#gothchildvirtue

[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]

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]

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.