hearth, solitude, and soulmates

have particular habits,
like one i seldom right now:
never get my hair blow-dried
after having cut them down,
knowing i wouldn't go to those lengths again,
or see the styled version—
that's as real as your plains.

wouldn't be there the next day, would they,
when i wake up, a messy bedhead,
stars on my skin, nightmares stained in purpose—
guesses on that somewhere along the ride,
i accepted the chaotic messy half curls
and half waves of my dusted heathery heathens.

learn my language if you must:
private with a public intensity,
burning in paradoxes and flameproof identities.

there's multiple facets of how you live—
decisions, situations, ironies, as you will,
weaponize descent, set trademarked positions.

loathsome evil little creatures,
annoying in proof,
existing by mere chance—
i despise them all through.
but oh, do they deserve love?
perhaps, maybe they do—
from those who speak their words
and listen to them swoon.

deities settled atop the mountain of lies,
dancing in between the lines.
truth is a factor—
those eyes, they lie:
iridescent, accompanied with desires,
breathing vacuum, eating dust,
speaking their shares even as they shy.

spider webs curling upon oneself,
eight-legged creatures grinning at the fresh catch.
fakers faked their own fake selves,
hid secrets of the sacred mess in their chests.

i live for i.
give up, for you shall—
i've some offers to make.
but before, offering some tea—

oh, on the side,
would you like some scones dipped in earth, perhaps?
got told off, but the comment read,

"this is like setting fire to the prologue, channelling the inner sylvia plath, but make it- being dragged through the modern ruins."


nothing rhymes
JoJo Nguyen Oct 2022
The Fall is here
The Frighting begins
with scary Killings

Who and when was
a Right of ancients
a Power to decide
who passes and
who is Left

The Chilly air
exposes our Chaotic
Center. Marginalized.
An edge honed for
What?

Weaponize but not
Indoctrinated. Rip
van Gangster. A  
Wild wild West
in heavily populated
Nuclei
Cenna Khatib Jun 2020
1
Every time I rip myself open to unearth my forgotten humanity
I accidentally allow sticky hands to reach
Into the weary caverns of my rib cage
Where they’ll pick apart the sore softness of my heart
Until it’s too bruised to be beautiful

2
She says it’s as easy as happy thoughts, as “positivity”
So easy that sunshine and rainbow sparkling can prevent
Deep-seated illnesses that plague the depths of a mind
Like maybe, really, anxiety and mood disorders are easily temporary
And I’m just not doing it right

3
I create an enemy of everyone who tries to help me
And weaponize their kindness into some sort of double-edged sword
Because nothing good comes without a cost
Or because my manipulated heart is far too vulnerable
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.

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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.

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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 Jun 13
(A Nostalgic Embodiment)

I. Prologue: The Imbalance

Beneath a sky of indeterminate hue,
Where metaphors dripped from the lamplight’s view,
There stood a figure with storied might—
Whose IMAGINATION burned too bright.

They bent the frame of every law,
Wrote truths in smoke, in blood, in straw.
But every time they raised their pen,
They found the void looked back again.

"Too light," the voice beneath the bedframe hissed.
"Too bright to cast the proper fist.
Where is the weight? Where is the gloom?
You walk through myths but leave no tomb."


II. The Oath Beneath the Neon

So in a diner that only exists when it’s raining,
They ordered black coffee and called it training.
No sugar. No cream. No need to explain.
Just sipped from the cup like a priest in pain.

"I will not seek to shine, but to echo.
I will not rhyme, but I may bellow.
Let my next line land like a crowbar sigh—
And may every metaphor taste like goodbye."


III. Inventory: Shifting the Look

They stole a coat from a thrift store rack,
Stitched with echoes and shadows and tact.
A pocket held grief. A button held sleep.
The collar was silence folded three layers deep.

Brooch of regret? Clipped on with pride.
Gloves stitched from dreams they let die outside.
Boots that thudded with post-symbolic weight—
Enough SEPULCHRITUDE to intimidate fate.

IV. The One-Line Training Grounds

A stranger asked, “Hey, how’s your week been?”
The figure exhaled, and leaned back in:

“The sky still owes me an answer.”

“I fed the clock and buried the receipt.”

“This smile is just teeth doing damage control.”

They never repeated the same line twice.
And soon, small talk became a heist.

V. The Silence Shaped Like a Weapon

Not a glare. Not a scoff.
Just a pause you could hang your regrets off.

They stared down compliments like loaded dice,
And left parties through walls carved of ice.

A simple nod became a reckoning.
Laughter died before it could echo.
The power of not replying
Was now a blade drawn slow.

VI. The Private Page

In candlelight drawn from doubt and dusk,
They penned a letter in funeral husk:

“To the lighthouse that never was—
I named every wave after you.
You still didn’t show.”


Sealed it with wax. Buried it in a drawer.
A secret they’d never need to weaponize—
Because it already was.

VII. The Theme Song of Collapse

They walked with the sound of dead air breathing,
Their footsteps aligned with Godspeed, you’re leaving.

Every room slowed to grayscale time,
As their aura hummed a fading rhyme:
A jazz tune played through broken glass,
A dirge dressed in sepia mass.

People whispered, “Was that… a soundtrack?”
But none remembered the melody.

VIII. The Overpass of Refusal

Someone tagged “I ♥ A-Pug” on the wall of their work.
They looked once.
Tilted their head.
And punched the metaphor in the snout
to assert dominance.

Then walked away.

That was the moment the SEPULCHRITUDE clicked.

IX. Boss Battle: The Final Balance
Their IMAGINATION rose like a cathedral in flames.
Their SEPULCHRITUDE stood like the ash that remained.

Two stats. One form. A perfected glitch.
They could now speak truth or curse with a twitch.

The balance wasn’t symmetry.
It was sovereignty.
It was the right to choose what tone to carry
and leave the rest unsaid.

X. Epilogue: The Window Left Open

Someone once asked,

“What are you?”

They replied, without turning:

“The part of the myth that never resolved.
The page that folded back on itself.
A sigh mistaken for closure.”


And just like that—
They vanished,
boots echoing,
window wide,
untranslated,
unsaved,
untouched
by the need to be anything
other than true.

XI. Endgame Stats:


IMAGINATION: MAXED

SEPULCHRITUDE: PERFECTLY CALIBRATED

AURA: [NOIR / STORM / VELVET REDACTED]

STATUS: Myth Adjacent

CURRENT LOCATION: Unknown (possibly Portland)

[END]
A silly, silly thing I wrote while reminiscing on Problem Sleuth--the third  MS Paint Adventure

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