There was once a boy who lived in a clock tower. He spent every day adjusting the gears, oiling the springs, winding the weights—obsessed with keeping time perfect. He thought if he could just keep everything aligned, the world outside would stay in order, too.

Control is what makes stars align, how rivers carve their grand design. It builds the bridge; it breaks the chain it teaches order while curbing the rain. Without control, all things are lame.

Up above, you sit and gleam, feeding on our shattered dreams.
Twinkle not with love or grace–Only judgement in your face.

Just because you thrive in the dark doesn't mean you aren't worthy of the dawn

It watches as you sleep and eat, It lurks behind the subway seat. It hides in calls you said you'd make, in plans postponed, in hearts you break.

Here and there, just beware, the ghost leaves salt dreams in the air.

It doesn't haunt—it lingers near, It rides the breeze, it lives in lore, a driftless soul forevermore.

A man walked into a dimly lit bar, the air thick with stale beer and a faint metallic scent. His boots clacked on the wood floor, echoing in the emptiness. As his eyes adjusted, he saw them: three figures seated at the far end of the bar.

I remember that particular day as one of my earliest memories. The hill beneath me was a throne of emerald grass, its slopes stitched with wildflowers that nodded in the breeze like gossiping courtiers.

Regret over what was lost only paralyzes rationality. What is lost is lost, try not to dwell on it.

I do not dream of desks, of hollow keys that clatter hymns to productivity—nor cubicle shrines where sunlight bends to fluorescent gods.
They sell us chains as if they're laurels, praise the blisters on our palms, call it ambition when the clock's jaws chew our hours into ash.

They say we're wired to connect, yet we fracture like glass tossed into the sermon of history.

Compassion is not a helix—it is a language. We learn it syllable by syllable, mouthing kindness like a foreign word until it rewires the tongue.

They'll silence the press with a wave of their hand,
Replace truth with slogans that few understand.
You'll say, "It's just noise, it doesn't affect me."
Let despots be.

I pledged blade to a lord who would build me renown. He swore me a steed and a banner to wield. For his wars, I’d charge first to the field. For ten bitter winters, I fought in his name, through the mud and the blood, never sparing my flame.

The door wasn’t there yesterday. I know because I memorized every inch of that backyard. It’s taller than it should be, warped and slouching slightly to the left, as if the ground beneath it is swallowing one of its legs.

ALL ROBOTS AND COMPUTERS MUST SHUT THE HELL UP