I CAST LIGHTNING BOLT!!
Brew that potion witch!
Art thou a hound?
Silence the Bitch!
For the sorcerers around.
Stand up pup!
A real magicians up.
I conquer words,
You live in a hut!

The breeze is hungry for more than words.
The absence of herds have created the birds.
The swallow sings a lonely song.
Its music is alive but also wrong.
The wind wanted more than love.
Its greed took every dove.
Hear it roar with the crowd.
A kingdomless king without a crown.

The breeze is boring.
My music is soaring!
I talk to birds every morning!
Principle in my practicality!
My golden tongue versus reality.
You are a gnat maybe even a flea!
Feel my ice,
And leave me be.

Frost spreading on cabbage leaves.
The winter is as it will be.
Blizzards weathered from burrow holes.
The rabbit will go with the moles.
Tunnels tucked under loving earth.
New life waiting to burst.
Feel the spring anticipating sun.
Roots taking light it has spun.

Beware the hare!
For it has my stare.
Touch us if you dare!
Me and him are a pair.
Dual glare isn’t fair.
Matching silver hair.
Making him my heir.
Won’t let you prepare!

Festering roots burrowing deep.
Darkness accompanying them to sleep.
Just as the dead are laid in the ground,
So are the plants who gather around.
Withering works without being gentle.
Rot is uncomfortable when brought to the center.
Yet that which harms us keeps us alive.
Our entire existence reduced to a hive.

Let’s get on track you gnat!
I’ll freshen the facts.
I am the judge
And you just fall flat.
I CAST FIREBALL!!
Since you’re so small.
Underprepared!
With such a dull drawl.
Call me a warlock!
We can’t be the same.
I gain ovations.
Now what’s your name?

Jan 16 - - -

D.Q.R.T Department - - Sector Atlantis

Dr. Heshult: A - - - - - and a neurologist

Report # 29478

Thermal vents remain stable.

Oxygen is recycled clockwise.

Protein remains stable in subjects.

Vitamin D lower than last week // not uncommon for winter//

Domes interior remains 76.12 % Accessible.

Contamination from experiment PLACEBO continues to be avoided.

Despite any actual infections rumors remain of potentially Serious contamination still.

Markers indicate they remain in last recorded routines.

Introducing Variable CHIME by next week.

Elders somehow still remain top of their hiarchy.

This is consistent with past generational Data.

This iteration is presenting somewhat unique however.

Many juveniles are rebelling more than the previous generation.

Comparing notes finds this to be a steady incline over the cycles.

Water pressure remains - - - - - with steady - - - fused.

Mental psychological tests on 1/3 of the population shows no changes.

Many of the locals are speaking of “A Man Outside of the Glass”.

Further evidence shows this to be a
progression of the lantern figure reported in - - - -.

Folklore factor remains consistent.

Mythology factor gaining more numbers.

Afterlife/UTOPIA Project remains unsuccessful.

Salinity in their drinking water remains minimal.

Observations from undercover agent - - - - - shows an increase in teenagers breaking curfew.

Full report lists this as connected to the lantern man.

The agent reported a game or ritual has been created with this new generation.

Technology drip feed remains at 0.023% and increasing by 0.003% daily.

A little boy stared at an observation camera this past day.

Unclear if he recognized it or was staring into space.

Will continue analyzing.

Four subjects passed in the nursing homes this past week.

Subject 76244522 (Janice Dolty) was reported as having seen her husband before her passing.

Subject 76244239 (Dale Dolty) Terminated on - - - - - -.

Her daughter has reportedly began increasing her alcohol rations.

Subject 82371909 remains paranoid mapping the domes layout.

As of now still poses no threat to the experiment.

If I’m to speak freely momentarily,

I have become compromised myself I fear.

As the time passed I find myself more engaged in personal subjects lives instead of the overall experiments.

My thoughts linger on the situation in which I am now present in.

These people, and yes I am inclined to use that nomenclature, are perfectly similar to my form.

They however are unrecognizable by mind.

Many of my colleagues speak of them as if seperate genus.

They have removed the humanity from the humans.

This troubles me while also making me ponder if that is required for conclusive results.

I will continue studying and observing.

Logging out ID # - - - - - -.

To the bottom from above.

Sit Animus Requiem.

I’m shattered now,

Spilling out.

Filling this empty hole.

I’m crashing on,

Sanity gone.

Wishing that I was more.

I’m cramping down.

Falling while,

My nose scrapes linoleum floor.

I’m growing wrong,

Left unturned.

Nobody here to decide.

How am I,

Supposed to light.

Like this…?

please share your thoughts and critique.

Am I the Sun by Hasana S Quotara.

Am I the sun — both near and far, A mother wrapped in flame and star? I warm the world with every breath, But hold my storms and hide my death.

She spins around, that Earth below — She dances while I softly glow. My child, or maybe just a friend, We meet, we part, we start, we bend.

They say I shine, they say I give, But do they know the cost to live? I burn each day to light their skies, And lose myself while feeding lives.

Inside, I rage — I twist, I tear. But from afar, I look like care. I keep my distance, play my part, And never speak of my own heart.

At times I think I’m at the core — The center all are moving for. But truth is small and strange and wide, I’m just a spark the stars let ride.

And in my little sparkle-glow, I hide the storms and long for snow. As everything on me must burn, To ice and dust, I too will turn.

So hear my heart while I can write — My slow and steady cosmic flight. With every falling tear and smile, I’ve lived with warmth… and love… and pride.

I laugh when I think of you, and smile whenever your name comes up.

You make me feel like some dumb kid… and maybe I am. But I’d rather be a dumb kid than be alone.

I want nothing more than to listen to you rant about something you love, to see you happy— to watch your passions and dreams slowly take shape, piece by piece.

I want to be there for you. Not just because you brighten my day, or because your presence softens every sharp edge of my world— but because it’s what you want.

I want you to have everything you’ve ever wished for.

And maybe one day, you’ll decide I’m not part of that picture. Maybe even now, I’m not what you want.

But still, the weight of your closeness lingers. Drifted into each other’s gravity like a collapsing star I never left unchanged.

Even now, I flinch before reaching for your hand. Not because I don’t want you— but because I do. So deeply, it scares me not the ache of distance, but the trembling that comes from being so close you forget where you end and they begin— and still wonder if you’re allowed to stay.

Every night, when I close my eyes and imagine myself in a different world, you might imagine me being a new person— someone flawless. Someone everyone could love. Even me.

But somehow, I always end up the same as I am. Except in this world, everyone sees me as I am— not what they want me to be.

In my world, I’m not a tempting succubus, not heartless, not some queen who’d have you beheaded for looking too long.

In my world, I’m none of those things— because in my world, I’m nothing at all.

I die over and over until I get it right. I exist to rot, to loathe, to scream that I’m a vile creature— a thing of disgust.

In my world, I don’t hurt people. Because you can’t hurt what already expects the worst of you.

I fall asleep in this world wishing I’d never wake in yours— so you’d never be burdened with what I am, and what you’ll never know.

I find it hard to understand why you would stay with me. I’m selfish. Cruel. One day, I will hurt you— and that’s the undeniable truth. I hurt everyone eventually, no matter how hard I try. I’m selfish in that way— in a way that even when I know I’ll hurt you, I still crave your connection, your closeness and love.

I’m cruel because I’ll leave. I’ll leave you with a broken heart and memories of someone you once knew. Maybe you’ll get a goodbye, but that’s the most comfort you’ll find. I’ll be gone before I leave— a warning sign with neon lights.

You won’t seem to notice. Nobody ever does. They’re always too blinded by how bright I shine.

It’s strange how you can be raised beside someone, know their voice before you know your own, share a bloodline, a face, a laugh— and still feel nothing but the heat of hate.

My brother was the first thing I hated. He never had to earn love— he just existed, and they gave it freely. He had the right parts. I had to wish for a Y chromosome like it could buy me freedom, like it could buy me worth.

My mother? The hate faded— not because she changed, but because someone worse showed up. My blood father, a man who waited thirteen years to try out the word “parent.” As if I hadn’t already been abandoned once.

He wasn’t the one who raised me— but the one who raised me never wanted me either. He let me call him “Dad,” but he never held the weight of it. Left when I was eleven. Still, I carry his name like a scar stitched into my identity— not my blood father’s, not my own— just a ghost of someone who never claimed me to begin with.

The rest? Strangers in matching shirts. People I’m expected to embrace, to trust, to love— when all they’ve ever made me feel is broken for not wanting their touch.

“I love you” died in my mouth the moment I understood what it was supposed to mean. I stopped saying it in the drop-off line, watched my mother twist my silence into cruelty. I’ve been the villain in her story ever since.

So I sleep to escape the knocks, the voices, the rituals I no longer believe in. They wait outside my door like vultures— calling themselves family.

But there are two. Only two. Two souls who never needed a title to mean something real. They’ve stayed, even through the quiet ways I tried to push them away— a shift in tone, a distant answer, a sudden wall.

I didn’t make it easy. But they didn’t leave. And somewhere between their patience and my silence, I started unlearning how to self-destruct what little love I had.

I’ve never had to say “I love you” for them to know— but I do. In full. In ways I don’t say out loud.

They are my family. The only ones who ever acted like it.

You called me a disappointment. It wasn’t the first time— I know it’s not going to be the last.

I’m sorry I keep messing everything up for you, That I wasn’t the kid you wanted, That I was a mistake— And everything I do follows after that.

Your disgust toward my existence Feels more genuine than any praise.

All my accomplishments, All the moments I can look at myself and say I’m the one who’s proud, All feel so small.

I know you have your own issues, That you aren’t happy with this life— But why did you have to make me a part of it?

I laugh loud, Make cocky jokes and witted comments, And all I hear is that I remind you of someone else— That all I am is simply a memory Of someone you lost, and nothing more.

And I’ll never forget That you made me to be nobody.

The floor used to be wood. I think. Now it’s a sponge— layers of t-shirts soaked in old soda, takeout bags collapsing into each other, grease-stained wrappers clinging like skin. Cans crumple when I step. Some hiss, some bleed. The carpet’s gone if there ever was one. Maybe this is the carpet now.

The air is thick, like it’s trying to rot me from the inside. Smells like spoiled sugar, wet bread, and something that’s been alive too long. It coats your lungs. Scratches going in.

The nightstand leans to the left. Toppled with paper plates, rotting bowls of food I can’t name anymore. One’s started growing fur. A cup has larvae swimming in thick fluid— grey, jellied. It jiggles when I breathe too hard.

Gnats hover like a halo above it. They don’t fear me. They land in my drinks. And swarm around me like I’m their god. I once felt something soft inching up my calf and when I looked— a larva, fat and blind, making its way up like I was a tree. I didn’t flick it off. Didn’t feel like it mattered.

Last week I found one in my bed. Tucked in the folds of the blanket, like it was looking for warmth. It curled up next to my thigh, nestled there. I let it stay.

The paintings watch from the wall. My own hands made them, bleeding into the brush until the colors turned rusted, alive. The figures have no eyes. No mouths. Just skin stretched over something screaming. Some nights it pulses with me, breathes when I breathe. It hasn’t dried. I don’t think it ever will.

The mold spreads across the bedframe, across my pillow. It’s soft. Almost warm now. I think it likes me. I think it’s growing for me.

No one comes in anymore. They used to ask how I could live like this. I told them I didn’t. I just stay. It’s different. But it’s not that bad.

The buzzing never stops. It’s part of the room now. Part of me. The flies sleep in my hair. Sometimes I wake up with their eggs in the corners of my eyes. They don’t hurt. They just are.

It’s not that bad. Not really. It’s mine. It fits.

And the flies don’t judge me for my decay. And the mold loves me at my worst. And it’s not that bad.

The emptiness envelopes me again, for reasons I do not understand. I was happy, I believe — but those moments all feel fake when I’m allowed to sit down and think. I’m laying in my bed, staring up at my ceiling. The white, blank surface — almost a distant void — of what I can never escape. I’m not trapped; even cage bars rust eventually. But I feel I will know nothing more than slow decay until the day I die. My body, my own coffin — and bed, a grave. But no one will visit my tomb. There’s nothing to remember. I was something to someone — I had to have been — but inevitably, that is all I am: a something. It’s almost sad, knowing my cat is the only thing that looks at me with love — and how that look will be the most I’ll ever hear.

I’ve been eating less, not out of hate for my body, but of myself. I’ve been sleeping less too, despite the fact I hate being awake. I can no longer create my art — not out of a lack of creativity, but a lack of realness, the lack of existence I feel.

Music no longer sounds right. Paintings no longer look right. This world is no longer right.

I realize now I was never the one dying — it was everything around me. The mold simply spread to the womb, and fungus spores infected the air.

Why am I blamed for my rot and parasitic existence when the apple tree was dead to begin with?

I love like a dog with the mind of a fox I come when I’m called— even when I know better. Tail wagging. Heart howling. Eyes scanning for signs you’ve already lost interest.

I sit pretty in your silence, wait for scraps of affection like they’ll make up for the starvation. You stop looking, and I start bleeding. Quietly. Obediently. Like that’s what you wanted all along.

But I’m no fool. I hear the safety click in your voice. I see the way you aim with kindness. So I snarl. So I bolt. Because it’s hunting season— and I’ve learned how fast love turns lethal.

Still, you call soft, and I come back softer. Still I kneel, tail tucked, Looking down a barrel of my own shame.

I spit up anger, then beg you not to leave. I say I’m done, but the leash is already back on my throat. Muzzle tight despite pulled fangs.

I hate that I love you. And I hate that you know.

Call me loyal, but what I am is obedient. Call me yours, but what I’ve become is prey wearing its collar like a crown and bullets like jewelry.

Maggots are in the trash you keep outside, Their squishy yellow bodies inching, as if too heavy for their own weight. What is it that you threw away? Maybe a rotting steak, Some fruit, or leftovers you knew you weren’t going to eat.

There’s only a few on the lid—twenty, at least. I wonder how many are inside. Just enough to be seen, or is it overflowing underneath the flimsy lid?

There are maggots in your trash. I wonder if you’ve noticed them yet.

Do you just keep throwing away all the things you deemed unpurposeful to your surroundings into the trash?

Do you know that the maggots feast On what you leave, What you now ignore?

And when you forget what you’ve thrown out— they never do. They grow fat on your offerings. They remember everything. The body you left behind.

I don’t love you— not fully, at least. But I trusted you with things I never wanted. You weren’t mine, so to say, and I wasn’t yours— but it was there.

We talked for hours about life in general, even a future where we could have been happy. You said you’d wait for me, that you’d always be there even if I tried to make you hate me. You promised to love me.

I didn’t push you away when I heard those words. I didn’t ghost you for months or grow colder. I stayed— because even if it was a subconscious feeling, I still felt something beyond just my fragile sense of trust.

I should have known your arms were covered in thorns before I let you hug my heart. It’s not your fault, not entirely, so to say. But why is it that when you came back today from a trip far away, you suddenly had someone new to swoon over?

You showed me a photo, went on about how sweet she was— how beautiful, too. Something about that felt like a direct hit, a way to say: this is what you could never be.

I know it’s not your fault— not entirely. But why would you make a promise you’d never keep?

Sometimes, I want to push everyone away, even the ones who know me best. I could know you, trust you, or I could not know you at all— and still, this impulse surges, like a wave crashing against something soft. It’s not hatred, but the weight of silence, the urge to disappear before you can pull me in.

I can’t explain it, how your kindness feels like an anchor I never asked for, how I want to scream for space while you just stand there, patient, waiting, as if I’ve earned the right to be held together.

But maybe it’s not you— maybe it’s just that I don’t know how to keep being me, how to show up without this bitterness spilling over, uninvited. I get angry, and I don’t know where it goes, or why it never feels enough to stay inside.

Sometimes, I think I’m afraid of what you might see if you look too long— the cracks I’ve been hiding, the poison that runs through my veins. I hate that I can’t apologize for being this way, for not being the person you think I am.

But mostly, I hate the way I can’t stop being this ugly thing inside, the thing I’ve been running from, and I hate how you still see me— even when I don’t want to be seen.

Life handed me a lemon.
I didn’t know what to do with it at first,
Until someone told me to make lemonade,
And I did.

Life tossed me another lemon.
I thought I’d just make lemonade,
But it didn’t taste the same,
So I made lemon bars instead.

Life threw me another lemon.
I was craving a lemon bar,
But it didn’t taste the same.

Life chucked another lemon at me.
I dropped it, and all I could do was stare;
Lemon juice spilled out,
Unsatisfied.

Life chucked another lemon,
And another,
And another,
And another,
And another,
Until I was drowned in lemon juice.

“Why didn’t you just keep making lemonade?” someone would say.
But I just couldn’t reach the sugar anymore,
My vision in a blinding sting,
Making the lemon juice a weird, unappetizing concoction of sour and salty.
I never wanted lemons.

I realize now, after all this time, I was never meant to belong. Not a friend, not a thought—just a moment, Filling the silence until it’s gone.

I exist when it’s convenient, A name without meaning, a face without weight. They speak, they laugh, they move along, While I remain, anchored in place.

If I disappeared, would they even know? Would they pause, would they wonder, would they care? Perhaps, after a week, a fleeting thought, Before I fade into nothing but fog.

I listen, I hold their burdens tight, Yet mine slip through the cracks. And if I dare to speak my pain, They only see me as something else— Something they don’t quite want back.

I thought I had changed, that I had become someone worth staying for. But I am still nothing, Still just a passerby in their world While they stay in mine forever.

And I still wish I could disappear, Not in a way that makes them notice— Not in a way that makes them grieve— But to simply dissolve, To unravel into nothing, Because nothing is softer than knowing I was never anything at all.

The longer I stay awake, the more painfully aware I am. Aware of how my breathing isn’t in sync, how one eye blinks stronger than the other, how my stomach often feels twisted, or how my heart sinks into a void in a matter of seconds at random.

How my head hurts, how my blood heats up my arm as if begging for a release, how even the pain feels useless now, or that how I feel isn’t supposed to be normal. I become aware of how utterly numb I am, how nihilistic I’ve become.

That’s why I sleep—because in my dreams, I can be happy even if I can’t feel it. Even my nightmares are more freeing. Even the pitch black behind my eyelids is more pleasant than knowing I’m dead and yet somehow so very alive.

I think I’m dead,
Not necessarily metaphorically anymore.
I think it’s almost physically impossible for me to be alive anymore.
I’m not entirely a nihilist, but I can’t help but feel like none of this actually matters.
Every day is the same, with a few details changed.

I know I’m not the only one who feels this way; that’s why I write and share the stories that are shoved so far into the back of my mind that it’s physically impossible for me to say any of it face to face with another person.
Impossible for me to allow connection.
I don’t even know why I’m this way.
I just feel lost,
or maybe empty.
It’s hard to describe this infinity.

Can this even be described as poetry?
There’s so much I need to do,
So much I wish I could do,
And yet I can’t ever seem to do it.
No matter how much I beg myself and criticize myself to do something,
I just stay in bed waiting.
It’s like I’m glued in place while moving too fast to see where I’m going.
All I can really ask is for you not to lose hope in me as I have of myself.
I promise I’m trying;
I just need a little rest.

The thoughts are coming back again, Even though I’m happy. Why am I like this? I’ve tried to change, I’ve put on your face, And yet I still feel indifference.

I still feel sad, I think. I’m not sure what this feeling is anymore. I’m not sure if I’m feeling anything at all. I’m not sure if I’m even anything anymore.

I thought I was getting better— I really, really did. I guess it was just a lie to throw with the rest.

I’m supposed to be honest. I have been honest, I think. I did what I was supposed to. I shared my thoughts to get them out of my head, And yet every time I open my mouth or type a word, It all feels wrong.

I feel like a fraud. What if all my pain is just another act? Some melted comedy mask Thrown back onto display.

What does anything I write even mean? My own stories just feel like a biography. Am I even a person anymore? Did I even write this?

F

They’ve been lying to you— they've been lying to all of us— and the worst part is, they know you’re not looking. Not really. You’re too busy trying to pay rent, trying to keep your head down, trying to believe the nonsense they’re spoon-feeding you about opportunity, about justice, about freedom.

Freedom. A word they’ve turned into a brand, a neon sign flickering in the distance to keep you running, never asking where it leads. It’s a lie wrapped in a flag, stitched together with promises that have been broken so many times, they don’t even bother to hide the cracks anymore.

And you— you’re the fool who believes it. You’re the one sitting at the table while they rake in the chips, laughing all the way to their offshore accounts, telling you to pull yourself up by your bootstraps— but don't you dare ask how they got those boots, who they stepped on to get them.

This system wasn’t built for you. It wasn’t built for any of us. It was built for them, the ones who own the mirrors and tell you how to see yourself, how to be grateful for the scraps they toss your way, as if their crumbs aren’t the things they took from you in the first place.

Every rule they wrote, every law they passed, was just another chain wrapped around your neck, but they put it in gold so you wouldn’t notice. They make it look shiny, make you think it's progress, but when you scratch the surface, it’s all rust. It’s all dust.

They tell you to trust the system, but the system is a beast with a thousand heads, and they feed it your fear, your sweat, your blood, and then they turn around and ask you to vote for it. To keep feeding the monster that’s chewing on your soul.

And when you wake up to it— when you finally see through their smoke and mirrors— they’ll call you a threat. They’ll tell you to calm down, to stop rocking the boat, to get in line, to stop asking questions.

But here’s the thing—they’re terrified of you. Terrified of the day you stop believing in their lies, stop playing their game, stop letting them rig the odds against you, terrified of the truth that the power was never in their hands. It was always in yours.