he #

in the land where the unseen writhe, shadows fester,
there’s a man wrapped tight in his grief—a ghost,
a mistake, fading out of a world too vivid.
a smudged relic in a frame that never wanted him.

his face, carved by the cruelest sculptors: time and loss.
grace? charm? don’t make me laugh.
he courts failure like it’s all he’s ever known,
a fucked-up pas de deux, forever out of rhythm.

his tongue’s locked up, shackled by barbed silence,
every new face, a battlefield he cannot cross.
In the land where shadows grow like weeds,
there’s a man—no, not a man, a fucking smudge,
a smear of existence, wrapped in gloom so thick
it chokes the air around him. People move past,
eyes sliding off him like he’s grease on glass,
like he’s a bad joke someone told too late.

His face? Christ, it’s a battlefield—
trenches dug by grief, scars of dreams gone feral.
He doesn’t walk; he drags himself through the muck,
hand-in-hand with failure, that bitch with her teeth in his neck,
her laugh echoing every step of his sad, sad parade.

Words? Nah, he doesn’t have those anymore—
his tongue’s a prisoner, chained and gagged.
Every stranger’s a minefield, every conversation
an explosion waiting to shatter his hollow ribs.
And empathy? Forget it. His soul’s a graveyard,
flowers never grow there, just weeds and cold.

Coolness is a cruel lie someone sold him once—
he couldn’t be cool if he pissed ice cubes.
He’s the guy everyone looks at sideways,
like he’s the human equivalent of roadkill,
his flaws screaming louder than his silent screams.

But deep down, in the wreckage, there’s this flicker—
a stupid, stubborn little flame that won’t die.
It’s pointless, invisible, a joke even to him,
but it burns. Fuck knows why. Maybe just to spite the dark.

And the whispers—oh, the whispers.
They crawl like spiders, spinning webs of mockery,
hissing his name in the cruelest of tones,
reminding him he’s the song no one dares hum,
the punchline too sad to land.

I know him. Oh, I know him too well.
He lives in the cracks of my ribs,
a roach scuttling in my shadow.
I see him in the mirror, his eyes in my face,
his pain in my chest, his scream in my throat.

But I can’t deal with him tonight.
I turn away, shut the door on his hollow eyes,
wipe my tears, spit at the sky, and whisper—
“Goodnight, asshole.” Tomorrow’s waiting.
Same shit, different day, same goddamn abyss.