My Distorted Reality

32, male. I write to understand life, pain, and joy. You might recognize yourself here too.

[misaligned-perception]

The Weight of Discernment

The Creator gave me two gifts—

one a blessing,

one a curse.

As I grow in one,

I wither in the other,

another weight fastened to my shoulders.

The seat of reason—

here the fog thins.

Words are split open,

searched for wolves beneath borrowed wool.

My eyes weigh

the intentions they conceal.

A draining gift,

yet ruthlessly precise.

Words lose their force

upon this throne.

A smile from a loved one

feels like a rehearsed mercy.

The longer I remain,

the more they resemble marionettes,

moved by an inferior hand.

I register my father’s silence—

a verdict unspoken.

The seat of devotion.

Here, others eclipse the self.

These fractured hands

press gently into foreign scars.

This muted voice

reduces fortress-walls to dust.

Their salvation becomes my wage.

I receive it with gratitude.

I wish my flesh

could be bound forever

to this seat.

[misaligned-perception]

I can feel your grip

Bloom at my throat,

A remembered pressure—

Sweet with inevitability.

The mask loosens, tightens,

Learns my face by instinct.

Reality tilts its head,

Listens when I speak.

For a moment

I understand gods—

How creation feels

When it answers back.

Then loss arrives

Quiet as gravity,

And I remember:

This was never my game,

Only my turn to bleed in it.

[misaligned-perception]

Flight Recorder

Please do not shake this device.

It was designed to endure collapse,

not curiosity.

Its purpose is not to reassure,

but to remember exactly

what happened.

It was installed long before the failure,

listening without judgment,

gathering everything

no one thought to name at the time.

The small hesitations.

The warnings spoken too late.

The moment sound became silence.

After recovery, it was sealed.

Not out of fear—

out of accuracy.

What it contains does not change

by being opened,

only by being misunderstood.

Years went by.

The world moved on to simulations.

Cleaner stories.

Editable versions of events

that could be paused or undone.

This is not that.

There is no playback for comfort.

No highlight reel.

Only sequence.

Only truth in order.

If you decide to access it,

do so slowly.

Do not skip ahead.

Do not search for the part

where it stops hurting.

It does not stop.

Some records are not preserved

so we can relive them—

but so we never pretend

they were something else.

[inkandintent]

[aurel-ink]

Look behind, young one, at the many times it has rewinded; it happens again, and again, and yet again, it does not stop. Does it make you angry? Does it make you sad? Cycles and circles surround your very existence, what could a broken hand hold to change its course?

The rivers are stronger than you ever were; your muscles cannot fight back the streams. Your tendons will tear, your bones will break. It's useless, young one! Yet we reach with empty hopes and sunken eyes. Despite all the sins you convey, it is never enough. You pledge yourself to remain, to remain and thrive - across all centuries as one, for the stream is mixed waters. On hold is the pain that lays behind you, in your muddy soles and your dirty fingertips. At the edge of life, at which you sat down, there is no more will to fight. Return to me, young one. Don't give in to the light yet. Peace will come for your aching body; it will reach from the dampened dirt. Return to me, and let's dance, with your battered cheeks, your purple skin, your blackened eyes. You will find the flame in you once again - when you stop drowning in the river.

[misaligned-perception]

"What could a broken hand hold to change its course"

Beautifully written.

[misaligned-perception]

In her presence

Time used to behave

until she appeared.

The sand in the hourglass

of my life

slipped steadily, obedient, predictable—

until her obnoxiously adorable laughter

interrupted it,

forcing a pause

that felt almost deliberate.

Then the sand panicked,

rushing faster,

afraid of her presence.

Her smile

made creation feel plausible again,

like the world hadn’t finished inventing itself.

The grains grew heavier,

dense with meaning,

losing momentum

under the weight of wonder.

And when she touched me,

the glass could no longer hold.

It shattered.

Time stopped.

What else could it do

in the presence

of something so beautiful?

[misaligned-perception]

Blankness consumes my creativity,

yet I write until blisters appear.

My voice weak and feeble,

passion seeping through cracked skin.

My eyes hang heavy like sandbags,

fixed on the victory ahead.

[misaligned-perception]

Chameleon

A smile that holds hatred,

Yet they see gentleness.

laughter devours negativity,

Fusing into the veins.

Words seems harmless,

Ammunition stashed away.

Thoughts scream betrayal,

Corroded moral integrity.

Emotions deadly weapons,

Point at everyone.

Even the innocent

[misaligned-perception]

Unguarded

Take me to the place I used to imagine

Where laughter is a language.

Tear-stained cheeks—

Proof of the inner warrior the world created.

Constant blabbering

Is understood as a voice yearning to be heard.

Your inner selves are welcomed here;

Bring your chaos—it’s converted to bliss.

Yet beware the masquerade.

Even in this sanctuary, they carry weight unseen.

It distorts the light,

Clouds the laughter.

Masks cling to the walls,

Spilling your lies.

The air tastes heavy where pride lingers.

Here, only raw hearts bloom.

Only unguarded souls find warmth.

Contemplate deeply, step lightly.

Bring only what’s etched into you.

Here, the heart is weighed,

The soul refined as silver.

The chaos you carry blooms;

The false is stripped away.

Decide—are you ready to shed

What the flesh clings to,

And enter fully into the light?

[fille--de--joies]

Reshaped

How much do you need to thin a heart down

so that it fits inside a tiny box?

And if it regrows therein

would the box shatter

like a galaxy's birth or

would the heart conform

to the shape of the box: a nice cubic heart

that you could roll as dice to pick

-in the most fortuitous way-

the most tortuous path

to the same dead end.

There is art in corrosive

sophistication. Fortunately,

I am uninspired enough to trust

only shortcuts.

✒️ F. J.

[misaligned-perception]

"There is art in corrosive sophistication"

[aprilfoolfrog]

Shatter

I shatter but never break.

Wait, actually-

do I break?

I shatter but only sometimes.

I break.

I do break.

But do I break?

What does that actually mean?

I shatter and my pieces fly everywhere-

but I can be glued and pieced back together.

I am still going-

can I keep going if I am broken?

I bend and bend and bend

but do I break?

I shatter.

Written by AprilFool 🐸

12/10/2025

[misaligned-perception]

This brings such a familiar feeling.

[misaligned-perception]

If you’re suffering,

whisper tangerine.

I’ll take your hand—

a quest we’ll have

to find the best

cup of hot chocolate,

to melt reality’s

chilling gaze.

[misaligned-perception]

This smile once existed naturally—

now it’s sharpened,

used only to disarm.

My tongue once shaped sincerity

until the words

forgot what they meant.

My life once flowed

without resistance,

until motion learned

how to stall.

So before I’m cast

as the villain

I was never trying to become—

goodbye.

[misaligned-perception]

Legible to the Fractured

I cannot love a perfected masterpiece.

Its flawlessness repels me.

Each line connects with ruthless precision,

each stroke rehearsed until time itself collapsed.

It is exhausting to possess something

impervious to affection.

You had no hand in its genesis.

Where is the sorrow, the exquisite hemorrhage of the soul?

No thanks.

That painting over there,

scarred by evident missteps,

its pigments sinking into reality,

emotion transfigured into substance—

such purity is only legible

to the fractured.

I would cherish any work

that bears authentic depth,

that bleeds the truth of existence.

[prettylittledrafts]

methodology of harm

is this some kind of experiment

where no one admits there is a hypothesis

where you watch how deeply I can love you

how much I will give without asking

how long I will keep choosing you

over my own warning signs

and then

how deeply I can resent you

once love has been thinned out

by silence

by excuses

by waiting

you ration affection like it costs you something

a glance

a crumb

a reminder not to want too much

pause

observe

adjust

see how long I stay gentle

see how fast gentleness curdles

see how devotion turns mean

when it is treated like a flaw

I am so tired of wondering

if I was ever anything more

than a reaction you wanted to study

a patience you wanted to exhaust

a love you wanted to break

just to prove you could

[misaligned-perception]

Very moving.

[misaligned-perception]

To breathe, my blood must course,

my heart persist in its labor.

Yet this body harbors no warmth—

only the discipline of cold.

Touch should resurrect affection,

kindle flesh into remembrance.

Then why do these fissures remain,

unmended by nearness?

My soul weeps—

not aloud,

but in the hush between pulses.

[misaligned-perception]

I want to sleep,

an endless slumber.

My eyelids are heavy—

Father Time’s wrath.

Reality shattering,

from young to old in a blink.

One minute, potential feels endless;

the next, fatigue in every cell.

If I just rest my eyes,

tonight might be the night.

I imagine this sleep,

eternal silence—

such a luxury for one like me.

My mind bleeds screams;

it’s always wounded,

self-inflicted, mostly.

If I willingly sink

into this frosted lake,

will I not get to see you, little brother?

Forgive me, please.

I can’t even say I tried my best.

The title of Big Brother—

molten steel on my flesh.

It’s reached a point

where yawning has become a second language.

Gosh, I sure am tired.

Oh look—the Sandman.

My regrets, dreams, and goals,

disposable, meaningless.

As I lay my head down

for the last time,

judge me softly—I tried.

Oh Father, You know I tried.