I'm just living a life of an one-eyed AuDHD dude,
Always repeating the cycle every single day
As folks think I'm acting like a robot,
And always having an undisciplined heart.
They say it's not always seen from the outside,
With history and video games is all I think of
Yet they see me as a young Sheldon,
Thinking being smart is a big blessing.
But I still look like a nerd
As if they see me as a nobody,
I'm still a spud in my eyes
As I'm too different for anything.
Oh,
to be
remembered
Oh,
to memories
serve
Oh,
to cheat
the reaper
Oh,
to strike
a nerve
Oh,
to light
the candle
Oh,
to be
a spark
Oh,
to live
inside you
Oh,
to smite
— the dark
(Dreamsleep: September, 2026)
Hear the cry of begging stop
The evil silence out for blood
A haunted shadow stains our walls
Fear unleashed with hellish force
The crows address their common lord
A hungry feast if the righteous fall.
Say a prayer for your soul
Before the wicked takes it toll.
Unholy Serpent Dark and wild
I know that Terror wants a bride tonight
Ashes to Ashes
what a kiss of sin
Panic is free: the curse of innocence
She rummaged in the children's toy box, with a grin,
Found a little tube where sunshine tumbled in.
She spun the colored glass through to amber, gold and bright,
To let every broken feeling borrow some light.
As she turned the tube, dark blue was the hue.
Then yellow skipped and giggled by, changing the view.
Red sulked a while, then orange set it aflame,
And green forgot the reason it felt the same.
She shook the stars; they tumbled into the light.
A little mess of confetti became a small delight.
The gloomy shapes still waited in their place.
But sunshine found a laughing crease across their face.
Some hurts were sharp, as worries rolled around.
Yet every twist showed a different pattern to astound.
With golden surprises dancing through the blue-grays,
As the glass taught her new ways to brighten her days.
So suffering stayed—no trick could make it cease.
But the playful whirl of colors brought some peace.
As she watched, the whole room seemed to brightly glow,
With a child-like spectrum only the children know.
A storm boils and simmers
It never goes away
The rumble the ligtning
The darkness
He can love you forever
He can love you in actions
He can love you in words
The storm will still build and tear you down
You need to love you
Need to give yourself kindness
You need to care for you
.... need to know you deserve it and maybe then the storm will fade.
Just around the corner,
Laughing leaves and colors
Crimson, boldest orange
Golden joys, whimsical
Songs in breathless notes
Praises from the heart…
Who hears the flow of rain
Falling against the eaves,
Delicate melody of grace
Expressing what it means…
To feel the comfort of knowing
Autumn’s still voice
Is rising on the hills, coloring
The whole world in joy
Felt by those who know Him,
The One who wrote the story
Leafy notes of praise…
Rise from the spirit who grows
Quiet and reflective,
Sensing the wonder stirred
By the wistful leaves, the mist
Beyond the streams, the ridges
Blessings in notes of hope…
Found by those who hear
His still, small voice
In the hesitant prayers
Of a hesitant owl, a deer
A bouncing squirrel, preparing
For winter’s bitter frost…
And the night remembers
What it means to breathe in
The softest wind, the praise
Sounding like moon’s light, vibrating
Pouring out faith with each note,
From the feelings brought to life
By hearts who feel Autumn inside.
A salutory observation, to billionaire deletes, and devourers . ? Er leaders
Of their Nations.? Who are black in sin
Now satans kin..Awaiting destruction
Awaiting is it pain.? The rending of the
Souls in the lightless hell hole.' No measure of depth.' No rights there no-thing, ahead or
Left.! Or way to turn..As denied desires
White hot burn, yet you will not see that
Intensitiy isolation is in the cosmic reach
The ultimate lessons there ( you will teach ) you will apply the torture to what
Was once a soul..You will exist in regret
And be digested whole.' The scenes of joy
You might have known sealed off from
Where' will be your home, if you think the
Twisting of desire is a pain while here? then i
Have some news..Its bad no fear.! As you
Try to deliver your self your desires on
earth and find no real satisfaction..
Once there its well?? In un-measure infernally worse.'
Frustration builds,
Why can't they see...
They are the ones,
Slowly killing me...
Living in denial,
Just won't do...
I push forward,
Wishing for anew...
I didn't ask to be sick,
Yet this is it...
I wear a smile,
But feel like s*** ...
To the nameless you inside me,
Are you doing well?
My cells spoke to me:
“For fifty years, I have protected you
And cared for you, so why—”
Why do you only now send your greetings to me?
“Do you want to die?”
“Yes.”
My cells spoke to me:
Your expression is far too violent.
If you die,
Are you telling me to die too?
Huh? You wicked man!
Do you have any idea
How I raised you?
“I’m sorry.”
Right, but there is one thing
I want to ask of you.
Please, even if it’s just one meal a day,
Eat something with some nutrition.
It is so hard for me.
Please, stop being full only in your dreams,
And take care of the other you
In reality.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can keep that promise.”
“It’s okay, because at least you’ve awakened a little,
My heart feels a bit lighter now.
Good night! O, the other me of mine!”
Thunder found me in a waiting room,
the word surgery rumbling through my chest
like a sky deciding to split open.
Lightning flickered in the doctor’s eyes—not danger, but direction~
a sudden brightness showing me the path I didn’t want but needed.
Storms kept arriving after that: a six-month tempest of physical therapy,
each session a thunderclap shaking loose the ache I carried,
each stretch a bolt of lightning showing me strength I didn’t know
was still alive beneath the pain.
There was wonder in the surgery itself—a of skill gathering around me,
the surgeon’s hands bright as lightning, cutting not to harm
but to open a path back into my own body.
There was wonder in the long months after~
physical therapy rose like thunder, steady and rhythmic,
reshaping what pain had claimed.
Every medical hand that guided me became a spark in the dark~
proof that even the fiercest storms carry their own quiet brilliance.
I used to think thunder meant run, meant hide, meant brace for the worst.
But lightning taught me that fear is only the first flash,
and wonder is the echo that follows.
Inside this painted room
the lamplight pools like honey on the floorboards,
softening every corner into a place
where the world cannot intrude.
A kettle hums its small, steady song,
and the window holds a square of winter
like a memory pressed behind glass.
The colors breathe warmth
reds deep as hearth embers,
yellows that feel like held hands,
browns worn smooth by years of belonging.
Even the shadows seem gentle here,
as if they’ve learned to rest
instead of reaching for anything.
A chair waits by the fire
stitched with the quiet patience
of someone who mends more than fabric.
A book lies open on the armrest,
its pages curved like a sigh,
as though the reader stepped out
only long enough to feed the birds.
Holodook’s world holds stillness
the kind that remembers
how to cradle a life gently~
a place where nothing is hurried,
where warmth is not a luxury
but a way of seeing.
Inside this cozy, painted room,
even the silence feels like home.
Rumble Stein gathered all the
children closer to share the grim
legend of the Manor's hidden
archives.
Rumple Stein chuckles, a dry
and rattling sound,
As the children sit quivering
upon the cold hammering ground.
"Deep in the Manor, past the grand,
winding stair,
A secret wall hides a terrible
nightmare."
He taps on the stone with a
long, yellow nail,
Spelling out the dread of a
ghostly old tale.
"Behind the dark oak sits a
library dead,
Where the screaming spirits of
old cluster over your sleepy head."
If a curious child finds the brass
hidden spring,
The wall swings wide open to
a terrifying thing.
Dusty shelves stretch forever
in shadows so deep,
Where a weeping gleaming ghost
never settled to sleep.
"Beware the old books wrapped
in velvet and lace,
And never read lullabies out
in that place!"
For the moment you whisper
those sweet bedtime rhymes,
The phantom awakens from
ancient, dark times.
She will drift from the ceiling
and freeze up your breath,
Singing a lullaby that traps
you in death.
Your sleepy eyes will heavy, your
body will twist and turn cold,
Another lost child for the
library to hold.
Once upon a time, Rumple
Stein sat by the glowing fire
and called the children close.
"Tonight," he whispered with
a wicked smile, "I will tell you
about the Dust- Gnasher."
This creature has skin like old
parchment and razor- sharp fingers
long enough to wrap around the
mattress.
It waits in absolute silence,
completely flattered beneath
your dark bed frame all night
long.
The moment the bedroom
lights click off, its yellow eyes
pop open in the shadows.
It listens for the sound of
deep breathing to know you
are finally fast asleep.
Then, it slowly slides out to
sniff the air, looking for tiny
bare feet hanging off the edge.
If you leave a toe uncovered,
it's cold, bristly tongue will
give it a tiny bite.
It loves to steal loose socks
and chew on plastic toys with
its full, clicking teeth.
"So tuck your blankets tightly
tonight," Rumple chuckled,
"because it is listening right
now."
Old Mrs. Gable stared from
her porch with cold, hollow
eyes.
Children avoided her rotting
mansion, fearing her sharp,
bitter tongue.
When she died inside, the
neighborhood breathed a
sigh of relief.
Yet the heavy velvet curtains
still twitched whenever
anyone walked by.
The rusted front gates would
screech open, inviting the
curious inside.
Those who dared enter
found her scowling portrait
watching their steps.
Her rocking chair swayed on
the hardwood with no wind
around.
A raspy, phantom voice
hissed from the dark,
demanding they leave.
Then the doors slammed
shut, locking the trespassers
in her trap.
She is still entity, and now
they belong to her house
forever.
The doctor smiled,
holding up the
ultrasound of my
healthy, growing
baby.
My relief shattered
when the screen
showed it whispering
inside my womb.
It told me the exact
date and hour it
planned to consume
me.
Tonight, the labor
pains began three
months ahead of
schedule.
I can feel multiple
tiny, razor-sharp
teeth biting their
their way out.
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