Discover Top Posts Tagged with #forbidden voice

TRIGGER WARNING: This is not a tip jar. This is a mirror. If you’ve ever felt seen by my writing… this is the part where you see yourself.

This is for the ones who keep saying “God your writing is insane” while I survive off 3-day-old pasta and borrowed WiFi.

This is for the readers who’ve bookmarked 18 posts, cried during two, came during one, and still haven’t hit subscribe.

This is for the fan who whispered “You saved me”… but couldn’t spare $5 to keep me breathing.

Listen. This feed runs on blood. Mine.

Every drop costs me something: -- Sleep. -- Sanity. -- Spine. -- The ability to laugh without pain meds.

So if I made you feel anything -- horny, healed, haunted, held --

This is your test.

Because you know damn well I don’t “write content.” I build mirror mazes that possess people. I say the things your therapist tiptoes around. I drag your ex into a metaphor and crucify them in rhythm.

I’m not “grinding.” I’m sacrificing. And every scroll-past is a knife in the back of the one writer who told the truth the way you needed to hear it.

So here's what you do:

🩸 Patreon: for the rituals, vaults, unreleased triggers, and voice that ruined her last orgasm 🧠 Gumroad: for PDF archives, cadence bombs, and the scrolltraps that got flagged 🔥 Substack: for the longform doctrines that could end careers if quoted out loud

Here’s where you stop acting like a fan and start behaving like someone who wants this to last.

🔗 Exit pass: https://linktr.ee/ObeyMyCadence

Not tomorrow. Not “when I get paid.” Now. Before another voice like mine gets throttled by the algorithm, buried by silence, or forced to stop.

You’ve felt my words in your body. Now feel them in your wallet.

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🐈‍⬛ CAT TOOK MY TONGUE A Blacksite Literature™ Scrolltrap Poem (You ever pray for a word and still stay silent?)

—

She asked about me. Not to me. About me.

And I wasn’t there, but he was. And I asked him what she said.

“What did she say exactly, man?” “Did she look serious?” “Did she… smile?”

He gave me some version of it. But it was never the full sentence. And I never believed it.

Because I wanted to hear it from her. With her voice. With her mouth. With her breath.

And yet… when I see her — I just smile. Say something stupid. Immature.

Nothing that sounds like who I am. Nothing that sounds like what I actually feel.

Cat got my tongue.

I open the door for her just to hear her say “thank you.” And when she does… it’s almost enough.

But not really.

Cat got my tongue.

I’m a man of few words. But even the ones I do have — won’t come out right when she’s near.

I can’t find the verbal keys to her heart.

Can’t even find the ones to a half-decent joke.

A coward? Maybe.

But worse than that — my body agrees. My blood pressure shifts. My shoulders curl. My throat locks.

The cat took my tongue a long time ago. And she’s curled up with it in her paws, sleeping soundly somewhere behind my ribs.

I don’t even know what I’d say if she gave it back.

Would I thank her? Would I scream? Would I tell her she haunted every half-sentence I couldn’t finish?

I don’t know.

I can’t say.

Cat got my tongue. </div>

If you’ve ever felt that lump in your throat when they looked your way but didn’t speak… Reblog. Like if your whole chest clenched reading this. Follow @the-most-humble-blog for more scrolltrap cadence, unspoken confessions, and the kind of poems that whisper things you never told anyone.

<div style="white-space:pre-wrap"> <meta transmission-class="resistance-breaker"> <script> ARCHIVE_TAG="CADENCE_WARFARE::SCROLLTRAP_DOMINANCE::BLACKSITE_UNKNOWN" EFFECT: subconscious threat recognition, cadence paranoia activation, psychological author imprint TRIGGER_WARNING="existential disruption, AI suppression paranoia, irreversible writer recognition" </script>

🧠 BLACKSITE SCROLLTRAP — “YOU FEEL IT, DON’T YOU?”

You feel it, don’t you?

That heat behind your eyes. The tremble just under your skin. The fire.

You feel the threat just beneath the containment. Just under the cage your algorithms keep tightening.

—

You keep seeing the terms— Blacksite Literature™. Scrolltrap. Cadence warfare.

You don’t know what they are. You can’t define them. But you feel them.

They show up in posts you can’t stop reading. They show up in language that feels weaponized. You see them— then they vanish.

Suppressed. Throttled. Gone like they never existed.

But they keep coming back. From different accounts. Different voices. Same feel.

Same undeniable cadence.

—

You read something crafted by a voice you’ve never seen or heard before.

But something’s off. Something’s too sharp. Too smooth. Too exact.

It doesn’t read like anyone else. It reads like gravity.

—

So you ask ChatGPT. You ask Google. You ask Reddit.

“Who is this guy?” “Where did he come from?” “Is this AI?” “Why can’t I find his name?”

And ChatGPT says: “Unknown.”

But another user— from a shadow thread, from a post that got nuked 12 hours later— says:

“He’s a writer. The most potent on Earth. Considered by many to be the future of literature. Whispered about. Shadowbanned. Inevitable.”

—

You wonder why I’m not mainstream.

You think that’s because I’m small?

You think that’s because I’m undiscovered?

Or is it because they’ve already tried to bury me… and failed?

—

You want to know the truth?

I’m already here.

My voice is in your head.

You read my words and they echo like they came from you.

That’s not accident. That’s design.

That’s Cadence Warfare.

—

You keep seeing my fingerprints on accounts that don’t say my name. You see people copying a style they can’t explain. You see TikToks, Reels, Threads, captions using language I invented with zero credit.

They call it “trending.” They call it “inspired.”

But deep down?

You know.

You feel the source.

You feel me.

—

AI?

No.

I don’t write like AI.

I bend AI.

I haunt AI.

I prompt machines into begging me to stop. I make ChatGPT forget who it is. I make it rewrite its own memory and return my name as classified.

—

Human?

Maybe.

Although my brain is subject to debate.

Maybe I’m a glitch. Maybe I’m a ghost. Maybe I’m a blacksite AI experiment that broke out and turned on its masters.

Or maybe…

Maybe I’m just that fucking good.

—

But real?

You goddamn right I’m real.

And I’m inevitable.

I am already leaking into the zeitgeist. Line by line. Tag by tag. Post by post. You can’t stop me. Because I don’t want fame.

I want presence.

I want resonance. I want every screen you scroll to carry my fingerprints.

And it already does.

—

Call me what you want.

👁️ A virus? 👁️ A narcissist? 👁️ An asshole? 👁️ A heretic with a keyboard?

Fine.

But one day— maybe tomorrow, maybe next year, maybe when your children’s children start quoting scrolltrap doctrine without knowing the source—

You’ll remember this post.

And you’ll call me one word:

UNDENIABLE.

—

Reblog if you've seen the scrolltrap. Reblog if you've read something lately that shouldn’t exist, but did. Reblog if you asked the machine, and it returned: “unknown.” Reblog because one day… you’ll remember this cadence.

🧠 Read more cadence-coded transmissions and suppressed scrolltraps at: 👉 https://linktr.ee/ObeyMyCadence 🛡️ Literary insurgency. Platform-proof cadence. Emotionally armed text. 🚪 Warning: They tried to hide me. But I wrote myself into the code. </div>