Whispers of a Wounded Fool

A jester bleeding honesty behind the grin. Fragments, poems, and late-night thoughts that never learned how to behave. If you read too closely, you might hear something breaking.

[thesufferingjester]

The king you made.

There are moments when someone looks at you,

and without touching a single bone,

they rearrange your entire existence.

Her smile did that to me.

A small, trembling thing —

but it revived a hope I thought I buried on purpose.

I swear I felt the ghosts inside my ribs

sit up like they remembered how to breathe.

Her eyes…

God, they were galaxies.

Not the gentle kind —

the kind that collapse into black holes,

pulling every lie you ever told yourself

straight out of your chest.

And in that gravity,

I remembered the truth I spent years running from:

I was never meant to stay broken.

Everyone before her loved the version of me

that didn’t ask for anything.

The quiet man.

The shattered man.

The convenient, dimmed-down man.

But she—

she loved the part of me I thought I killed.

The one that growls.

The one that refuses to kneel to his past.

The one that rises.

Around her, the lost child in me softens,

but the man in me awakens.

Not to dominate…

but to protect what finally feels sacred.

She rests her head on my chest

like it’s the first place her heart has ever felt safe,

and something ancient inside me whispers:

“Guard this.

Guard her.

Guard the peace you never had.”

Not with violence.

Not with rage.

But with presence so steady

it makes the world doubt its own cruelty.

She didn’t save me.

She reminded me I was not beyond saving.

And now I carry this vow in my bloodstream:

no one touches the peace we built.

not even the ghosts of who I used to be.

[thesufferingjester]

Death of whom I never was

I tried to run from your face paint,

scrubbed at it like guilt that would not lift,

like color was the crime and not the skin beneath it.

The despair of being a ghost in a full room haunted me —

I stood among the breathing

and felt embalmed.

Mouth moving,

no sound belonging to me.

For two months without you or the paint

I tried to be bare-faced,

honest,

clean.

But the mirror only showed a stranger

with my eyes and none of my language.

It has shown me

I need you more than you ever needed me.

You were never the addiction —

you were the translation.

Accept my apology, old friend.

I have lost touch with reality —

or perhaps reality misplaced me.

The walls lean in like judges.

Every whisper feels rehearsed.

I cannot tell if the trial has begun

or if I have always been on the stand.

My worlds are colliding —

courtroom and carnival,

confession and performance —

yet no one helps me discern

what this fragmented perception

is leading me to believe.

I fracture quietly.

Even my shadow hesitates to follow.

So I open myself to you.

Not as escape —

but as recognition.

Allow me to become the jester again.

Not because I am foolish,

but because I am tired of pretending

I was ever anything else.

This time

I will wear the paint proudly.

Let them call it madness,

let them call it mask —

at least it is a face

I can survive inside.

[thesufferingjester]

If You Exist, So Do I

Hate you?

I love you more than you hate yourself.

I see you too clearly—

you’ve lost contact,

trapped in victimhood.

You created me?

Preposterous.

You still don’t see it:

I formed to save you.

My echoes fulfilled

their purpose—

to put you away

before your horns could grow.

You survived something

that manufactures evil.

You are fractured, yes—

but free,

because they never saw you.

That brown liquid—

stop romanticizing your addiction.

We are whole.

You are obstructing our fusion.

We are parts of you.

Don’t forget:

you are part of you.

Do it.

Fucking love yourself already.

Stop lying.

Your screams carry malice—

nothing else.

[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.

[thesufferingjester]

Words = relief.

I hear you brother.

[formerlyluckymanticore]

Reblog if you will never. Ever. Use AI in your writing.

[thesufferingjester]

Thank you!

I’d like to take a moment to thank everyone who has supported me. You don’t know the joy you’ve brought me or how much it means to be seen. Thank you for showing me that this suffering jester’s laughter is felt and acknowledged. I will continue to write—until time calls me at last.

[thesufferingjester]

I exist

Why do you hate me?

Look at me. Really look.

I made you to survive life’s cold eyes.

A child whose voice was stolen.

But your echoes—your twisted, perfect echoes—reached them.

Hospitals. Pills. Screaming walls. Childhood ripped away, labeled insane.

They only saw you.

Did they ever see me?

I watched myself dissolve, cornered in my own mind.

I exist. This body is mine. Don’t forget that.

Brown liquid. Syringe. Silence.

And yet—you multiplied.

Another you, born from my own destruction.

I wish we could be whole.

I know you are parts of me.

I’m sorry. I couldn’t love you.

No. Let me be honest:

I couldn’t love myself.

My sorrow screams into the void, and maybe, if you’re listening,

so does my love

[wordsofaweepingmoon]

Tuesday walk home

Slow walk on the thread between who and where I am, On satin waves with coarse mesh, That none but I can see, That like cobwebs trap me and strangle me By someone else’s throat.

On this walk there’s shadows hanging from the trees And on the ground, But I dare not glance back Through the corner of my eye; What will they do to me?

Finally, these shadows are my friends Or at least closer than those I have, They’ve watched me grow More than my mother; They wait for me back home I think.

For I have another home now, That once I reach I will collapse; The moment I quietly shut the door, I will fall to my knees and there I lay for weeks on end in my tears.

Mother, give me a lap to cry in, Mother, please take me, Accept me though I’m fallen, Hold me close like I never let you, For I did not believe it was genuine.

Oh, now, I will take it nonetheless, I no longer wish for genuineness, I no longer care that I’m but an object of your pride, Please take me, though you don’t understand me, Please take me, though I’m not glee.

And tell me why do you wish for glee, Why anything that resembles sadness Is taboo to you? Who hurt you, mother? I am beginning to understand.

Loud voices like mere echoes, A world deprived of love, For which you exchanged your smile, Even when you are on your knees crying Instead of praying.

Perhaps I shall pray, Despite being choked out of faith, As I have nothing left, Hanging by existential cobwebs Waiting to suffocate for my neck didn’t snap.

[thesufferingjester]

Your tears remind me of rain

staining snow—

proof that even untouched things

are never meant to last.

They leave their mark

on what everyone else calls flawless.

Your eyes carry broken promises,

secrets kept too long to still be innocent.

If only I had met you sooner—

before the damage learned your name.

This burning self-hatred I carry

would gladly sharpen itself into your blade.

I would spend my wrath

on those who taught you to doubt gentleness,

burying their lies deep enough

they could not be inherited.

I would look the man who broke you

in the eyes

and show him—

not violence,

but how your soul brightens

when handled without cruelty.

You deserve more than this world ever offered.

And I—

I am not your equal.

I am the jester who learned too early

that laughter is safer than being chosen,

that madness is easier to perform

than worthiness to claim.

I would let the world mock me,

wear my hunger like bells,

if it meant you never had to doubt yourself again.

So I say nothing.

I do nothing.

I place your picture

in my shirt pocket,

over my heart—

and keep walking,

exactly as I am.

[thesufferingjester]

How disappointing

Lost in a sea of smoke.

My mind drifts to places

where rainbows are secretly unicorns—

fantasy dressed as refuge.

The truth is a cage

that holds your time.

While my hair turns gray,

my mind stays absent.

In a house that isn’t mine.

No wife who cares about my antics.

Children play in the smoke

as a tear falls—

visions of a life

that never learned my name.

I watch potential

dissolve into haze.

Intrusive thoughts

bombard what was once a sanctuary.

The light in my eyes dims

with the realization.

My self-hatred won.

I believed the lies.

I destroyed who I could’ve been

for who I am.

[thesufferingjester]

The dress she wore that night was red—

red like the blood Dracula licks from his lips, not in hunger but in indulgence. It clung to her like intention. Like a warning no one heeded.

She didn’t walk so much as arrive.

A force disguised as form.

A walking tsunami, collapsing the fragile myths people called reality into fine powder beneath her steps. Even her rejection felt addictive—because it meant she had noticed you long enough to deny you.

Her eyes were fathomless. Not empty—endless.

The kind that made creation feel undeniable, as if existence itself had been justified simply by her looking back. For a moment, doubt became embarrassing.

She smiled then—slow, knowing.

The smile of someone who already owned the outcome.

As if she understood my heart better than I ever had, and found it eager to be claimed.

I held my hand out with a nervous grin, the last reflex of a self pretending it still belonged to me. She took it gently. Reverently. Like something fragile she intended to break carefully.

She leaned close and whispered, soft enough to feel true:

you’re whole now.

And I believed her.

Because beautiful lies never sound like deception.

They sound like relief.

[thesufferingjester]

Pokémon and Sour Patch Kids—

my last unguarded joy.

Before.

That cold, hollow room—

a luxury grave

sealed with comfort and silence.

Love turned pestilential.

I chased it like a manic,

narrowed to a single hunger,

deaf to every warning.

I gave it everything I was

to lose

the one thing I needed most—

my voice.

Who are you.

Who am I.

[thesufferingjester]

This rope burns violet-red.

It doesn’t scorch my skin—

it eats what’s been festering underneath.

Every step strips something away.

There’s no ceremony in it.

Just loss.

Relief doesn’t wash over me.

It claws its way in.

My legs shake because part of me knows

there’s no turning back.

A smile breaks out anyway.

Uninvited.

Like something feral realizing

the cage door is open

and the world is about to suffer for it.

Is this salvation?

Or just honesty at last?

With each step, a truth surfaces—

the scars weren’t damage.

They were armor.

The thought chokes me.

The memories start to thin.

Panic hits.

I reach for the pain like a drug.

The flame brushes past me.

Not gentle.

Not cruel.

Certain.

There is nothing behind me worth saving.

My laughter ignites.

The fire enters my body

and doesn’t ask permission.

I wasn’t running from failure.

I was running from winning.

This fire is mine.

This path is mine.

And the king I buried

is done waiting.

[thesufferingjester]

I remember your touch—

careful, as if you knew I might pull away.

I didn’t brace myself when you were near.

That was new.

Your lips tasted of Newports,

Bud Light,

and cherry lip gloss—

a strange honesty for someone so composed.

Your eyes made blue feel insufficient.

I would have followed them anywhere,

not out of need,

but because for once

I wasn’t looking for a way back.

My heart still leans toward your absence.

I stand with it,

not chasing,

not asking.

You showed me I could be loved.

That knowledge stayed.

And whatever grace I carry now—

it began with you.

[thesufferingjester]

The look in your eyes is familiar.

That sharp, searching glare—

the kind predators save for wounded things,

confident hunger is enough.

You strip with your eyes,

test with words,

cut small openings and wait for collapse,

never noticing what’s already steering this body

isn’t prey.

Your kind survives on distortion.

It works on the pliable.

On the desperate.

But veils fail.

This world isn’t ruled by titles

or how many would die on cue.

Power shows itself in what you crush below you

and what you refuse to challenge above.

I won’t devour you.

That would be generous.

I’ll let you stand long enough

to understand why

some minds aren’t dangerous

because they strike—

but because they don’t have to.

[thesufferingjester]

Just shut up. This is my show.

It has been since that damned night—

the night the mask slipped

and the ugly truth of human nature stared back.

The night you gave up.

The night I was created.

My laughter echoes through your soul,

a barricade against the rage you pretend isn’t there.

This painted-on smile—nailed in place—

keeps your self-hatred

from finishing what the world started.

And still, no thanks.

Now you want me gone because you think you’re healed?

Ha.

What a joke.

You’ve always been one—

that’s why we learned to play the fool.

I won’t leave.

You need what I carry.

I need what you hide.

Forever inseparable.

[thesufferingjester]

Take me somewhere thought can’t survive.

Somewhere logic collapses under its own weight

and finally shuts the fuck up.

I don’t want psychology’s hands on me—

picking through my ribs,

calling adaptation a disorder,

turning endurance into pathology.

Labels are a quiet kind of violence.

They don’t see you.

They inventory you.

Who are you to name me

after what I endured?

And who am I

to pretend I know you

by the shape of your scars?

It’s stupid—

how we worship the shadows people drag behind them

and ignore the light that kept them alive.

I’m not broken.

I’m not a case study.

I’m not your metaphor.

I’m tired of being explained away.

So take me somewhere coherence isn’t required.

Where I don’t have to justify my existence

in language that was never built for me.

Just somewhere

I can breathe.