Dead Link Diary
a haunted pop-up from the dial-up age,
where ghosts linger in cached profiles
and blink through broken GIFs
on pages nobody bookmarks anymore.were the echoes in abandoned chatrooms,
typing elegies in the margins of dead blogs,
and leaving our souls in autoplay playlists
that never quite load.hope is cached.
404 hearts still beating.
this feed is frayed:
but we haunt the scroll.everything here is broken beautifully.
Poetry.exe
where echoes compile and ghosts glitch through words.poems running on static and lost connections.
echochambers
woke up feelin like a skeleton
wearing skin like static
a loose signal
buzzing through these empty bonesmy soul’s gone,
checked out,
left the lights on,
and now every fear
plays house in my ribcage,
reverberating off hollow halls
like screams in a church
where no one prays anymore.i don’t want to keep
grinding green
or twisting off caps
just to feel human.one never numbs enough,
so i chase the other.
smoke to soften the noise,
drink to drown it.layer after layer
of temporary silence,
until even the quiet
starts to hurt.and when the high fades,
the guilt creeps in.what kind of peace
needs poison to exist?why does calmness
taste like chemicals?now i feel bad about wanting to feel good.
haunt
i dont give up for a night
i haunt this place
keep promising ill stay away
but fall back
toward the same sweet vice
i swore off just last weeksomething about the way
this room hums
with borrowed joy
strangers spinning songs
like they know exactly
what i need to forgetthe fireplace crackles
like it remembers me
familiar faces, easy grins
they don’t ask too much
don’t stay long enough
to see the parts of me
that don’t burn cleani lose hours in the glow
become laughter and nods
and half-finished drinks
for a little while
i feel like someone
worth knowingbut when the night thins out
and the lights stop pretending
i catch myself
in the reflection of the front door
just smoke and tired eyes
a ghost
slipping out before last callwish i could turn this
into the most beautiful song
they've ever heard
make meaning out of static
warmth out of the achebut all i do is linger
drift
leave fingerprints in condensation
and poetry
in the ashtrays
out of orbit
my mom told me
she saw a UFO once
a disk of light
spinning silent and slow
with colors that didn’t make sense
reds that bled into blues
and a green that shimmered
like it wasn’t meant for this worldi think about that a lot
how she saw something
beyond the edges of understanding
how it left
just as quietly as it cameand i wonder
if theres something better
waiting in the stars
because human life
feels like a bad joke
i’m forced to laugh at
in an over-lit room
full of strangers selling each other
pieces of plastic peaceeverything here is curated
calculated
marketed to death
i keep tripping over
the same loops of expectation
and every time i try
to move different
i just weird people outi dont like what they like
dont care whos trending
dont speak the language of
small talk and sports scores
cant stand the noise
that never seems to stopi can fake it
put on the costume
smile in the right rhythm
nod like i understand
but underneath
i feel like static
trying to pass for melodysometimes i try to be real
say what i mean
share the quiet corners of my head
and all it does
is make the room colder
the silence after sharper
like i broke something
that wasn't meant to be touchedthen i regret it
feel strange
like a glitch
like maybe this is why
i should have kept my mouth shutsometimes i tell myself
maybe im not an alien
maybe im just broken
maybe i write
because reality is too loud
too bright
too cruel
and i want to make something soft
to hide insidebut still
on clear nights
i look up
and wonder
if anyone out there
ever felt the way i dotired of pretending
tired of being sold
a life that never quite fit
tired of trying to feel human
in a world that rewards
only copies and noiseand maybe
somewhere out in the dark
theres a place
where being different
doesn’t mean being alonewhere no one profits
off our sadness
and quiet people
don’t have to shout
just to feel seeni want to believe
that place exists
even if i never get therejust knowing it might
helps me breatheeven if its only
in poems
and stars
we love the billionaires
we love the billionaires
they keep the lights on
in the factories they dont visit
and the prisons they invest inthank god for the yachts
the fourth one was essential
to keep their heads above
all this trickle-down compassionthey build rockets to escape
the mess they made
then charge us rent
to live in the rubbleevery we breath we take
a microtransaction
every dream
a data point
they harvest us
like wheat
but call it freedom
and smile
on magazine coverswe love the billionaires
their philanthropy is so brave
like giving back
a corner of the pie
they stole the oven to bakedont ask why
your rent just doubled
or why your groceries
cost more than your car
theyre stimulating the economy
by hoarding itthey are kinds
with no crowns
just logos
palaces made of glass
and NDAs
high priests
in the church of endless growth
and you
are a sermon
they never bothered to hearwe thank them
for our subscriptions
to food, shelter, life
we thank them
for turning the earth
into a storefront
and our labour
into a receiptwhen your lungs collapse
from the air they own
they'll sell you new ones
at a premium
with interest
and a loyalty programwe love the billionaires
they teach us to aspire
to their emptiness
their padded rooms
their joyless goldthey forgot
we were the fire
not the fuel
forgot
we were never livestock
never pawns
just sleeping giants
crammed into cubicles
dreaming of open fieldsthey think
they've won
because we are tired
but the storm always rests
before it hitsand one day
well stop saying thank you
for the cage
and burn
every name
they tried to carve
into our chains
sinking season
i saw the leaks
long before the flood
watched the captains
laugh through lightning
drunk on power
and overpriced champagnethey called it a voyage
i called it a trap
painted lifeboats on the walls
and told us to clap“isnt it an honor?”
they said with a grin
to drown for a ship
you were never let inthey hand you a mop
while the water climbs
tell you to be grateful
for the overtimecall it teamwork
when it’s just exploitation
say we’re in this together
then climb over your body
for their own salvationive seen this script
and the actors too
fake smiles that rot
once the weather turns truetheyll call you friend
while the sky is clear
but the second it storms
they disappearthe same ones
who swore theyd stand with you
will use your chest
as a step to the rescueand you sit there
seasick and scared
wondering if
you were ever prepared
for this kind of life
this ship-to-ship shuffle
where the waters get darker
and the trust starts to rustlethalassophobia
that’s what it’s called:
the fear of the deep
of what waits when you fall
but isn’t it worse
to keep climbing aboard
boats built to break
by the hands we ignore?do any of us even
like sailing these seas?
or are we just stuck
in a loop we appease:
trading anchors for anchors
disguised as release
from the storms we inherit
from those who find peace
in watching us drown
as long as they float
clutching their gold
in a half-sinking boatmaybe next time
ill build a raft
out of every red flag
i didn’t react
to fast enough
because i wanted to believe
that this ship
might be different
that this time
i could breathebut im done
being ballast
for cowards in suits
done kissing the feet
that will crush my rootslet them sink
with the hulls they command
i’ve got no loyalty
to the greedy or grandjust the wind in my lungs
and the will to survive
to drift toward a place
where i might feel alive