Evilhappy

Cracking pain of their breaking bones Sent their voices into the night Children paled before their might Cowering in bonfires that were there homes Their swords were like demons Bathed in their kinblood The men reared like the devil's flood That left not one... not a single one Their souls wail Remembering every detail They won’t let go until they're avenged A thousand years... it’s yet to end They're still there—nothing but bones Their anger lingers in the night Children hide from their might Cowering in shadows that no one knows Crying about demons That used swords of blood Drowning the living with the flood That no one remembers—not a single one

I am hoping that one day I will be grateful that I had no choice. That I had no choice… to break up my family. to let my heart go after it left me. of wasting no more time at a backup job when that door shut. that the candle would not blow out on my professional wishes. I am hoping that… these hard spots ended up being the right choices. there will be good from being forced into choices that I did not want to make. So if you're lost facing little choice too I hope that we both find power to make the only choice that matters the choice to go on.

My little horror show, a life no longer comforting, but still, it keeps going. The motorcycle wrecks of my youth my reckless dances with fate— etched into my bones. Each scar a whispered memory, a testament to youthful invincibility. My body now a relic, a museum of aches and regrets, pathetic and worn, like an old leather jacket that's seen too many storms. What was it all for? The wild rides, the laughter, the reckless abandonment— I wouldn't change much, for those moments were my currency, spent freely on the carousel of life. Friends, once vibrant constellations, now fading stars, their light extinguished, Leaving behind echoes of laughter, and empty barstools. I’ve seen so many lives tumble and burn. Some by going too fast but more by moving too slow. My body, a crumbling temple, no longer capable of half the feats it once reveled in. Yet, there are still moments usually after a few drinks, when I look up at the stars, and they shimmer like forgotten dreams. These

Some children aren't taught how to walk correctly, so they stray from the right path. Her eyes, colored like the tree wood, showcases her mind clearly. Broken will and as deep as the marianas trench. No one understands her sadness from the outside, while she fills a river full of tears. On other days she is as dry as the sahara desert. Drowning in her own waters of miserableness and ink. Not trying to catch for air as this passion is long gone.

My will fails me sometimes I prefer not to exist At least not in the same loops I feel helpless I went to the grocery store, Heading towards the greens section "I need to breathe", I feel I hear a suggestion "Its worldwide." We are all in this together, it says I feel helpless, I repeat The type of desperation for a perfect move Towards the infinite good For once And forever

I used to think that life was about waiting for a curtain call. Poetry itself doesn't yearn for some kind of stage youth-its vainglory-insisted that I might be on tenterhooks for something impossible or- -perhaps impossibly-something great. I wanted opportunity, but I was not an opportunist. You can become stagnant, overgrown and choked with weeds thinking the universe will give you some sort of handout because you can make something reflective beautiful. And it's not that I was unwilling or didn't work hard it's that I worked with the anticipation that purpose would fall into my lap, that I would grow large on my effort alone... ...that there was heroism in creativity borne from isolation. My most joyful moments consist of time with family and friends, of collaborating with peers and creating community with those not likeminded but familiar with the struggle to exist; the one simultaneous and in tandem with the deep yearning to be seen. And I will tell you that life is

Let me tell you of love; of the way it settles deep in your chest like a cat curls into a cushion. Let me also tell you of love; of the way it can hide under your couch like a cat slinks under it to avoid your questing hand. It purrs in your belly, unfurls like the stretch of toe beans on carpet and rubs its cheek against you in sweet affection. It hisses down your spine pricks like the extension of murder mittens on skin and turns its tail against you in cold dismissal. It is sleek as silk and nimble as a rabbit playful as Spring and warm as Autumn candlelight. It is bristled like alarm and skittish as a hare cold as Winter and hot as the blaze of Summer. It is joy it is sadness it is knowledge it is failure but above all beneath the sentiments love is conscious love is blind. And love is not a cat. But you can love a cat.

My North star has disappeared That light in your eyes That called out to my own Hidden now behind a dark veil Where before there was laughter Now I hear screams of rage Followed by echoes of madness A bitter dark reflection... You took from me Something sacred and precious But I swear to you My spirit will not break For I will continue my fight Even if I crawl on broken knees And I will rekindle the flame From my own eternal fire

I have always been a pessimist, already mourning for memories I have not yet experienced. I imagine how your rose perfume will one day become dizzying with ghosts of unfinished songs and poems, and even opening the windows will not get rid of heavy promises that hang in the air. I think for me grief works backward - I accept defeat before anything could start but live the rest of my life in denial, only bargaining when the end is in sight and not merely a delusion that gives myself an out when I still want to.

Her stupidity is becoming stronger, illuminating her blindness during youth Normal conversations are frequently dipped in unfathomable confusion I taste the disappearance of a mother's brain function every day, Excitement and dread coalescing behind my aching eyes A slow death coils around distant limbs, red and asexual The future has so many blurry faces, perfidious and fervent This place is a bustling graveyard, littered and depressing If the image of my body is swallowed by a diminishing ganzhi, I will Fill my heart with departure, send a battalion of orange flares to the sky, Organize my belongings like I'm creating time capsules, and leave this Rancor-drenched town, its people bolstering my dwindling gratitude I do not want to sink deeper into this ground I will not watch another soul fade away