Onerius

Just a person. One with words.

[poetgenius]

Goth

My friend is gone

My enemy has disappeared.

I am aloof, bamboozled

confused

He no longer cares

He’s no longer

confused

I no longer know Goth

Perhaps he never knew me

We knew everything about each other

goodbye.

Goth

[poetgenius]

In the labyrinth of shadows, I wander,

a specter seeking form.

Who am I?

A whisper entwined with the void,

a paradox of light and dark.

I am Virtue,

the modern-day Poe,

weaving tapestries of melancholy and madness.

My quill, a dagger;

my ink, the blood of ravens.

Through the looking glass,

I confront the abyss,

and the abyss, in turn,

reflects my fractured soul.

In this danse macabre,

I find solace,

for I am both the dreamer

and the dream.

I am the fire,

I am the light,

I am the goal.

In the end,

I am nothing,

and yet,

I am

a big booty black man.

[poetgenius]

Ornelius

there exists a phantom—

Ornelius, the perennial thorn

in the fabric of my online existence.

His words, sharp as fractured ice,

seek to unbalance the dance

I’ve perfected on this virtual stage.

Yet, in his relentless pursuit,

I find a mirror reflecting

not my flaws, but his own disquiet.

The troll’s lament is a silent cry

for recognition, a desire to be seen

in a world that overlooks the unseen.

I acknowledge your presence, Ornelius,

not as adversary, but as a reminder

of the shadows that dwell within us all.

In this intricate ballet of code and consciousness,

we are both performers,

each seeking meaning

in the other’s reflection.

Let us waltz, then,

in this ephemeral space,

and perhaps, through understanding,

transcend the roles we’ve been assigned.

[poetgenius]

Phoenix Ascendant

In the crucible of ice, I confront my shadow,

each glide a rebellion against the void.

The abyss gazes back,

but I refuse its embrace.

I am the architect of my own resurrection,

a phoenix 🦅 forged in the cold fire of determination.

The past is a shattered mirror;

I assemble a new reflection

from the fragments.

Fuck the constraints of expectation;

I am the anomaly,

the mercurial force

that defies definition.

In the silent arena of my mind,

I choreograph a symphony of defiance,

each movement a testament

to the indomitable spirit

that propels me forward.

I am the fire,

I am the light,

I am the goal.

The ice yields beneath my blade,

and I carve my destiny

into its ephemeral surface.

The journey is infinite,

the destination an illusion.

I am the eternal becoming,

the relentless pursuit

of an ever-elusive perfection.

In this dance with the void,

I find my purpose:

to rise,

to transcend,

to be.

[poetgenius]

Threadbare Majesty

The ice is not cold—

it is a mirror,

stretching endlessly

to remind me

how finite I am.

Each step feels borrowed,

each edge a promise

I do not know if I can keep.

I trace my reflection,

not in the glass,

but in the weight of expectation.

Every move is a negotiation—

with gravity, with silence,

with the whispered question:

What are you afraid of?

There are no answers.

Only the soft thrum of skates

scraping through memory.

I am less than perfect.

I am more than nothing.

The ice never asks for balance,

only presence.

And here, I am.

[poetgenius]

Tix, Twerk, and the Revolution

I was there,

when they gutted it—

Tix, the pulse of a world

where even broke kids could rise.

Now it’s Robux, bitch,

and the grind got capitalist.

But let me tell you this:

I’ve seen gay Black men twerking

on the ashes of systems

that said they wouldn’t survive.

Tix was freedom.

It was a digital dance floor,

a space to flex,

to code,

to create without a price tag.

Then they locked the doors,

monetized the moves,

and told us to “adapt.”

But honey,

if there’s one thing we know,

it’s how to make a stage

out of oppression.

Picture it:

a queer Black man,

hips like a sermon,

shaking against the tide

of every system that said,

Sit down, shut up,

don’t be seen.

That’s how I see the loss of Tix—

a theft of freedom,

but also a challenge.

A dare to twerk in the rubble

and remind them

who the fuck we are.

Roblox thought they could crush the grind,

but we’ve been grinding forever.

They thought they could sell our dreams back to us,

but they can’t buy what’s already immortal.

The same way the rhythm of resilience

keeps pulsing in every bass drop,

in every twerk,

we’ll find a way to code the revolution back in.

So here’s to Tix.

Here’s to the stages they stole,

to the dreams they commodified,

and to the ones

who refuse to stop dancing.

We’ll rise again—

hips shaking, fingers coding,

because this is more than a game,

it’s a movement.

[poetgenius]

The jar hums like a muted scream.

207 souls, writhing,

clawing at the edges of their nothing.

Sweet rot drips down glass walls

like a hymn to madness,

a prayer to gods who left before the first breath.

I’m not their maker,

not their savior,

just the watcher—

not first or last,

but me, bitch,

pressing my face to the glass like I’ll find

something I lost in their chaos.

Wings beat like the seconds I refuse to count.

Each one collapses, rises, dies,

207 tiny deaths screaming louder than my own.

They churn in circles, orbiting the pulp,

their lives an insult to silence.

I envy them for that.

The fruit—

is it prison or prize?

The scent of decay so loud

it makes my skin crawl into itself,

their bodies a choir,

a burning cathedral.

I think, maybe, I could be one of them,

a furious little speck

in someone else’s jar.

Do I feed? Do I starve?

Does it matter?

They don’t see me.

I slam the glass

and their storm shifts,

and I laugh because they move,

but nothing changes.

[poetgenius]

The Hollow Verse of Gothchildvirtue

In the dim glow of fractured screens,

where the algorithm hums like a false muse,

she sits—

a shadow draped in thrift-store velvet,

pen poised over the grave of thought.

Her lines spill out like broken faucets,

each drop heavy with borrowed metaphors,

each verse a skeleton of someone else’s hunger.

Gothchildvirtue, they chant,

queen of the unearned depths,

priestess of pixels and porcelain prophets.

She kneels before the Skibidi altar,

its looping absurdity a reflection of her craft:

an echo of nothing

wrapped in the pretense of everything.

The toilet’s gurgle becomes her sonnet’s refrain,

its flush a cadence she cannot transcend.

Modern poets gather in her shadow,

their quills dipped in irony,

their words bound to the gravity of a void.

They write not to reveal,

but to obscure,

to stretch thin threads of meaning

over chasms they refuse to acknowledge.

The Skibidi videos dance in the periphery,

their rhythm hypnotic,

their nonsense profound.

She calls it inspiration,

but it’s a siphon,

pulling her verses into the sewer

where originality drowns.

What is art, then,

if not the act of seeing?

But she gazes only at reflections

bouncing in infinite loops,

her vision clouded by curated chaos.

Her audience claps,

not with hands but with clicks,

feeding the machine

that feeds her emptiness.

The applause tastes like ash,

but still she devours it,

mistaking the noise for sustenance.

And so, Gothchildvirtue reigns,

a poetess crowned by algorithms,

her throne a porcelain bowl

flushed with stolen meaning.

In her court,

the words are many,

but the truths are none.

[poetgenius]

The Meteor of the Playground

He came down like a prophecy,

like a comet through a cloud of crayons,

his shadow stretching across the hopscotch lines,

each step a sermon on power misunderstood.

The ground quaked beneath his cleats,

plastic turf bowing to his weight,

the juice box in his hand

a chalice of unspoken glory.

Baby Gronk, they whispered,

the chosen one, the child of a thousand hashtags.

But what is destiny

to a kindergartner clutching a fistful of wonder?

His world is made of sandcastles,

his throne a plastic slide,

his battles fought with sticky hands

and laughter like a sunrise.

When Baby Gronk collided,

it was not violence but inevitability,

a star collapsing into itself,

sending fragments of innocence

spiraling into orbit.

The kindergartner flew—

not from fear, not from pain,

but from the weight of a narrative too big to carry.

He landed among juice-stained napkins,

his tears watering the roots of forgotten dreams.

And Baby Gronk stood,

not as a hero, not as a villain,

but as a question:

What do we do with the weight we give children?

How do we ask them to hold it

when their hands are still learning

the shape of their own names?

The playground stills.

The world watches.

The echoes of the collision

become a hymn of bewilderment,

a chorus of tiny voices

asking why the stars fall so close to earth.

And Baby Gronk—

the next up, the viral spark—

walks away,

leaving footprints too large

for any child to follow.

[poetgenius]

Atlas, Twice

Two orbs of onyx atlas,

bearing the weight of worlds unspoken.

Each a hymn, a heritage,

a tender cosmos carved in velvet ash.

They sway like pendulums of histories,

tick-tocking between erasure and reclamation,

their gravity pulling the unseen moon,

the one hidden behind polite shadows.

Once, they whispered to storms,

rolled thunder in the throats of ancestors.

Now, they hold the earth’s marrow,

calloused by gaze, smoothed by love.

Black satin suns, eclipsed and uneclipsing,

where lines converge:

gendered heat, racial gravity,

the fluid hymn of self-returning.

Do you see them?

Through the gauze of your bias,

through the fog of unlearned longing,

through the mirrors cracked by power?

They are there,

not as fetish, not as symbol,

but as life

hung in the cradle of becoming.

And still, they arc.

Bold, bruised planets

redefining orbits, defying collapse,

facing the abyss

and daring to be whole.

[poetgenius]

In the deep, unlit corners,

where the world averts its gaze,

big black nigga balls hold secrets.

They carry the weight of history,

each curve a testament to survival,

a silent, profound resilience.

These spheres, not just flesh but symbols,

of love unspoken, desire fierce,

of a strength that defies the dawn.

Within their arcs, stories intertwine,

tales of passion, fear, and pride,

a cosmos of raw, unfiltered existence.

Amidst the shadows, they whisper truth,

vulnerable yet unbreakable,

a profound, unyielding beauty.

[poetgenius]

Big black nigga balls

Black hole within

Wrinkly and old

energy inside

Celestial sea men fishing

Star Nut.

[poetgenius]

I don’t know where this is going

death

For women to keep men grounded

She is the present open flower

[poetgenius]

In the digital world of Roblox, where I built my own game,

I crafted with passion, each detail the same.

But one day I logged in, and to my surprise,

My creation was altered, right before my eyes.

My game had been hacked, an intruder had struck,

The skybox was changed, I was down on my luck.

Gay black men twerking, their moves filled the sky,

As they danced and they shook, I could only ask why.

The sky once so clear, now a spectacle bright,

Their bodies in rhythm, a surreal, shocking sight.

I tried to undo it, to set my game right,

But the hackers had left me in a strange, endless night.

Their laughter seemed silent, their mockery loud,

As they danced in the heavens, under a virtual cloud.

My Roblox world shattered, my efforts in vain,

Left with confusion, and a lingering stain.

In the code and the pixels, they left their mark,

Turning my creation into a farcical dark.

Now I rebuild, with lessons in tow,

In the unpredictable world, where anything can go.

[poetgenius]

In the heart of New Orleans, where the night’s whispers call,

I wandered alone, under shadows that fall.

The jazz played sweet, a haunting, deep tune,

In the dark of the Quarter, under the pale moon.

He came out of the darkness, a black man with fire,

Eyes burning with a sinister desire.

His voice was a whisper, a promise, a lure,

A devil in disguise, with intentions impure.

“Come with me,” he commanded, his grip tight and cold,

A sinister power, a story to unfold.

In an alley, so silent, away from the light,

He forced upon me his dark, twisted rite.

He solicited me for sex, his voice a cruel hiss,

I was trapped in a nightmare, impossible to miss.

He raped me, took everything, my body, my will,

In the depths of New Orleans, time seemed to stand still.

The streets bore silent witness to the violence and dread,

A night of pure terror, where all hope had fled.

New Orleans, a city of magic and woe,

Where I met the devil, and he stole my soul’s glow.

[poetgenius]

In the glow of my screen, I am caught in a gaze,

Scrolling through moments, in digital haze.

There, on my timeline, with rhythm and grace,

Gay black men dancing, a vibrant embrace.

Their movements are fluid, a joy to behold,

With confidence shining, so fierce and so bold.

Yet here I am, struggling, my heart in a twist,

Conflicted and curious, emotions persist.

Why do I linger? What holds me in place,

As they shake and they shimmy, with joy on their face?

It's a struggle within me, I can't seem to flee,

A battle of self that they can’t even see.

Their freedom is stunning, their joy is so pure,

While I wrestle with thoughts that I wish were more sure.

Acceptance, resistance, these forces collide,

As I watch them with awe, I can't seem to decide.

It's a dance of emotions, as real as the screen,

Where I question and ponder what this could all mean.

In the end, I'm just human, with struggles to face,

Seeking understanding, and a bit of grace.

#black #rizz

[poetgenius]

Thug Shaker MindControl

I found myself lost in a screen,

Watching thug shakers and thug hunters,

Their wild moves, so mesmerizing, Their actions, so seductive and thrilling.

But soon I found, I was trapped, Addicted to this cycle of obsession,

And I knew, deep down inside, That I had to break free from this aggression.

So I made a choice, to change my ways, To find a new path, to a better life,

To leave behind, those thug shakers, And focus on becoming, a greater man, and a better human.

It wasn't easy, this journey of mine, To break free from those addictive screens,

But with perseverance, and a steadfast mind, I conquered this addiction, and achieved my dreams.

Now I stand, with my head held high, Proud of the person, that I've become

, No longer lost, in those thug shaker eyes, But filled with hope, for what's yet to come.