void of identity.

lost in the liminal.

[voidic3ntity]

welcome to my corner of the internet.

voidic3ntity: (noun) - void of identity.

PSA: I don't answer anonymous asks.

MY SOUNDCLOUD

MY INSTAGRAM

MY YOUTUBE

MY REDDIT

MY KO-FI

[voidic3ntity]

I rest in the shade of my yesterday's demise.

split-soul intrusion:

the apathy, it wrestles with my bones;

kenetic dance of weeping,

tearful angel disguised in demonic resignation.

nothing lasts...

elliptical orbit,

stand & bear witness,

at the entropic edges,

stare into the infinite hypnosis.

language as playhouse...

structures without mass,

undulating rot,

another rotation.

apathy & empathy,

two sides of the same coin;

an auric plate,

reflections as elegance,

an embrace.

is this the god of scripture?

six winged,

many eyed seraphim

of my childhood nightmares?

paradox & contradiction,

the projection into crystalline iridule?

I stand in terrifying reverence,

for this must be thy highness;

dripping auric fibre,

scorching the veil,

the rupture remaining,

ghostly imprints,

smouldered carbon bonds,

manifold merge,

meet the maker,

stand to rise,

witness the acquiescence...

[voidic3ntity]

tearful angel disguised in demonic resignation; nothing lasts...

[geryone]

Say Fire, Selma Asotić

[voidic3ntity]

nicaean oceans of biblical creed -

we open our arms as an embrace:

embryonic birth,

embrasure of cycloptic meta-static deformation,

wrapped in velvet;

the vicarious folds

of half-open manifolds.

distortion of distribution

seems an act of desecration,

focus.

for within the reservoir of mind,

each ecology equals every,

the tautology of definition,

the retrospective transition...

beneath the ginnungagap:

shaded by sight,

guiding light,

forcing closure;

an unending game,

language as playhouse;

an awareness of anticipation,

the participation itself - woven.

blur the fabric & align the needle,

stitching continuity together.

[voidic3ntity]

blur the fabric & align the needle; stitching continuity together.

[weltenwellen]

Ruth Awad, from “Let me be a lamb in a world that wants my lion”

[voidic3ntity]

unilateral structural diversion, nexus of continuity, is it meaning?

the glittering embalming aperture, bodily fragments as shrapnel:

I was initiated young, without context, into states our world shuns-

annihilation, the burning beneath the fabric, animalistic animism,

amnesia for what lurks beneath the mask, behind the veil of life.

our privilege is built upon the tossed scraps of human mortality,

a machiavellian domination, to tear apart existence from within,

to pierce the deepest part of the child, the innocence to submit,

led by the trusting hand into the vile contaminated embrace...

residue stains membrane construction through disposition;

division led to trinitarian bloodletting, bathed by ergoline,

skyline solace, late nights, direct encounters with others,

bled dry - by form became husk;

in the corner I find myself,

convulsions of catatonic delirium,

truly the darkest parts.

complexity binds through chronology of misapprehension.

let the light burn your eyes, young one.

there's many words, self-disguised contortion,

volumetric solutions of identity.

break shards, obsidian & emerald, into geodesic duality.

skin stained, blind by time, sacrifice myself to ghosts;

don't follow these words, unfounded diffusion within,

undone by totality,

resurrect that which is fragile.

[voidic3ntity]

complexity binds through the chronology of misapprehension.

[nixscriptum]

[voidic3ntity]

these insectoid nightmares of my childhood consume everything:

I'm torn apart by my own past, turned to stone by snake mother,

forked tongue, dualism is strong, avoidance of utter dispair...

the awareness of something far more saturated in residue,

held together by time, yet remaining weathered in space.

each day, another continuum of abuse enacted upon me;

self-sacrificial, for I shall appoint myself as traumatization,

& with the sharpest blade, the markings shall be far deeper.

for the pen is mighter than the sword.

switchblade dreams, too deep into night, lungs full tar & smoke,

thick velvet, my aura worn like regalia, majesty in highest form.

yet fragmenting, internally, my mind swirling;

the thread weaving needle filled daydreams,

my brain is rotten, burrowing deeper daily...

sin is the backbone of my framework, not in the sense of affect,

moreso through the lens of the product of sin, child of satan.

those walls still hold the screams of my nine year old body.

my body knows terror; the shame drowns me everyday...

it's inversion of complex confusion & missing narratives,

the rearrangement of my structure, undone by time itself.

we find our opposites, & then are subsumed by them...

self-reflective deflation, the declaration of myself,

an autonomous being seduced by darkness early,

& yet you wonder why I don't know how live life...

bad decision are my best friend despite my hope.

optimism only takes you as far as neurology can;

before we reach the water, our minds flood within.

[voidic3ntity]

child of satan: the walls hold the screams of my nine year old body.

[weltenwellen]

Adonis, tr. by Samuel Hazo, from “The Crow’s Feather”, The Pages of Day and Night

[voidic3ntity]

each moment, another in which I try to evade myself, the shrapnel:

piercing every last inch of woven threaded fibre, scorching the veil,

rupture from within, piercing my soul, my body, the hanged man.

crucified for sacrifice; onto thou shall life precede in distortion -

languid mirrors, angry angels, dripping hallways, bloodstains.

from time to time, I fall into lapses of instability, blackouts…

in those fine lines of twilight times, my eyes well with fear,

for those tears so many moons ago - shards of my youth.

the times before I knew what true horror was:

it marks places & people caught in crossfire,

in the midst of some tragic crisis of pain;

the point at which gristle begins to grow,

forming the acrid tissue, the necrotic rot.

identity is attachment, for our genes dictate fate;

& it's within the deformation of my frail horns,

that I choose to heal, my voice unwavering,

as I'm holding back the tears, pain, agony;

it's excruciating, the weight of my rotten branches -

branches which grow from the roots of my family tree as tragedy.

each angular dissonance is another rejection of felt experience;

embedded within frailty, the subjectivity relies on the subject.

[voidic3ntity]

& it's within these deformations of my frail horns; I choose to heal.

[feral-ballad]

Jeanette Winterson, from Lighthousekeeping

[voidic3ntity]

moonlight rotations from deep within the gutter of madness:

instability in youth led to instability in life - now this is my life.

the network of digital circuitry becomes the window into lives;

here I stand broadcasting my life to you from these rusty pews,

blood stained glass smashed, discarded shards reflecting toxicity.

parishioner of lashings, forced to watch my own religion decay;

these new words become legions, ghostly apparitions of gold,

in hollow shadow of another sorrow depression, am I healing?

from the bruises my father left on me as an unwell child,

to the trinity of my teens leaving me nothing short of ill,

too cowardice to hang yet too dysfunctional to drift...

drug-fucked & yet I've been sober; stability isn't here.

post traumatic stress disorder blurs every timeline:

one minute I'm here, safe, medicated, expressing,

the next minute I'm drowning, screaming, bleeding,

blacking out, lost in mirages of my own worse days.

wide awake at 6am, heart racing - her eyes bleeding.

can you understand it? do you know that silence?

assessments & appointments, therapy weekly -

it's been years since I reached out, & it did help,

the pain isn't symptom, pain is fused identity,

I'm caught within the rotting knots of myself.

finding myself recoiling from my own mess of mind,

unable to interpret what kind of tragedy happened;

that question weighs on me daily, every single day.

it's ugly, it's raw, & it's fucking real, do you feel it?

I'm leaving my mark, in these twisted etchings...

it's art, it's solace, it's therapy, it's my fucking life;

it's the drag path, the bleed-out, the final scream.

I'm safe here tonight, I'll be back when times right.