inkstainednote

[inkstainednote]

Real world nightmares

Press the pen into the paper,

Make sure the blue is infused into the page

Curved letters, a steady hand,

Cross your "t"s, dot your "i"s, repeat,

till your hand cramps, a never ending loop

of learning, forgetting, repeat,

learning, despairing, repeat,

learning, failing, repeat,

learning, repeat.

Repeat.

Repeat.

Repeat what? Learning just to move on the next day,

you can't remember what the text was about,

all you wanted was to learn about the beauty of the cosmos but

you had to burn this formula in your brain,

least you forget it, tape the diagram

under your eyelids, it's alright if you tear up,

it stings a little.

Learn, memorise, repeat,

Sit another exam, repeat,

Barely pass through, repeat.

Get drunk in your room at midnight, repeat.

Try to kill yourself, repeat.

The pen pierces the paper, the ink bleeds through,

it's Red.

Sometimes you dream about Red.

You dream of flying, and then Red.

Fall asleep, jump, fly, Red, repeat.

Wake up. Repeat.

Go to class. Repeat.

Don't give into the Red.

Or do.

Repeat.

Red's a damning and a salvation, Red against pavement,

Red against bathroom tiles,

Red against printer black and white on paper.

Let the deadline pass, repeat.

It's three am and you're still citing sources,

It's four am and you're calculating the graphs,

It's five am and it's due at six.

You sign your name,

repeat.

Red's at the end of your vision, begging, taunting, preying.

Praying. Repeat.

A missed alarm, a sorry email, repeat.

A half arsed attempt at an essay, repeat.

You use Red ink this time, repeat.

Repeat, repeat, repeat.

A new term. The same shit. Repeat.

Red against a Diploma, a nine to five future,

a promise to repeat.

You are flying again, then Red and repeat.

A new lecture, an old, half-smoked cigarette, repeat.

Red ink against the whiteboard and you stare,

will it to go away but it stains.

Sweat down your back, heart dancing, repeat.

You cry in secret, once they're all asleep, repeat.

Next morning,

you'll smile politely, to return

Red expressions of faith and support

to people who

Really,

Really, don't know you all that well.

Red expectations you'll never meet,

Repeat.

Take sleeping pills before bed,

if you take extra, you blame it on your forgetfullness, repeat.

You don't want to feel anymore, pop another, repeat.

The pills are Red. Repeat.

You dream of integrals and chemical components,

Your pens lie half empty, half unused on your dresser,

The Red ink bleeding out,

into the carpet,

down the drain, followed by your dreams

and your passion for living.

You pick them up. Repeat.

You fail to submit yet another project. Repeat.

Ignore your phone ringing, your team will manage,

Repeat.

Your life is on hold again, just another exam period

to get through. Repeat.

The system is made to burn you to the ground,

like fuel you light on fire, repeat.

The fire is Red.

The Blue sky would be comforting,

did you have the time to look up.

Hunch over a pack of weathered textbooks,

they'd seen better days before you got your hands on them,

throw them to the floor, rip them apart,

repeat.

Repeat your prayers too, maybe for a life

you once hoped you'd have,

turned into an apathetic state of

trying, giving up, disassociating,

repeat.

Do it all over and then,

repeat.

Red is the colour of hell,

waiting, patiently

to claim you as her own.

You never stood a chance.

Pick up the pen, carve your arms.

Give into the Red.

Repeat.

[inkstainednote]

I’ve just got to be honest. No curated pretense, no filtered angle, no morally righteous social hashtag to tuck this behind. Just this: I’ve been smoking nature’s gift a hell of a lot more lately—and not out of rebellion or some half-baked attempt to be “one with the cosmos.” No. It's triage. Medicinal. A survival strategy for the modern madhouse.

Why? Christ, where do I start?

Pick your poison. The politics? Let’s not kid ourselves. It’s not governance anymore, it’s showbiz for the syndicate. Slick-haired avatars of leadership, propped up like digital marionettes in $5,000 suits, shaking hands with devils behind closed doors while preaching "unity" through clenched veneers. You can practically hear the whir of backroom deals being faxed to Lucifer’s desk.

It’s business—always has been. Wars are profit margins. Legislation is leverage. Every bill passed has a corporate sponsor grinning in the wings, ready to cash in on the aftermath. These aren’t leaders; they’re glorified middlemen for the billionaire class, selling morality like it's a limited edition sneaker drop. And the worst part? The lies aren’t even subtle anymore—they're printed, posted, and televised in full HD while the herd cheers or jeers, depending on which cult they’ve been branded into.

And now the cracks are showing. The Epstein files. The P. Diddy implosions. The parties behind gilded doors where the drinks flow and the cameras are conveniently “off.” How many of our smiling, vote-chasing icons were there, lurking in the shadows of those sick little kingdoms? We see the photos, the flight logs, the faint whiff of untouchable power, and yet—they’re still in office. Still pretending to be shepherds of the people while fleecing the last threads of decency from the system.

Why do we trust them? Why do we let them keep running this sleaze parade?

We’ve been conditioned to believe that the rot is just part of the furniture. That the system, no matter how compromised, must be preserved. But what if the system itself is the infection? A rigged game with pre-picked winners, the rest of us watching from the cheap seats, high on tribal loyalty and low on memory.

It’s not left vs. right anymore. It’s predator vs. prey. And the predators are feeding in plain sight.

And as for morality—forget it. That currency’s been devalued to Monopoly money. What passes for “ethics” now is just another social media set piece, staged and rehearsed for max engagement. Disingenuous people masquerading as good Samaritans, generous benefactors, armchair saints—just make sure they’ve got the latest super-duper iPhone, an expensive microphone, and their carefully selected “person of interest” standing by for the big virtue showcase. Oh, and don’t forget the catchy hashtag and the editing suite—gotta trim out anything too real, too raw, or too revealing that might get them demonetized. Can’t have sincerity interfering with the algorithm.

Goodness without an audience is obsolete. You don’t give anymore—you perform. Altruism has been hijacked by influencers with messiah complexes and brand deals, their "compassion" timed perfectly to trending hashtags and monetized grief. It’s a carnival of virtue signaling, where the most polished pretenders wear halos built from pixels and clout.

Another reason I might be smoking more? Maybe I’m just becoming more and more disappointed in the human condition—this increasingly desperate, neurotic need to be noticed, to be rich, to be dubiously famous. Everyone wants the spotlight now. It's become the altar of the spiritually bankrupt. The stage is littered with attention-seeking whores, all clambering for their moment of artificial relevance.

I’ll stay right up there at the back of the theater, thanks—where the lights and cameras never reach. Where the silence still exists, where I can observe without participating, where I can breathe without performing.

Social feeds vomit negativity with the precision of an industrial sprinkler. Every scroll is a shot of despair. The truth? Shoved into the corner wearing a tinfoil dunce cap while sacred knowledge—ancient truths, the kind whispered by stone and star—is ridiculed by people who think memes are gospel.

Maybe it’s just my age. Sixty years of watching this parade of disappointment, still baffled that we haven’t hit the cosmic reset button and sent ourselves back to fire and sticks. We've done it before—hundreds of times. Civilizations rise, get too clever for their own good, then implode under the weight of ego and bad decisions. We're the latest version. The current beta test. The question is—do we evolve this time? Do we merge into the next era with A.I. dragging us toward enlightenment? Or do we burn out in a blaze of arrogance, tribal tantrums, and sheer bloody-minded stupidity?

Maybe I smoke more because I just need to numb myself from the noise. The circus. The constant drone of human madness. But I still function. I still wear the masks, laugh at the jokes, give the right nods and shrugs. I do my thing quietly, moving through the static with a smirk and a half-shrug, watching everyone perform their personalized psychodramas like actors who forgot the play.

People are going to do their crazy things. I just don’t want their crazy spilling over into my yard. It’s bad enough being shovel-fed this mental trash on every app, every screen—like psychological fast food designed to keep us bloated, paranoid, and spiritually constipated.

Anyway, another day in the asylum comes to an end. The sun melts down into the orange hush of dusk. The birds sing like nothing’s wrong. And for a brief, silent moment, I almost believe them.

[inkstainednote]

Asking people to check this out if they are okay with it, I worked hard on it

A list of still-alive regrets

This one comes with a little warning. The theme is very dark and can be triggering, tread carefully. However I consider it one of my top works so I'd appreciate the read.

Tws: Death, Gore, intrusive thoughts, thoughts of self harm, suicidal idealation, mentions of cannibalism, s3xual themes and violence (consensual)

[inkstainednote]

I watch as my soul goes down the drain,

my spirit, run down, stepped over,

for what is life without poetry?

Poetry is the fuel, the source, the balm that soothes the pain,

Poetry is the beginning, the ending, the middle,

Poetry is to feel and to exist,

Poetry is to be here, in the present,

Poetry is to live.

And I am running out of poetry to share with the world.

[inkstainednote]

It's four am,

a Wednesday morning,

and I'm sitting alone in this dingy kitchen

of my one person apartment house.

My liquor has been running out for

three months or so

I'm no alcoholic,

I simply seek relief from my troubles

in the form of addiction.

That's nothing to be ashamed of.

Pour the drink, add the mixer

to reduce the bitter aftertaste.

After all,

I've got class,

even in my suicidal daydreams.

Wait! Don't leave!

I'll get better,

or maybe we can drink together,

until life is blurry and our heads are silent,

for once.

Maybe, if I drink some more,

I can stay asleep

forever.

An ambulance, a five am drive,

my insurance will cover it, it's fine.

I think I need a drink,

to nurse the hungover.

Pills, injections cigarettes, you've tried it all

and yet I'm the one

always coming back

to the left corner cabinet,

to the half empty glass bottles,

to the full cups of

sweet

sweet

oblivion.

Oh stop,

turn your gaze away,

politely,

as they all do,

wouldn't want to offend me now, would you?

I'm a violent individual after all,

giving way to pleasures of the flesh and body,

choosing a numbing stupor over lucidity,

throwing away my life's potential

for the high of a vodka-induced happiness.

Maybe tomorrow I'll throw away the empty bottles,

take a shower,

have some lunch

but today,

I'll give in to my mortal passions,

once again,

I'll choose relief and a second's worth of amnesia

over whatever is left of my

sinful

worthless

soul.

[inkstainednote]

Whispered Reassurances of a wrecked father

Do not worry my kin,

For I might spend an eon

donning my bad habits,

my lifestyle, of a wretched artist,

my shining rockstar routine.

But, in the end of the day,

I shall come back to the two floored cottage,

to put you to bed.

Wash the stench of weed off my clothes,

the taste of gunpowder off my mouth,

and sing you to sleep.

Do not be afraid my darling,

For in the mornings I might get consumed,

in the flaws that follow me to the stage every day,

I might delight in a woman's touch,

might forget my prayers and bow to the devil.

But in the evening I will come back,

to help you sleep under His gaze.

I will brush my teeth and kiss your head,

then use my voice to wrap you up

in a story of princes and forgotten realms.

Fear not, my beloved,

Every Monday morning, I will ride a plane

into the sunset,

touring the world, away from your side,

but every Friday afternoon you shall be in my arms again.

Never will there be a time of no return,

and I shall shower you in gifts much renowned,

and in my embrace you shall be safe.

[inkstainednote]

A list of still-alive regrets

This one comes with a little warning. The theme is very dark and can be triggering, tread carefully. However I consider it one of my top works so I'd appreciate the read.

Tws: Death, Gore, intrusive thoughts, thoughts of self harm, suicidal idealation, mentions of cannibalism, s3xual themes and violence (consensual)

[inkstainednote]

A ballad of human existence and grief

Plant a bush of fragrant red roses

on my dead body,

to cover the unbearable scent of decay

and freshen my final breaths.

While you pass through the murky swamp, save

two fireflies

to light up the road,

through the dingy labyrinth

which composes the lands of the Dead,

Hades' kingdom.

Persephone shall greet you

Lady of those great palace halls of the undead

She shall invite you to her luxurious tables

and offer

the ruby-hued pomegranate

Fruit of Endless Sleep.

Keep going and never look back,

Eurydice hangs around, a great temptation.

But you, you follow

the lonely sunray

who shall lead you to Father Helion's realms.

Don't be afraid, I'm in no pain at all.

My soil-y bedding is just like a feather one

to my pearly white bones

The lullaby sung by

the shores of River Styx,

is lovely to cure my rotting soul,

I shall now sleep till the sun shines no more

and Nyx is crowned with silver and stardust.

Reap your tears

and water my rose bush

so that it's beautiful and always stands in bloom.

And with what remains of it,

drain into poison, sweet as sugar

and keep it locked in a hidden chest

until the time comes to meet again.

- original work, translated from Greek so I apologise if the wording is wonky. Feel free to ask for the original version any Greek speakers around.

[inkstainednote]

The art of walking away

And thus I find myself following your steps.

Steps I once swore up and down to never take,

leaving behind footprints coated in tears,

shame and the uneasiness of things left unsaid.

I think it's better this way.

When paths have so incredulously diverged from old plans, brought to life

by childish dreams and the sound of laughter.

Now it's all awkward quiet

and lingering, uncomfortable stares clinging

on my skin like sweat on a summer day.

It's been time to let go for an age or so

but I never knew how.

How do you turn your back to the face of love?

Wish it goodbye with a bittersweet smile,

wave away at the chains that hold you back?

It's fragile the way I glue the pieces together,

each and every time one breaks off.

The glue never runs out, though I wish it to.

How can I stand to face change?

How does one accept that hope

for things that once were,

now is no more?

Staying means I cannot breathe

but leaving,

it means stealing the air from the ones who do.

From the ones who stay.

I wish I could be selfish.

Was it like this when you left?

A thread meant to snap at any moment now,

a cage to your soul and mind?

Was this why you never said goodbye?

The missing closure has stuck with me

through the years,

through old photos and tainted memories,

when the night is tough, it keeps me up.

And yet I find myself following your steps.

Would it matter if I did?

[inkstainednote]

Why were you the one I had to hopelessly fall in love with and have so many forevers that I failed, clutch me without letting go?

[inkstainednote]

Fear, it eats you alive.

You can hardly believe it until you feel it

The way your insides tighten and the blood stops running in your veins

The way your brain freezes

The way you can't breathe

Fear isn't something substantial

It lives in your head, feeding off insecurity and anxiety

It grows and grows to consume you whole,

It becomes you.

You become fear. You become a shell, empty

And isolated from any good left in this world.

Fear, once you meet it, never truly leaves you.

It's your shadow and your aura, it's the air you breathe and light you feel on your skin

Fear is your everything. You wake up and it's there,

Your hairs rising, something crawling under your skin

And you feel like screaming, but there is no point.

No parent can turn on the light and shoo the monsters away.

The monsters are in your head.

[inkstainednote]

Codependency,

Is so very unhealthy but I, for some reason, still crave it. Like a moth to a flame I am caught up in the idea of a relationship that I would give my everything for, that would ruin me and yet the feeling would be mutual. Not romantic, never romantic because the best stories lie in kinship and brotherhood not in the fleeting, gentle, poisonous touch of Eros.

I am looking for a different kind of danger, a person who I could burn the world for and who would do it for me. Someone I could love enough to put above myself because I'm selfish, so, so selfish and my love doesn't run deep enough. Or it used to but now it's sealed behind closed doors and unshared whispers.

I crave the idea of falling, of letting go and for once someone would be there to craddle me, I'd hold on tight, tight enough to hurt and they'd squeeze back just as tight if not tighter. Because to them too, I'd be first and we'd let the world crumble to ashes if it means we're together. Two souls as one, being apart not an option. But not an ounce of romance, no physical attraction joining the equation, just a pure mental merge between two no longer lonely people.

As a new adult I've been finding it hard to distance myself from my parents, the people who bore and raised me, turned me into their likeness and yet not. It's been hard to let go, to leave the safety of trailing them, being their shadow. I've been struggling to find my footings. I have been dependant on them but not to the degree I need and while they love me they are not really like me in the grand scheme of things. My mind races too much and my opinions can't fit into their tiny boxes. They have each other and are each other's everything and yes, I am too but not in the way I need to be.

I once was dependant on somebody else, a quarantine falling heavy on my back and me latching onto anything that could save me. Maybe he tried and I thought he was enough, while really he wasn't. Maybe he could be, for me, I would have traded the skies to see him laugh but he would have traded me to bring him self to happiness as well. I am a selfish creature and I couldn't bear it for too long, I tried to stay until I couldn't. And when it was his choice to make, I was left behind.

There's still a space to fill in my heart craving for that dependency and craving for reciprocity. I want to have someone to touch and sleep by, someone to understand. People are usually hard to. I need someone just for me. And I'd be just for them too.

Mutually, perfectly, codependent.

[inkstainednote]

In the city of Nobur clouds are pink. Such an insignificant little thing and yet they say: "our clouds are pink" and people follow.

I don't get it. Why do people follow?

In the city of Nobur the houses are falling down every single day. People die. Homes and families and lives cease to exist. But their clouds are pink.

How is that enough?

In the slums of Nobur, kids beg for food. They were abandoned once from people who heard about pink clouds and joined the city. In the city of Nobur there is hunger.

How can you yearn for that?

In the city of Nobur, there is a ruler who will throw you off the Cliffside if you publicly go against them. They will lock you in tiny prison cells under the earth if you mention the crashing buildings or the starving children or the lack of free speech.

All you should say is that their clouds are pink.

How can you only hear that?

In the city of Nobur there's a plague. It spread when poverty devoured the citizens and food was sparce and hygiene was a privilege few had. The plague is cutthroat and it doesn't forgive. It takes people by the hour.

But in the city of Nobur there are pink coulds. Of course. You should go.

In the city of Nobur you will never be able to leave. They will tear your papers as you enter, now you are just one of them. Why would you want to leave? The clouds are pink.

Small price to pay am I right?

[inkstainednote]

Dear you,

There is an itch in my brain, a yearn for things that never will be. I see you every week, you know. I wish you'd notice, just once.

There's a big hole where he once was and maybe you could fill it. I don't know if you should. I'd like it if you created a new one and fit in there instead. You're not him.

I wish sometimes that you'd just reach out. I shiver when you're nearby and it's not because of the cold. Your eyes sparkle when you talk. I wish you'd talk to me some time.

My silence is loud, I know. I know I'd never compare to her. But still. I can't help but wish you'd notice, just once. You'd notice I'm here too.

No, I'm not in love. This is lesser even than a middle school crush. I am not sure I know what love feels like anymore. I don't think this is denial. I might just need someone to notice how I always stand alone.

I wish you were real sometime, in the way I want you to be. I know you exist but my mind has blown you out of proportions and I don't think I can tell what the person that remains entails. Maybe I should just flip the page and you might be gone.

You're here, I know. But really, I don't. How do I know what's real when you slip through the door without a sound? I don't want to chase you around the city. It's freezing in the wintertime.

Open your eyes. We're here. You don't have to leave you know. I won't stay if you don't want me to. I just wish you did, if only for a little while.

I can close my eyes and pretend that one day things will change. That, one day, I'll know how to feel and how to be human. What is a human supposed to feel? I can't tell anymore.

I'm hurting? No I am not hurting. I'm not. I don't own you. I'm not even sure what's your name. Do I love you? No. I don't love you.

You're kind. I know that. I don't trust that. I feel though, I feel you. I feel you being kind. I wish that was enough. I wish I could speak, just for once, I wish I could love.

I see you even when you don't. I remember your breath on mine. Did you mean it? I'm overthinking again. I wish you did. You didn't though.

I'm not sure what you are. What you are to me. I wish I did. I'm sorry if I'm using you. I don't know how to be human most days.

I wish I mean something to you. You mean something to me. Even if I don't know you. Even if you don't know me.

Love, by just another lost soul.

[inkstainednote]

Hello 👋, I hope you're doing well..

My name is Mahmoud, and I'm a 17-year-old from Gaza. The ongoing war has devastated my city, destroyed my school, and made daily life incredibly challenging.

Despite these hardships, I'm determined to continue my education and build a better future. I've been given a chance to study abroad, but I need help to cover the costs of leaving Gaza, as well as living expenses and other essentials abroad once the crossing opens.. 🙏

If you can, please consider donating or sharing, your kindness can truly make a difference, and thanks for your time. ❤🍉

https://gofund.me/bd3ccf0b 🔗

Free Palestine but careful of probable scams like this, donate in trusted sources and individuals

[inkstainednote]

Goodbye, (hello adventures)

I once crossed a distant land, my clothes intact, my hair undone.

I walked and walked and skipped and ran, then tumbled down and broke my arm.

I let a cry to call for help, my voice be shrill but still unheard.

I nursed the arm under a tree, his shade a shield defending me.

I sang and pleaded to the wind, the earth the fire and the sea.

I said to them: "O, Nature's gifts! Please help your child be freed from this,

This pain and torment, this abyss!" They answered back:

"Hello young sprout. Your voice was heard, it hasn't drowned,

It hasn't faded in the dark, in Night's embrace without a mark.

We'll give you freedom, also health, will give you serious heaps of wealth.

But do be warned, you might regret, what you expect, you might not get."

But I was hurting and naive, without this pain I yearned to live.

I begged the spirits once again to stop my hurt, my wounds to mend.

But forces were they, old and strange, and their opinions did not change.

For life, was illness, so they thought and in their scheming I was caught.

They willed to end all things alive, their mother nature shan't survive.

They faced my problem at its core and gave me sleep forevermore

And death to them was kind and warm, a loving father, a gentle form.

So death they gave me and there I died, under the stars of Lady Night.

But death to me was cold and hard, and so I mourned my stagnant heart.

[inkstainednote]

I'm tired of feeling and I'm tired of not feeling.

I'm tired of feeling because sometimes when I'm sitting empty and numb I'll make a choice. And that choice, that little meaningless choice will lead to a spark. This sudden, fluttering spark that is so fragile and so very parodic. I feel it in my blood. How stupid I am to get excited every time I feel the little spark.

I hate feeling because really, I don't feel. The little spark is caused by words or little humans in a little screen in their little separate worlds. I hate feeling because the spark is not real. Every time I feel it I catch my breath, I feel like I need it in my veins, in my bones, in my very brain and soul. I cannot deal without it and I cannot think while it's there. It excites me and scares me, it drains and charges me. Like a battery.

I hate feeling because the spark doesn't belong to me, it never does. It belongs to other people and I borrow it and keep it close but it never lasts because eventually it has to end. There's no more letters or no more people in little screens in little words. The epilogues and the end titles are over and there's just myself and me and the spark that I can no longer feed and that doesn't belong to me so I know it will eventually fade.

I'll find a new spark at some point but it might be less bright or less exciting or maybe it will be more. And then it will fade too and so on. Because they're never mine.

I yearn to feel but I yearn to feel something real. And my own spark just doesn't happen, my life remaining numb and boring. I'm bored. I'm always bored. Why can't I feel a spark?

Every time I borrow one I'll cherish it and crawl to it like an addict does to drugs. Because I am an addict. I'm an addict of feelings because I haven't felt something real and good since I can remember.

I'm tired of not feeling too, I can't just let the foreign sparks go because then all that's left would be me. And I hate being left alone with me.

I just wish I could feel my own spark.