Notes About The Poem
This poem paints a black hole not as an insatiable, malicious void, but as an overwhelmed, claustrophobic cosmic hoarder trapped by the unyielding laws of physics
Cosmic Clutter
The universe assumes I am a maw,
A seamless, dark, unblinking eye of law,
Content to swallow stars like golden dust
And hoard the wreckage of galactic rust.
They call me "void," a clean and hollow space,
An elegant erase across the face
Of space and time, where physics takes a knee,
And light is bent to my supremacy.
But none of them have ever stepped inside
The crowded, stifling attic where I hide;
They only see the smooth, event horizon,
The sleek, black silk jacket that I put on,
While underneath, behind the black curtain,
My singularity is crushed and hurtin’.
I am a cosmic hoarder, stressed and tired,
Compulsively collecting what’s expired!
You think I want another solar flare?
There is no room! There is no flipping air!
I’ve crammed a billion comets in the hall,
Stacked up against a non-Euclidean wall.
A dozen supernovas from the youth
Of Cygnus A are jammed against my tooth.
I’m claustrophobic in my own domain,
A heavy, packed, and agonizing brain
Where matter isn't crushed to simple spark,
But piled like junk inside a basement dark.
Just yesterday, a passing cruiser fell—
A metal trinket in my gravity well.
Its captain screamed, expecting cosmic doom,
While I was screaming, "Please, I have no room!"
Now there’s a hull plate digging in my side,
And loose telemetry that hasn't died,
Coupled with seven ancient pulsar beams
That stitch my tight-knit singularity's seams.
I’ve got the carbon of a thousand moons,
A million frozen, planetary dunes,
And stellar remnants from the dawn of time
All muddled in a dense, primordial slime.
The space-time fabric sags beneath my floor,
I cannot fit a single proton more!
My density is Maxed.
My stress is high.
I watch the un-sucked galaxies drift by
With genuine, profound, and deep relief—
Go stay out there, avoid this hoarder's grief!
Don't fall into my trap, don't cross the line,
This gravity is not by choice design.
It is an illness, an insatiable pull,
I’m suffocating, overflowing, full!
Oh, what I’d give to vomit out a star!
To fling a nebula back twice as far,
To have a tidy, vacant, quiet mind,
Leaving this heavy, crowded mass behind.
But physics binds me to this eternal pack,
And once you’re in, you never can go back.
So here I sit, compressed, annoyed, obese,
A choked-up monster begging for some peace,
Sighing a massive, hot, hawking radiation,
The claustrophobic anchor of creation.
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