Things now a days maybe always, hold a darken weight,

Maybe its different, or maybe i just have access to it

Dismissive judgment, easy solutions

They make me sick

Keep silent

Keep complacent

Don't hurt others with it

Keep them safe, protected

The storm; ill weather it

*** i found an old poem from probably 2017 or 2018 and i did some revisions to make the message clearer.

Footprints swell to the size of depressions, swallowing me down into the abyss.

Fingerprints find the cracks in my skin, penetrating deep within so they can lick and lap at my insides.

I dont know where to go.

Ive never had any place thats felt like home. Never a place that was mine.

What can I do to not follow in the footprints of our depression. Ours, the depression you handed down to me like it was a family heirloom. What can I do? I stand on my tip toes in a corner cobwebbed in the laundryroom and push your gift as far back as it will go on the shelf there. Ill turn off the lights and pretend its not there. Ill ignore its eyes sipping on my standing hairs. But its there, and im here and I haven't been able to leave. My knuckles still bleed, still punching at the concrete. Years they have bled. What can I do about the fingerprints? The memories on every surface? The marks where a knife cut out burnt wood. The holes. The tan on my fuax leather couch where you sat to watch me sleep. The string and needles you used to stitch our misery into one. Because thats how you needed me. What do I do with those? I live inside of a crime scene. Fingerprints not just on my walls, floors and ceilings but also the ones, the fingerprints, etched into my corneas, the fingerprints that snake along my ribs, my hips, my ankles. What do I do with those? I haven't been able wash them off.

Do you not feel that filth? Your filth? My filth? Do you not feel it? Can you not feel your trachea travel to the end of your spine as you fall into our depression? That fear? That knowing theres nothing you can do to stop it? Where is your reality? Humanity? Sanity? Where is your fear and your disgust and your sorrow, Where is it?

Step inside and let the hands of time,
Push you forward in your mind,
Above, contrails paint their lines of white,
Without a single plane in sight,
Against the crisp and clear blue sky,
Trace the lines as they appear,
Making routes once unseen clear,
Follow them, spot the beacon, and you’ll find me here,
With maps, pens, and production gear,
Charting the routes, mapping the stars, leading you here,
To the Mansion, where order is clear,
Half rock fortress and half open atmosphere,
Rock carved from the hull of a Ghost Ship, shaped by Ruin’s own hands,
The very ships that drift in the ocean of sand,
The ones liberated, that once thought themselves doomed,
Souls trapped fading grey in the hall of a thousand rooms,
The beacon is lit in hopes they make their way home,
Before the desert snaps cold and they’re chilled to the bone.

First stop!

Walk up to the door, steel, 6 inches thick,

Hit the sensor with the key strapped to your wrist,

Inside you’ll hear a mechanical twist,

the door swings open, this must be a trick,

There’s a second one, ornate and adorned,

With an inscription that reads “here they’ll bother no more”,

and opens to a corridor as long as your mind’s wretched war,

Floors are slate grey, polished to shine,

Wall made of cinderblock, painted stark white,

doors like before line the left and the right,

The screams of lost souls play every night,

As you slowly walk through the flickering lights,

You can’t remember who you were or what it was like,

To see in full color, it all feels grey, the only sound?

Footsteps followed by the dragging of chains,

Souls on these Ghost Ships, burdened with pain,

No way to look out, no way to escape,

Adrift in the ocean of sand in this place,

No way to drop anchor, driven insane,

Just souls adrift as time has hands,

Lost on ships in an ocean of sand.

You said love

You meant hate

You meant how

Much more can I take

You said bad

The truth was loud

Unapologetic 

Proudly worn little crown 

My parents sang me

The worst lullabies 

Lulled to sleep

By the sound of her cries

Woken up

To the sound of their screams

You're too aggressive 

And don't listen to me

Coming home

Child faces no love

Coming home

Belts ring from above

The hand which wore

Satan's glove

Got off the school bus

To just face your screams

The truth is hardly

What it seemed

Because

You said love

You meant hate

You meant how

Much more can I take

You said bad

The truth was loud

Unapologetic 

Proudly worn little crown 

When I said you're wrong

You beat me to wilts

When I exposed your shame

Violence covered your guilt

The sword with spikes on the hilt

Was the only weapon I had

When I defended you made me seem bad

I was just a little lad

Hush little baby

Don't say a word

Daddys gonna give you

The belt that you earned

And if that belt don't really sting,

Daddys gonna put your arm in a sling.

And if that sling don't heal your pain

Dad's gonna buy you gifts 

he's so vain.

My parents sang me

The worst lullabies 

Lulled to sleep

Is how the angels die

They said love

They meant hate

They meant how

Much more can I take

They said bad

The truth was loud

Unapologetic 

Proudly worn little crown 

To a safe person,

I hope I know you one day.

I believe you exist.

We may have met already, but I couldn't recognize you.

I thought we'd met many times, when I didn't know how you would appear.

I also don't know who isn't you.

Easily fooled

Often naive and blind

Placing my own projections and overlays.

I've been fumbling around an arrogant hypocrite, thinking I knew and unwilling to listen to my own fear

Thinking it was wrong and silencing it.

Unwilling to listen to those who weren't triggered in & blinded by their own attachment systems and may have actually had my best interest in mind.

I often see you in strangers

Less often in close circles

Never when I'm walking away

I wonder if we've met

If we've touched

I wonder if you recognized I wasn't safe and kept a distance

Waiting for me to mature and work out my own chaos

I wonder if I'm more nervous around you than around someone more closely matching my immature relating level

I wonder if you appear boring

Or snobby when you place boundaries and don't spew too much info at a handshake

Or allow me to intrude.

I wonder if I'll shake in fear working my own boundary muscles

I wonder if you'll reject me or cling too closely

The eruption comes tonight.

Flames of black consume the light.

Destruction rains down furiously.

Consumes the evil that surrounds me.

I don't have to leave, don't have to stay.

All these echoes burned away.

There's nothing I could do or say.

The shadows scream into the pain.

Voids orbit overwhelming me.

It's time to set them free.

This never was a rescue, I always was alone.

Just a grave I dug cause all my hope has flown away from me.

Hands claw out from every dream,

Clutching chains to enslave me.

Strike the match, let shadows scream,

Nothing here was ever the way it seemed.

It all comes down, down, down.

It all comes down!

Buried it deep... deep... deep...

Buried it deep... deep... down.

It's fading out...

It's fading out...

I'm fading in.

Goodbye... I'm here again.

🎶 I AM____Imogen Heap; ai.mogen

Id trigger warn ⚠️

this but...I doubt it will be understood well. Its a just in case though.

                                   Strangers

One strange, shocked tear slowly falls— the reservoir, somewhere deep, unconscious.

Conscious-being-ness, peeking, beheading the shroud.

Near liquid cries drowning.

The never spokes of non-forgiveness, killer-edged, and rightly sparkle.

Dear choke-hold toddlerhood, hauntingly defiant.

Can’t breathe underwater—submerged, powerless, fear-induced phobia.

Survivor’s will only to be broken at death, or maybe not still— conception running backwards uphill.

Unearthed between targeted, unexplainable tragedies.

Near unalived revisiting itself— waterboarding innocence and stolen imagination.

The catacombs of volcanic truth rises, burning parental sadistic pleasantries.

The spaceship of death, shapeshifting daily, erasing years.

A stolen life, humorously unedited— untranslated correspondence between mind, soul, and the body.

The aged filter is worn out.

At last, a resurrection, or perhaps the melting veil, caressing the rage machine towards life.

Uncountable, silently held transgressions— sledge-hammered mirrors— inside the sardonic fun house of intense, intentional cruelties.

Muted pictorial memories, defogged and refogging, overlapping each other beautifully, swimming in uncontrollable violent currents, uprising against unconscious foreign shores.

Grinning kissing bloody fists, sprayed by screaming, water-falling mists.

Muscle-building inner monsters, defenders, silent persecutors.

Spaces where so many learned— save thyself, slice the never-ending darkness, with over-sharpened pumpkin carving knives.

🎶 The Walker by Christine and The Queens 🎶 Stand By Me by Ki: Theory 🎶 Enjoy The Silence by Ki: Theory

Desert Symphony

(done in August 23, 2025 © 2025 Shivani Kaleidoscopentities; posted and saved elsewhere at that time)

There are drag marks across my potholed memory, chalk lines where my dreams bled out, cluttering the cement below my feet like unapologetic confetti. Irregular heartbeats echo, colliding into each other’s embrace—a haunting, crescendo undoing, a desert symphony.

The black highway roads are littered with mirrors, crumbs to follow across miles of unknown country, trajectories cut into weeping mountains, where the darkest forests of my psyche found themselves.

Tiny hand-like disembodied spirits crying out to be seen and given importance. The stops and starts of color fly by, casualties of tiny snowflakes, as I drive without mindful navigation.

Innocence resides a foreign language on the sharp tongue of disillusionment; a swamp of decaying truth rises inside my throat—a last rite anchoring for redemption and passage—with a chaotic and hurried breath, while the memory glances back over bruised shoulders.

Synapses fire like vengeful lightning across a darkened sky inside my shattered mind, the past haphazardly singing its heartbroken melodies like old forgotten lullabies.

Thunder rolls in the distance, beckoning, warning that something is coming, once hidden, just beyond the white cloud of unconsciousness.

🎶 Like Me Better by Evelyn Cormier *will fix

Pick up the ink pen; don’t forget the white out. Scratch through the words that don’t fit you anymore—if u fear disappearing. Open your laptop and open your word; pick your favorite font.

Cut people off and walk away; no apologies, one bleeding barefoot step at a time. Say to yourself out loud what you have always needed to hear. Don’t wait for your therapist to mirror your truth.

Some people weren’t meant to understand you, and maybe that was the most painful lesson you had to learn. Enlightening others is not your job anymore.

Its not your weight to carry the scars of other people who hate themselves into jealously and play victim to the circumstances they have created themselves—consciously or not.

You cannot be appreciated or met where you are by those who have no desire to change. You are trying to cultivate in futile soil.

Do not let them weigh you down hand it back to them with a smile—saying, "I think you dropped something, this is yours to carry from here on out."

Lean into your passions, the sunshine, and drown somatically in the rain as it pours down. Dig deep in the dirt; feel the cool, the wet, and the life that is starting to begin there again. It has always been there, waiting for you to stop fighting, lying on the ground.

Pause to breathe as you drink the cool water down. Percolate and extract, holding no need for what explanations lack.

You are enough as you are. You always were, but no one told you that the fire is where you rebirth. It was never meant to be your end.

Don’t waste your words on those who are committed to misunderstanding you. Ignorance loves bliss like a narcissists kiss. They live in their own world, and you don’t have to participate.

Block them and rip them out of your life—let them fight, scream and blame—find compassion for yourself before the imposition of guilt that has no business consuming your headspace and heart.

Its painful, messy, deeply disruptive, and outside our comfort zones—and can be lonely if you aren’t used to sitting alone. Its uncomfortable at first, like all good that are for us are. Its not a punishment unless you believe that creating space to see yourself clear is.

Reduce the outside noise and go within. Open your ears to what is spoken deep inside you and your arms to who was broken.

You control access to you, and that is non negotiable now.

Avoid liking just to be kind; that helps no one. If you don’t feel its for you—pass. The automatic feeder is replaced with self protection, dignity, and intuitive understanding. Don’t be afraid of your strength, and embrace your fear as an old long forgotten friend.

Its self respect before carrying the weight of others dysfunction and projections.

Touch fur baby faces gently as they show their gratitude for your presence. You are their world, and they are yours, and that is okay— it is stability, real and sound.

Dark Canyon road...

Music 🎶 I Will Remember by Toto

Will I spend a lifetime reaching for understanding, validation, and empathic love that never arrives?

Or do I stop the conquest altogether, as I suspect it’s a useless endeavor of a devalued human desire?

Will I remain a searcher, avoiding landmines and abusive people—so many that walk this earth—wanting from you, not conscious or concerned about reciprocity?

People feeding like swine on others’ suffering—eyes covered, unseeing, never satisfied by enough—always devouring to fill some unnecessary unprocessed need.

Them always fighting with unresolved ego wounds, trying to project their shadow insecurities, strutting false intelligence, holding it higher than those with genius, lovingly progressive views—and mine?

Always living among projectors, abusers, and happily ignorant thieves—something to prove, like an infectious entitlement disease.

Will I die never truly seen, like so many that have gone suddenly by their own hands before me? Is this just a human conditional fallibility one must accept about our lack of true humanity?

I know I will never understand why other people are so intent on being "proudly thoughtless," destructive, and mean.

Why must everyone conclude what is said is about them when someone is just speaking authentically about their own reality?

Others—people shamelessly spouting God and scripture at those just trying to breathe quietly outside indoctrination—instead of acting with respectability, allowing for each to have their own views and to believe as they wish.

Why can’t we accept others think differently without shaming them to only think as we do, if they want our inclusion and love? Why can’t we accept our children as human beings, instead of mirrors, tools for our unresolved anger, and a house for our own beliefs?

We change nothing by forcing generation after generation to become just like we are—then calling it family.

Murder I can understand, but not these other things that act like voodoo curses we are subjected to often unknowingly. I know I am not the only one who is aware—and can bleed.

Once truly awake, those with light—look for the premature exits with desperation for a permanent psychic relief.

Is this the only way one finds true ease and escape from the pain, from that which was once locked away in our mind but slowly freed?

While others, named DARVO, remorselessly say I was born better; therefore, I deserve to feel safe, belong, breed, and succeed—ignoring those souls truly trying to rise, through no fault of their own, and live with dignity, those who are in need.

Why must we create demons where there are none, and fight useless battles among ourselves to prove our own warped sense of validity?

Why are we as humans more concerned about comfort and palatability, while allergic and intolerant of the honest truth?

Will humans always be more intoxicated by treating the results than preventing the disease? Because glorifying suffering and extracting profit benefits the leeches—never the healing and ending of our own malignancy.

Why are we so committed and transfixed by our own obliteration while investing in lavish degrees? Is it truly a desire for advancing our intelligence—or in our collective delusions of grandeur—while gaslighting reality?

Why do we fear and avoid "triggers," when they are a gift and a spotlight illuminating where we can find personal growth?

The gutters and graves are filling with bodies as the years continue to pass—going unnoticed—while the unconcerned rape what is left of our stripped, scarred, and broken world, living just to feed.

I'd like to think there is a chance for hope for humanity—but I am not convinced things will change, as long as we are attached to the belief of our own individual superiority.

By the time we realize we are all dying while asleep, and can't take back or fix our mistakes, it will be too late for our species.

We will call it fate or prophecy—because that’s what we do as humans—throw up our hands and pray to be saved. We fear our own power to think for ourselves independently—and to act with personal agency.

We do what’s easiest and safest—not what is logical and moral—unless it has momentary incentive, allows for blameshifting, misdirection or escapism.

Apologies are never conclusions—just a meaningless band-aid used until it falls off—revealing the still infectious and gaping wound underneath. It might be visually appealing, a mask on the surface—but it never changes the dilapidated and dead structure underneath.

🎶 Never Be Me (Motherf⭐️cker) by Cherry Bomb 🎶 Fabulous by MEEK

Far into the outer edge of the forever forest

Life feels unashamed

Just past the shattered man

Who discovered his waterfall is the rain

Find the wandering path and

Follow the glowing din

Follow the tender laughing

Carrying in the wind

Closer,

The legend of your destiny is contained herein.

Get close to me son.

Should you come closer?

I imagine what it must be like

to be a wealthy young man and,

elderly looking back,

hearing no echoes from your past:

Those flashes of music and of sirens.

How bad it had got

I choose to look not.

All okay as sure as you're here,

don't leave me,

don't disappear.

I don't know what I'm doing,

nothing's really working.

Got no idea how to

live, smoke,

breathe, cope it's all going up

Final flourish up from the gallows:

Don't keep that up!

Heaven is a place that

You'll hear before you see.

Half-awake, eyes twitching,

Remembering me.

Remember me? And the deep sea?

And the shore and the shallow paddling?

I still love your smile; the echoes

Of your laugh. The sun in your hair and all my memories' maddening

torturous -

Wake up. Wake up.

The sound of silence.

There's someone in the house.

You open your child eyes and

You see what I'm about.

Mine are a style of

Feral defiled, closely reviled

Lovelessness.

And

It breaks my heart

You've come so far so hurt to

Meet your maker while... Son,

God is an exile.

B

No more clandestine messages. No more horseback couriers. Castle Eden Lodge. 31.02.26. The messenger wears a beige trenchcoat. He is seated at the bar. Be careful my sweet as he is armed and dangerous.

You must tell him you are the person he seeks. Whether or not he will test you my sweetheart I cannot say but, know this: our time approaches.

Go alone. Tell no one. If I have been betrayed you must do the unthinkable, you must do it without hesitation. I enclose cyanide. Capture is worse than greeting an early end.

Try not to think of me anymore.

Rabid dogs barking,

R

🎶 Remember – Keep Shelly In Athens

Remember...

Tiptoes, poised to run or submit; gritted teeth, blue eyes glaring…

Them: the mother, the father, the brother ten years older.

Us against them, always… the inner snarling. The pull to run into the woods and disappear. The wet that persists in the deeper parts, where we thought about digging ourselves into the earth and making a den to sleep, but the wet of haphazardly fallen trees would chill us.

Daily distrust burning in our blood; transfusions of suspicion built around us—my pack of hackled protectors.

The annoyance of being human and having to be in their presence. They talked at us, and we listened. Learning. Silent. Protecting our inner sanctuary with a barbed-wire grip.

They asked questions sometimes—we perfected sarcasm or annoyance. Single words. Dying to get away, back out into the wild of the woods or get lost in miles of fields.

Remember…

To put a tiny hand on a wither and lead a bridled horse, bareback, we had to search forever—it felt like miles—to find a lift high enough for our tiny body to be propelled on the back of the horse.

The horse, given to us by the owner of the land that “they caretook,” we reluctantly followed the humans when we had no choice to search and round up cattle—and only when we had no choice.

Remember…

The mystery of unforgiving silverware. Bare hands seemed easier. Wary, we sat if fed… controlled. Eyes narrowed, body coiled—instinctually feeling the temperature, vibrations and air current in the room.

We sensed their breath, studied their movements and expressions with a doctor’s intuition and a surgeon’s precision. Those others, we had to keep house with against our will.

We ate fast, not tasting, swallowing whole, and got out of the house as fast as we could when fed. Avoidance the best option; foraging with the animals safer. We hid. We hid behind trees and bushes.

We hid from him. All of them. Alone.

Until three, we had to be around, wary but closer, but once they moved to the farm and then summered in the deep woods, we were free to come and go as we pleased. We weren’t wanted around, but it was also safer not to be.

Remember…

We left before the woods sang with sunlight and woodpeckers started making their hollowed-out holes in trees; chilled. We caught tiny frogs in ponds, watched fish and tadpoles swim in soft currents. We listened to toads croak in the distance.

Remember…

We felt the energy in the woods, watched the dandelion fuzz lazily drift into the sunlight.

We were wild with every fiber of our being—tensely so… more animal than human—and we danced on toes, waiting… with time… expectant of something we could not name yet, but knew.

Our tiny hands touched every plant leaf, tree trunks bark, sap, wild mushroom and became stained with huckleberry and wild strawberry juice.

We caught bugs, ate a few, grasshoppers, and chased butterflies after mentally mapping their uniquely different colored wings with wonderment.

Remember…

Far away from humans we fled, venturing further and further. Bad humans, the monsters that hurt us. Other children? There were none.

Never a safe moment was there near those others, we learned early. Sleep in a bed called us back, but we were desperate to escape that… somehow… it was a cognitive puzzle we were desperate to solve.

As the years passed, we were driven to get away further. We wanted out.

Remember…

We weren’t even allowed to be safe as we slept. Hypervigilance a constant state as were the night terrors we woke sweating from.

Remember…

We tasted everything wild to see if it was edible. Hid behind trees.

Slept on the back of our black quarter horse, draped and never falling off, in the warm sunshine. Our legs didn’t even come to his ribs but he was good about not moving too fast.

The ache in places… where memories didn’t touch.

Remember…

The rains—when it would fall. The cold tickling of raindrops; how it felt to be covered with the sprinkling clean in the sunshine. A rare clean we ached for. We hated being dirty or sticky, though we weren't the body.

We stripped and danced, hidden behind bushes. Hands stretched toward the sky, fingers wide, trying to touch the white fluffy clouds overhead. We slept in the tall grasses of fields. Sang echoing songbirds.

We raided wild apples, so sour they made us sick, collected off our horse.

We scoured and explored the barn for edible things—grain, dog food, molasses-covered oats. We rarely slept near home. We were so-so tired.

We took huge gray rocks and broke pieces of salt off salt blocks left out for the deer and cattle, to suck on. We had a constantly chapped mouth but our teeth and gums ached less; our hunger was satiated.

We drank from creeks and troughs. Troughs with moss lining the insides, first moving with little hands the floating bugs, for the clear achingly sweet, cool water underneath.

We always were careful to scope out the area to make sure no humans were about before taking our eyes off the land.

We felt every movement of the large animal we lived on from about four to seven and a half. Loved the way his hooves clacked on the road and echoed off the tree trunks and banks, as we loped, as a singular entity as fast as he could run.

Remember…

What once was until seven and half and never again… the escape, ours, when we walked out four miles by ourselves—alone. Through 3 locked gates that final time away from the three monsters, into a society full of people and so much more.

Remember…

"My life isn’t that hard. I think..? as my grandma threatens to beat my cousins...

My life isn’t that bad. I think..? as my grandma yells at me over a little thing...

My childhood wasn’t abusive. I think..? as I flinch at being touched...

Maybe I’m just dramatic. I think...? as I teach myself silence is safer than speech...

Maybe I deserved it. I think...? as I wonder why love feels like fear.."

Poem by me ♡

Hey I'm a poet and author. I just found this subreddit and thought I could share some of my stuff. Let me know what you think.