McRaeWrites.com

@mcraewrites.bsky.social

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18+. Poet. Writer. Demisexual. Neurodivergent. Any/All. Masc/Enby. Humanist. Anarchist EcoSocialist. Pacifist. Witch. Cartoon Supervillain. www.McRaeWrites.com for the free Poetry & Prose.

3rd Most Prolific Poet In Human History. Shhh... It's a secret!

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Hush Little Witches. Goodnight Void. Kiss Upon Thy Forehead; From The Most Terrifying Thing In The Dark. Sleep Comes In Nightmares. Death In Loops. We Promised Ciphers Of Three, Yet Remain Covens Of One. Enough Witchcraft, To Warp Reality. Garnered By Training Alone. Bone Dust. Grey Eyes Stare. ×oxO

Third, Final: Language is my tool. Weapon of choice. Mastering it, To set me free from violence. Learning words, To quell war. Pacifist Penance, Provides Potent Portents, Piled Pillories. Practicing Preacher, Principled Prisons Proving Proof. My abuser, Called me the cruelest. I learned it from her.

Second: Entropy. As if The Tenfold Divinities, Weren't both power source, Plus religious ritual. Mortal Dictata, Deus Mortem. Never was good at dead languages. At least it helped me across romance tongues, With roots. Infinite Nothing. Requires Infinite Something. . . . | | | Empty Space, My Foe.

First Of Three: This Blood Curse Writhes. Writes Cacophony, Repeating songs or phrases in my head, Silent, Ad nauseam. Ad infinitum. The Infinite Hunger. Nicknames for Dopamime Deficits, Dearth of Executive Function. Two of Six Symptoms. Genius. Intelligence. Savant at great cost. Too great. /1

Goodnight Void. Promise you thrice - Upon three poems looming. Unwritten; Yet promised. Hexagon Hex, Brutal Calculus In Symphony. Chaos Theorem, Into Three Body Problems, Sans the ease of binary systems. My spells are ciphers. My riddles are code. My blackest magic, Reserved for our enemies. /1

Heroic Epic - Of A Butterfly King, Remains sealed in dollar signs. Proof of vapid existence, Capitalism siphoning Art - Unto nothingness. Bring me singularity - Simply 'cause I've more faith in technology, Than Humans. How sad is that, Eh? As Crazy As A Logger, Being Most Prolific Poet In History.

Witches' Dozen, Baker's Bread. Tell me who your benefactors are: I'll find out either way. Welcome to the table, Provided you provide me with providers - Or some other utility. But Truth is King, At my table. Monarque Du Rien. As I Remain. "Access" is a bottleneck: One can apply as tool - Or weapon.

The Strengths We Need; Are Seldom Ones We're Already Blessed With. Not that we can let those keep fallow, Either. These scarred knuckles - Know strife too well. Stretch marks criss-crossed with white reminders. power responsibility more Diatribes Of Our Philosophizings; Within The Cult Of The Wyrm.

Knowledge - Is sacred to me. Wisdom sancrosanct. Science: My religion. Empirical Methodology: My god. Truth is often skewed; As not black or white. But for some things it is: The Laws Of Physics. Or nature of Sustainability. Never show me a circle, Then tell me it's a square. That? Pure Heresy.

Wars are not often fought, All at once. Rather across many battles. Solid strategists, Play the lines. Between attrition & surprise, Morale & supplies. One win does not guarantee victory. One loss does not spell defeat. The wars we choose to fight - Are often long. Full Of Agonies, & Anguish.

Listen - I love when internet personalities, Get uppity. Yes, You've a following. Clout. Fame. Whatever. Just smile. Nod. Often choose not to tell them: "I'm The Third Most Prolific Poet In History." At all. Apples. Oranges. But sure; Your jokes on the web - Are much better than my art. Of course.

Getting close to goalposts. Only ever did it for art, Really. Getting here seemed impossible, Despite doing math on it all. Thought I'd be dead before I got this far. Just Five Years! Know I should do something with it. Monetize, Some bullshit. But I despise shilling myself. Hate Capitalism, In Art.

Collapse is coming. Seems gut instinct, Is roiling inside folks. Without knowing the fake social science - Of Economics. Supply & Demand. Boom & Bust. Sullen acceptance. Somber sobriety. The world won't end. But I've always known: People like us, Will have to pick up the pieces. Rebuild from ash.

We're a breed sans hope. Almost no understanding of the word. "I'll be an eternal optimist for both of us!" Major Depression. Cynical Skepticism. Pessimism. So used to struggle. Fighting for barest survival. There was no hope - Only the grind. Putting out fires, One by one, Amidst seas of flames.

Evil Men Succeed; When good men do nothing. Alternatively, When there are no good men left. Few good women. The Enbies are mostly okay. Very few good Humans at all, In fact. Selfishness, Greed, Corruption. The usual suspects. Evil Men Succeed, When we've been brain drained, Corrupted, Into monsters.

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McRaeWrites.com

look i know we're all clinically depressed leftists but automatically going WE'RE DOOMED does not seem prudent

Just a reminder that the most recent ex president is a chronic liar, a pedophile, and buddy of Epstein's who raped minors, a many times over Felon who for some reason isn't in jail, and a whole slew of crimes, corruption, and other horrific bullshit. Pity the guy missed.

Same failure as the Reagan shooter. He missed the Nazi.

This nightmare different; In two parts. First sneaking aboard an exodus ship, Destined for somewhere across the world, After a fall. Bastions of civilization, Amidst authoritarian regimes. Wastelands filled with monsters, Forced to scavenge for trash. Fighting the system, Monsters, All.

Infinite Wings & Infinite Eyes & Infinite Rings. To my Infinite Hunger, Infinite Teeth & Infinite Void To Fill. Vacuum, Is just empty space; Craving to be gorging on mass. Spacetime Blues, Where everything expands forever. Until the last star burns out. Last black hole shaves away to nothing.

Tears Come More Often, Of Late. Wracked with sorrow. Haunted by loss. "What've you lost?" Everything. Until nothing left to lose, But ourselves. Still struggling not to let go. So sick of losing. Winnowing wins to nothingness. Pattern Recognition Hell. Cursed with ugly future sight, Via numbers.

Requiem For The Living. Strive. Exist at all costs. Not just in biological imperatives, Via propagating genes. In Joy. Gratitudes traded with friends. ALWAYS FIGHT. Until your last few breaths. Dylan Thomas Be Damned. We are relics, Of old ways. Leaving ouselves behind. In as many ways as we can.

Culling Rituals, Then. When they cannot beat us into submission. Easy to understand Philosophy. If you can't control someone, Kill them. Our abusers cannot win. Our hearts must burn. Know what that ash will look like. My hexes, Or curses, Are either inherited via genetics, Or crafted with my pain.

I'm Sorry. That I wasn't stronger. Not strong enough to keep you. Chains or shackles as needed. Hanging from the ceiling, In black iron links. Anarchists only imprison those, That hurt the innocent. I was always willing to set the world on fire. Not you, Brother. Almost killed you, Enough times.

Enough. Void, For once I will not bid you goodnight. There comes an Infinite Void. Speed Of Darkness; Ever Changing. Why race towards Entropy, If you aren't trying to create a Metaphor? One powerful enough to kill it. No Goodnight. Or Good Morning. Only my hollow gaze, Contemplating Nothing.

Hurt me? You can't. Not anymore. Can only hurt myself. Plus accidental collateral damage. Fear? Only thing I'm still afraid of is myself. Most Terrifying Thing In This Darkness. More horrible than a hundred skittering things. Expectations? No. None. My very existence; Nothing but - Trauma. Darkness.

Witch; Will take this pain you've given me - With lies, Wanton attacks. Weave it into curses. Take all the suffering for my black magic. Invoked agonies; Our old man is breaking. Don't know how much more he can take. Don't know how much more I can take. Why? He did everything for you. Everything.

Expecting a call any day now. Dead. Shouldn't have been this inevitable. Where was the fucking fortitude? Resilience or grit? Why not better choices? One word; old man repeated - On & on. "It's all about Choices." I made piss poor ones too. We all did. But believe in fighting to my last breath. You?

Stoicism. An old faithful. Combined with dissociation, Emotions numb. Deadly impulses come out. Thrill seeking behaviours - Or murderous intent. Old galleries of rogues. This cold emptiness. DBT Radical Acceptance, Crossed with Buddhist concepts, Of darts. I'm tired, Of Divine Suffering, & Samsara.

Wounded Animals. This mourning wells up in me, Alone in the dark. Grief & Anger - Criss-crossed a dozen ways. Betrayals of Trust. Martyr Complex All Lit Up, Like neon fucking signs. Please. Stop. Quit killing yourself. This anguish, Despair, Has nowhere to go. Just words into the abyss. The Lost.