_Land that idiot prodigal

[Angeline]

Thank you . Life is full of twists and turns

I have revisited a few times over the years but not been in the space to share or engage as much as I used too. I'm still with the love I found on these pages, almost 25 years now .......... Holy shit

I remember Beth! That's wonderful: 25 years wow! Give her a big hug from me.

 

[_Land]

I remember Beth! That's wonderful: 25 years wow! Give her a big hug from me.

I will. I plan to hang out here for a while. It's time for me to refine and push for a book.

 

[_Land]

"Still Life with Crayon"
(by Bear Sage)

It’s still there.
Bottom left corner of the fridge door,
taped crooked—
a sun too big,
stick-figure smiles
lined up like tombstones
under a blue that never quite matched the sky.

The paper’s yellowed.
Edges curled like old secrets.
Grease spots in the corners
from a thousand dinners made
and not one truth ever served.

You’d think I’d take it down.
But I don’t.
Can’t.

It’s the only thing that remembers
the child I used to be—
the one who believed
that love could be drawn in thick lines
and would never smear.

I trace it sometimes
with absent fingers,
searching for the ghost of who held that crayon—
before heartbreak learned to color inside the lines.

I’ve grown.
Moved out.
Broken mirrors and promises alike.
But still I come home
to this—
to her.

The girl who drew
what she needed to see
because no one ever showed her
what love looked like in real life.

She’s long gone.

But I?
I stay.
Refrigerator shrine,
worshiping a god I outgrew—
but never stopped praying to.

 

[_Land]

"Bittersweet"
(by Bear Sage)

I meant to take it down.
So many times.
But my fingers never finish the reach—
stopped by the lump in my throat,
by the way that sun still beams
like it believes in something.

You were five.
Maybe six.
The S in your name backward,
arms like matchsticks,
my hair a violent orange—
your favorite crayon had no chill.

I used to smile
every time I passed it.
Now, I stop.
Breathe.
Ache.

You are taller than me now.
Voice deeper.
Eyes that know too much.

And still, that picture smiles
like nothing ever changed.
Like I never yelled.
Like you never slammed your door
hard enough to make the fridge rattle.

It’s a time capsule.
Of you.
Of me.
Of a love unspoken but scrawled in waxy certainty.

I miss that child.
The one who brought me dandelions
like they were gold.

I miss being the center of your world.
Before friends, and heartbreak,
and the slow drift
of growing up took you miles away
with your body still in the same room.

But I keep the drawing.
Because it’s the last thing you made
with joy and glue and no shame.

And maybe—just maybe—
it’s the last time
you saw me as art.

 

[_Land]

Persephone Paid Rent

braided hair like golden rope
tangles tighter with each retelling
the loom hums with thread
spun from warnings and women’s names
pomegranate seeds
pressed like rubies between her teeth
wax drips from feathered edges
as the sky pretends to catch him
mirrors whisper riddles
in voices that sound like mother
a crown of laurels wilts
in a garden no one leaves
the gods no longer answer
but the temple doors stay locked

 

[_Land]

Terms & Conditions May Apply
A Chapbook of Digital Disillusionment
by Bear Sage


---

1. Youth Was a Typo
I was born
with knees that cracked
like Mister Rogers’ smile—
gentle, rehearsed,
never meant for me.

Never had a summer—
just a heat advisory.

Playgrounds were
crime scenes
chalked in should’ve-beens.

My lullabies
came with disclaimers:
side effects include existential dread.

I wore hand-me-down dreams
with the tags still on—
marked aspiration, discontinued.

Even my innocence
was on backorder.

Tell me again
how I’m too jaded
for my age—
I’ll show you the invoice
for the childhood
I had to fucking pay for.


---

2. Insta-Grim
I posted my breakdown
between a thirst trap
and a smoothie bowl.

Caption:
"Healing isn’t linear"
Filter:
Oslo,
because grayscale grief
gets more engagement.

Liked by:
my ex,
three bots,
and a girl I ghosted
in 2014.

Therapy’s in the comments now.
Vulnerability,
but make it
aesthetically pleasing.

I cried in reels.
I danced in stories.
I healed
in drafts I never posted.


---

3. Facebook Sentencing
Status update:
"Speak my truth."
Translation:
Verbal manslaughter
in the comment section.

I got 30 days
for a meme.
Meanwhile, Uncle Bob
posted conspiracy porn
and got promoted to admin.

Mark’s watching.
Not God—
Zuckerberg.
He sees when you lie,
fact-checks when you’re inconvenient.

Court is in session.
No jury,
just boomers
and former classmates
judging from pixelated pulpits.

I pled guilty
to sarcasm.
Served my time
in digital silence.

When I came back,
no one noticed.
The algorithm
had moved on.

Justice here
comes in likes,
and mine
are all from bots.


---

4. Gen Z Diagnosis
30 seconds in:
"Do you relate to this?"
Suddenly
I’ve got
ADHD,
CPTSD,
and six inner children—
all fighting over the aux cord.

Therapist?
Nah, I’ve got a ring light
and an algorithm
that knows my triggers
better than my mother.

Swipe left for trauma.
Swipe right for breathwork.
Cure your abandonment issues
with this trending sound.

"Raw and unfiltered,"
they say—
with contour so sharp
it could cut generational shame.

I stitched my shadow
to a dance challenge.
Now I’m healing
in clips,
captioned and cropped,
served with lo-fi beats
and a side of
unqualified certainty.

#HealingJourney
#POV: You’re finally aware
#LinkInBioForTheVoid


---

5. 404: Identity Not Found
Name: [REDACTED]
Bio: "Just be you!"
Except—
I’ve been six different people
since breakfast.

I uploaded authenticity,
but the file was corrupt.
Tried to log in
and got a pop-up:
"Error: Persona not recognized."

Password hints?
Childhood nickname.
First pet.
Favorite lie.

Profile pic smiling—
eyes buffering.
Comments full
of strangers calling me
"brave"
for pretending to exist.

I cleared my cache
but the ghosts stayed.

I’m not catfishing,
I’m soul phishing.

Every post,
a plea:
"Do you see me now?"

Every like,
a pixelated pulse
in a body I haven’t
fully downloaded.

Username taken.
Backup unavailable.
404:
Identity
Not
Found.


---

6. Hashtag Blessed
Gratitude post:
Just bought my third crystal
and a ring light
that doubles as salvation.

Captioned my chaos
with "everything happens for a reason"—
because accountability
doesn’t photograph well.

Prayed to the algorithm,
offered likes as tithes.
My God answers
in sponsored ads.

Told the world I was thriving
from the right angle—
hid the eviction notice
under a vision board.

Forgiveness is trendy now.
So is fake humble.
So is trauma
if the font’s cute.

Namaste, bitches.
#blessed
even when I’m
bleeding out
in lowercase.


---

7. Spiritual Bypass
I saged my rage
and called it clarity.

Skipped the shadow work
and posted a mantra instead.

Every red flag
became a "lesson."
Every boundary I bulldozed
was just "divine timing."

Told her to forgive her abuser
because "hurt people hurt people."
Told myself the same
when I ghosted accountability.

Chakras aligned
but empathy? Offline.

Mercury’s always in retrograde—
convenient.

I wrapped my avoidance
in incense smoke
and called it
healing.


---

8. Echo Chamber Choir
I said I was fine—
a thousand voices harmonized.

Scroll, nod, repost.
No room for dissonance
in this curated cathedral.

We sing
in caps lock and comment threads,
auto-tuned to our own bias.

Truth left the building
when nuance got flagged
for violating community standards.

I unfriend discomfort.
I block contradiction.
I mute the mirror.

In here,
everyone agrees with me.
In here,
we drown in affirmation
and call it enlightenment.

Reality’s out there—
but in here,
the choir’s louder.
And God,
we sound
so sure.


---

9. The Algorithm of Me
It knows
I linger too long
on old messages
and people
I pretend I’ve forgotten.

Feeds me ads
for therapy,
toxins,
and shoes I’ll never run in.

Recommends
videos on healing
between clips of people
breaking down
in good lighting.

Knows my 3 a.m. cravings
for validation,
for him,
for something
I can’t name
but always click.

I didn’t build this version of me—
it was assembled
from every pause,
every heart emoji,
every secret Google search
I prayed no one would see.

The algorithm doesn’t judge.
It just mirrors.
And I keep swiping
deeper
into my own design.


---

10. Terms & Conditions
You clicked “I Agree”
before reading a word.

Signed away your stillness
for speed.
Bartered truth
for tailored ads
and dopamine pings.

Consent was assumed.
Identity optional.
You are now a user.

We reserve the right
to update your worth
without notice.
All sales of self
are final.

No refunds
for lost time,
fractured focus,
or the echo
where your instincts used to live.

Love,
Connection,
Belonging—
all subject to availability.

By continuing,
you agree
to the disconnection.

Scroll to accept.


---

Bonus Track: X
(formerly known as something we recognized)

We used to tweet.
Now we just
X.

Can't say it.
Can't spell it.
Can't sign our name
without autocorrect
asking "are you sure?"

Identity rebranded
in a midlife crisis
with a trust fund.

The bird’s gone—
plucked,
taxidermied,
mounted on
a billionaire’s
existential wall.

Blue checkmarks bled out.
Legacy is a subscription now.

I tried to make a point
but ran out of characters—
just like the app.

And now when I shout
into the void,
it doesn’t even echo.
It just
refreshes.

 

[_Land]

Pirouette of a Silhouette

She spun—
not in light,
but where curtains forget their script
and dust holds its breath.

A pirouette of shadow,
ink in motion,
unspoken grace
spilled across the boards.

No music—
just the hush
of ghosts in velvet seats
and the crack of memory's spine.

She danced
in ruin’s silk,
barefoot on wilted roses,
a blur of ache
where names once clung.

No face.
Just the curve
of vanishing.

She spun
because stillness
was too final.

She spun—
and the silence
stood up to watch.

 

[_Land]

The Book of Delivered, Deleted, Divine

by Bear Sage

Gospel for the Ghosted

Intro: Epistle to the Newly Freed
(as read by the Reverend Bear Sage of the Church of No More Bullshit)

Dearly beloved,
we are gathered here today
to celebrate the death of delusion
and the resurrection of boundaries.

Let us speak plainly:
This ain’t the book of second chances.
This is the gospel of that last straw
—the one you bent like a yoga pose,
then snapped like my tolerance.

This is for every saint
who stayed too long in the pews
of half-assed love,
singing hymns of
“He’s trying his best”
while the choir of red flags hit high C in the background.

Welcome, my child.
You’ve been delivered
from the DM wilderness.
You’ve deleted
the shared Spotify playlist.
And now,
you are divine.

You walk no longer among
the emotionally unavailable,
the bare minimum prophets,
the gospel ghosters,
the part-time soulmates
who worship at the altar
of “almost.”

Here, we do not tithe our time
to the lukewarm.
We do not fast for texts
that arrive three days late
with zero accountability
and a side of “U up?”

No.
We feast on our peace.
We sip self-worth from golden cups.
We block, bless, and keep scrolling.

So turn the page, baby.
The holy words await you.
And may every verse
feel like a shot of closure
straight to the spiritual bloodstream.

Let the record show:
You are no longer the one who waited.
You are the one
who walked.

Amen. And unfollow.



.

Poems

Poem #1 Cult"ure
Worship at the Altar of Me

Come in.
Take off your doubt.
Leave your boundaries at the door—
they don’t fit here.

I am the sermon
you’ve been starving for.
The gospel of gaslight,
the holy tongue of almost.

Drink deep.
You’ll feel better once you forget.
Forget what you need.
Forget what I said.
Forget the part
where love was supposed to go both ways.

I never promised salvation.
I offered devotion—
yours, not mine.

See, I don’t break hearts.
I open them.
Wide.
And let the silence crawl in.

Don’t call it manipulation.
Call it ministry.

You confuse charisma
with care.
That’s not my fault.
That’s your craving.

You wanted to matter.
I made you a disciple.
You mistook the pedestal
for a place to rest.

You gave me your softness
and I molded it
into obedience.

I told you you were chosen.
I never said by who.

Now kneel.
And remember this:
you came here
because you needed
someone to believe in.
And I needed
someone
to believe me.

Poem 2 Excuse Me, Your Alibi’s Leaking

Oh sweetie,
was Mercury in retrograde
or just your common sense?
Because somehow
your car, your cat,
your chakras and your childhood
all called in sick
at the exact same time.

That’s talent.
Really.
Someone get this man a Netflix deal—
“The Bachelor: Gaslight Edition.”
No roses.
Just red flags and return receipts.

You said you couldn’t call
because your phone was dead,
but I saw you liking booty pics
on Instagram
like your thumb had a PhD
in disrespect.

And that thing you said—
“I didn’t mean to hurt you”—
was so heartfelt
I nearly nominated it
for Best Unscripted Lie
in a Supporting Role.

You juggle excuses
like flaming hamsters on a unicycle,
and somehow
each one
smells like burnt toast
and bad karma.

I once believed in you.
Now I believe in UFOs,
tarot cards,
and that raccoons could form a more functional relationship
than you and your “maybe tomorrow” energy.

Honestly—
if bullshit were currency,
you’d be the Federal Reserve.

So here’s your hat.
There’s the door.
And please—
take your metaphysical allergies,
your emotional gluten intolerance,
and your discount therapy buzzwords
with you.

I’ve upgraded.
To silence.
To sanity.
To someone who doesn’t mistake closure
for a goddamn garage sale of half-truths.

Poem 3 A Ballad of Buffering Love

You said you couldn’t reply
because the Wi-Fi was down.
Again.
Was it also down
when you tagged yourself
in that hot tub pic
at 2:03 a.m.
with “just a friend”
who wears your hoodie
better than you do?

Oh baby, I get it.
The universe conspired
against your integrity.
The satellites blinked,
the data gods wept,
and your thumbs fell into a brief coma
whenever accountability came calling.

You’re not a liar—
just a misunderstood prophet
of the Church of "I Swear It Wasn't Like That."

You serve me fairy tales
with a straight face
and a side of fries,
like I’m supposed to swallow
your digital diarrhea
without choking
on the contradiction.

Let’s be honest—
your emotional bandwidth
couldn’t stream
a 30-second apology
without glitching
into self-victimhood.

And I—
I’ve been over here
trying to reboot the romance
with spiritual tech support,
but your heart’s still running
Windows 95
with a firewall of “not my fault.”

So here’s the new password:
GOODBYE2025!

Your signal's dropped.
Forever.

Poem 4 Astrology Ain’t Why You’re Toxic, Kyle

Oh, Kyle.
Mercury didn’t make you lie.
Your moon sign didn’t forget my birthday.
And Venus retrograde didn’t DM your ex
at 3:14 a.m.
with a shirtless selfie
captioned “u up?”

That was you, babe.
Pure, uncut personality disorder
with a rising sign in deflection
and a sun in “not my fault.”

You think you're deep
‘cause you read a meme
about Scorpios once
and now you burn sage
like it’s penicillin
for your emotional herpes.

You call yourself an empath—
but somehow
can’t sense
when you’re being
a self-centered soggy tortilla
of “poor me” and protein powder.

You blamed your “Mars in Aries”
for slamming the door,
your “Capricorn placements”
for cheating on a group trip,
and your entire natal chart
for being unavailable
on every goddamn level
except sexually.

Newsflash:
Saturn didn’t ghost me.
You did.

So here’s a forecast for you:
Scattered truths,
chance of growth—
but only if you pull your head
out of Uranus.

I’m done reading your excuses
like they’re horoscopes.
You’re not a twin flame.
You’re just
gaslight with a gemstone necklace.

And next time you say,
“It’s just my birth chart,”
I hope the stars align
to slap you
with a giant karmic sandal.

Blessed be.
Blocked be.
Namaste the hell away from me.

Interlude #1 Gospel Interlude: On Holy Ghosting

And lo,
when they said,
“I didn’t know you felt that way,”
you paused—

not because you didn’t have words,
but because you didn’t want to use
your holy voice
on someone who hears
only when they echo.

So you let silence be your sermon.
You let no response
be the sacred punctuation
at the end of their mess.

Because sometimes,
the most divine thing you can say
is nothing at all.


Poem 5 The Fucking Receipts

Oh, don’t look so shocked.
You knew I kept receipts.
Every “babe I swear,”
every “that’s not what I meant,”
every ghosted Tuesday night
when your phone “died”
right after it texted Becky.

You thought I didn’t screenshot
that three-paragraph TED Talk
you gave on emotional maturity—
right before you rage-texted me
because I asked for basic respect
in Helvetica Bold?

Bitch, please.
I have a whole folder.

Labeled:
EXHIBIT A through WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK

Let’s walk down memory lane, shall we?

The time you said
“she’s just a friend”
but her bikini pic
had you commenting “fire emoji x 3”
like a horny camp counselor?
Screenshot.

The apology that started with
“I’m sorry you feel that way”?
PDF’d. Filed. Backed up to the cloud.

That conversation where you gaslit me so hard
I started doubting my own blood type?
Transcribed. Highlighted. Forwarded to my therapist.

You called me dramatic—
but sweetheart,
you wrote the script,
directed the sequel,
and cast yourself
as the misunderstood softboy
with commitment allergies
and a PhD in “Not My Fault.”

Meanwhile, I’ve got a receipt
for every tear I choked down,
every secondhand embarrassment
from defending you at brunch,
every damn tarot card that tried to warn me
but I shuffled past like
“Maybe he’s just working on himself.”

No baby—
you were working on your next excuse.

And now?
I’m printing out the whole archive,
hole-punching it,
and making it my new vision board.

Because guess what?
I’ve got my time back.
My joy back.
My emotional Wi-Fi is strong
and you—
you’re blocked like spam mail
from 2017.

So don’t come crawling back
talking about “nostalgia” or “closure.”
I got all the closure I needed
when I stapled the last receipt
to your legacy
and labeled it:
DO NOT REPLY.

Poem 6 Red Flags are better with Mood Lighting

Ohhh baby—
you walked in
with that smirk,
that tragic charm,
and a suitcase full of “I’m working on myself.”
And I?
I lit the damn candles.

Every red flag,
folded like origami,
glowed romantic
under the fairy lights I strung
across my common sense.

You said,
"I’ve just never felt safe enough to open up."
I translated:
“Challenge accepted.”
Like an idiot in heels
auditioning for the role
of your emotional locksmith.

You flinched at commitment
and I called it “mysterious.”
You vanished for a week
and I called it “time to recharge.”
You forgot basic decency—
and I dimmed the lights
until your selfishness looked
like self-care.

Under mood lighting,
manipulation looks like poetry.
Breadcrumbs taste gourmet.
And your inability to text back
felt like an art form.

You served me mixed signals
on a silver tray
and I plated them like tapas,
told my friends,
“He’s just emotionally complex.”
As if red flags
don’t still stain white sheets.

But babe—
once I flipped the switch?
It wasn’t mystery.
It was mildew.
You weren’t deep—
just damp with delusion
and brooding like a boy band reject
who thinks ghosting is a love language.

And me?
I was the unpaid intern
in your emotional escape room,
solving riddles you barely spelled right.

Now?
I light my own damn candles,
read receipts off,
red flags blocked,
and you?

You're just
a cautionary tale
with great bone structure
and no sequel.

 

[_Land]

Poem 7 Unread

Oh, did you text?
How brave.
How spontaneous.
How very “2 a.m. and suddenly enlightened.”
Sorry, babe—
this ain’t an open mic night
for your regrets.

You see, I left you on unread
not because I didn’t see it—
but because I did.
And my soul rolled its eyes
so hard
it almost sprained its chakra.

Your message was
a haiku of half-assery:
“Hey. U up?”
No punctuation.
No remorse.
Just vibes
and a dick pic energy
you didn’t earn.

You always pop up
like a spam email
titled “Remember me?”
Yeah. I remember.
Like a yeast infection
remembers poor choices.

You said,
“Why are you ignoring me?”
I’m not ignoring you.
I’m just prioritizing
oxygen
and people who know how to apologize
without asterisks and disclaimers.

You had the emotional range
of a decorative soap.
Smelled nice.
Looked cute.
Useless when shit got messy.

And now?
You want closure?
I’ll send you a scented candle
and a playlist called
“Songs to Ghost To (Deluxe Edition).”

Because here’s the truth:
You don’t deserve a response.
You deserve
a museum exhibit
called "Text Messages from the Emotionally Malnourished.”

So yeah—
you’re unread.
Like a Bible
in a fuckboy’s apartment.
Like the terms and conditions
you agreed to
when you signed up
for this smoke.


Interlude #2 Gospel Interlude: Worthy

You are not “too much.”
They just showed up with a shot glass
to a flood of flavor
and blamed you for drowning them.

They couldn’t meet you at the altar,
so they dragged you to the lobby
and called it intimacy.
Then had the nerve
to say you’re dramatic
because you wanted eye contact
and a coherent sentence.

They mistook your vulnerability
for an audition.
You gave them access,
they gave you breadcrumbs—
gluten-free, emotionally void,
and probably expired.

So now, baby,
you bless and release.
You sage your soul,
archive the receipts,
and light a candle
for the version of you
who tolerated that shit.

Next time someone says
you’re “too intense,”
remind them:
fire doesn’t dim itself
for damp wood.

Amen. And pass the petty.
We're sanctified in silence now

Poem 8 Unbothered

You said,
“I just want to talk.”
And I said,
“I just want global peace and abs,
but here we are.”
Unbothered.
Unreachable.
Unsubscribed from your newsletter
of narcissism and nostalgia.

You showed up in my DMs
like a cockroach in a cocktail bar—
uninvited,
unkillable,
and too bold for your own good.

And while you were busy
reheating old drama
in your microwave soul,
I was sipping mimosas
with people who use their words
before their genitals.

You said I changed.
Damn right.
I evolved
past the urge to fix men
with the emotional depth
of a teaspoon
and the apology skills
of a Magic 8-Ball stuck on “Ask again later.”

I used to spin
on the hamster wheel
of your almosts—
almost ready,
almost honest,
almost worth it.

Now?
I’m out here
moisturized,
spiritually exfoliated,
and not even a little tempted
to decode your cryptic “Hope you’re good”
like it’s a lost gospel.

Your drama used to rattle my bones.
Now it’s white noise.
Background static.
A mosquito with a microphone
and no crowd.

Unbothered isn’t passive.
It’s an art form.
It’s knowing you can’t set my peace on fire
with the damp matchstick
of your latest excuse.

So go ahead—
rewrite the past,
tell your friends I was “too much,”
draft another vague-ass post
about “loyalty.”
Just know I won’t see it.

Because while you’re out here
spilling tea in circles,
I’m at the afterparty
drinking champagne
and not thinking about you
at all.

Poem 9 Unhinged

You called me unhinged.
How poetic.
Coming from a man
who couldn’t close a door
without dragging three exes,
a trauma bond,
and a burner account behind him.

Unhinged?
Baby—you are the door that fell off.
Wobbly, warped,
swinging wildly
at the breeze of accountability.

You cracked the frame,
blamed the wind,
and then had the nerve
to ask why I stopped knocking.

Let’s be real—
you don’t open up.
You unravel.
And expect me to refinish you
like I’m Home Depot
with a God complex.

You slammed shut
every time I brought up feelings,
but now that I’ve locked you out?
Suddenly I’m “crazy”?
Nah, honey—
I’m just renovating.

I took your loose screws,
your creaky promises,
your drafty explanations,
and tossed them
into the fucking scrap heap
of lessons learned with bleach.

You weren’t a mystery.
You were a fire hazard.
A fixer-upper
with haunted house tendencies
and emotionally-mildewed energy.

So when you say I’m unhinged?
I take it as a compliment.
Because I ripped myself free
from the rusted-out frame
of your low-effort love
and built myself a whole new entrance—
one that requires
empathy
consistency
and a goddamn doorbell.

Unhinged?
Sweetheart, I’m wide open—
to joy,
to healing,
to someone whose idea of “showing up”
doesn’t involve
a last-minute text
and a half-charged excuse.

You?
You can stay out there
in the hallway of your own denial,
talking to the echo
of who you thought I was.

And this time,
I won’t even crack the peephole.

Poem 10 Apology Tour (Now Booking 3–5 Business Lies Out)

You showed up
like a clearance-rack Messiah,
clutching a latte
and a buzzword-laced confession.

“My bad.
I’ve done a lot of healing.”
Translation:
You bought one rose quartz
and followed a therapist on TikTok.

Now you’re here—
front row, no ticket,
trying to catch my eye
like I’m still the understudy
in your one-man redemption arc.

But baby,
this ain’t your comeback special.
This is my soft launch
into a peace you can’t sit with.
This tour is sold out
to people who say sorry
without stuttering through the syllables.

You brought flowers.
I brought receipts.
You brought “I miss you.”
I brought holy oil
and a restraining metaphor.

Let’s talk timing.
You “just realized” everything
after I glowed the hell up?
After my skin forgot your touch
and my soul stopped translating your grunts
into promises?

How convenient.
How cinematic.
How entirely not my problem.

So go ahead—
whisper your apologies
to the ghost of who I was
before I stopped offering free passes
to people who only show up
when guilt gets lonely.

Your tour ends here.
No encore.
No merch.
No meet and greet.
Just the applause
of every boundary you once bulldozed
now rebuilt
into velvet ropes
you don’t have the wristband to cross.

Poem 11 Resurrection Ain’t for Everyone

Don’t flatter yourself—it’s still a no.

Not everything dead is meant to rise.
Some things stay buried
because even the worms filed complaints.
And you?
You think you’re the phoenix?
Baby, you’re the fire hazard.

You stumbled back
like a deleted scene with a savior complex,
dusting off your ego
like you didn’t ghost me mid-character arc
because “you needed space”
and Wi-Fi strong enough to stream your excuses.

You want a second chance?
Tell that to the plant you forgot to water.
Tell that to the gym membership
you abandoned after three leg days
and a smoothie.

You call it growth.
I call it a costume.
A beard and a book recommendation
do not a resurrection make.

You came back speaking parables
about “timing” and “change”
like I haven’t heard this sermon
with better lighting
and fewer red flags.

And now you want resurrection.
But I’m not the holy spirit
of your half-assed repentance.

I don’t need your ghost
knocking on my peace like it pays rent.
I don’t need your recycled romance
wrapped in self-help jargon
and midnight loneliness.

I don’t need closure.
I need insulation.
Because baby, your energy’s drafty,
and I’ve already caulked the cracks
you used to crawl through.

Not everything buried is a treasure.
Some things stay six feet under
because that’s where they finally
stopped talking.

So no.
No hallelujahs.
No welcome back parade.
Just the echo of my silence
and your exit—
unannounced
and unmissed.

Amen. Go haunt someone else.

Poem 12 Not Today, Satan

and she shall not live on breadcrumbers alone

You slithered back in
like temptation with a Spotify account—
quoting “growth” like scripture
and hoping I’d forget
you were the devil in thrifted enlightenment.

But baby—
I’ve been to the desert.
I’ve fasted on your half-truths.
I survived forty days
and four relationship cycles
off the crumbs of your potential.

And it is written:
She shall not live on “what ifs” alone.
Especially not when there’s brunch,
boundaries,
and a vibrator that doesn’t gaslight her.

You offered kingdoms.
I own my peace.
You promised change.
I’ve got receipts.

You said, “Turn these stones into a second chance.”
And I said,
Thou shalt not weaponize nostalgia
and call it redemption.

Not today, Satan.
Not with your counterfeit conviction
and recycled apologies.
You don’t get to play holy
just because your new therapist
lets you cry in lowercase.

I am the sermon now.
I am the psalm you didn’t deserve.
I turned your red flags
into stained glass
and built a sanctuary
out of my own damn spine.

So no—
I will not throw myself from this tower
just to see if you'll catch me.
I already did that.
You watched.

And it is written:
Thou shalt not return to thy vomit
just because it smells like validation.

So save your benedictions.
I’ve got better prayers to answer.
Like the ones that don’t begin
with “You up?”
or end with me
cleansing my energy with moon water
and a playlist called “Don’t Text Him.”

This temple is sealed.
My spirit is fed.
Your miracles expired
along with my tolerance.

Not today, Satan.
Not tomorrow.
And not even after six cocktails
and a tarot reading that says you might’ve changed.

Amen.
And get thee behind me, loser.

 

[_Land]

Poem 13 Blocked: In the Key of Don’t.

Call:
Our Father—who art still texting.
Response (choir):
Blocked be thy name.

Call:
Thy drama come,
thy closure be done—
Response:
Just not in my inbox.

Call:
On Earth as it is in your head,
where you swear you didn’t do anything wrong.
Response:
We rebuke it.

Call:
Give us this day our daily peace,
and forgive us our weak-ass replies—
Response:
As we forgive no one who ghosteth us and returneth with nonsense.

Call:
Lead us not into DMs,
but deliver us from manipulation—
Response:
For thine is the block list, the power to mute, and the glory of no contact—forever and ever, unfollow.
---

Bridge (sung with rising organ and side-eyes):
I said what I said— blocked.
You sent “u up?”— blocked.
Your number changed? Still— blocked.
Your mama miss me? Guess what— blocked.

You in your feelings?
Well, bless your heart
and your unlimited data plan.

Blocked for my peace.
Blocked for my glow.
Blocked like a door God never told me to open.
---

Chant (soft, then building):
We don’t unblock. We don’t revisit.
We don’t resurrect what was never living.

We don’t unblock. We don’t explain.
We let the choir sing while we reclaim—

Our time. Our worth. Our sanity.
Our voice. Our name. Our divinity.

Final chord:
Blocked.
(And may the notifications be silent.)

Benediction of the Blocked

(subtitle: Go in Peace, Stay in Silence)

And now, my child,
go forth.
Not as the wounded—
but as the witness
to your own resurrection.

You have seen the altar of manipulation,
knelt at the shrine of half-truths,
tithing your time
to someone who couldn’t spell “accountability”
with a divine dictionary and a neon sign.

But you?
You rose.
You left.
You delivered yourself
from the sermon of scraps
and stepped into the gospel of “I said what I said.”

So go in peace.
Light your own candles.
Build no altars to people
who need applause more than intimacy.
And when they come knocking,
speaking in parables
and offering closure
like communion?

Let the block button be your Amen.

And do not look back—
you’re not Lot’s wife,
and salt is better used
on the rim of your margarita
than in the wound they left behind.

You are delivered.
You are deleted.
You are divine.

 

[_Land]

There's a lot of work that goes into a series that creates a chap book choosing where to put interludes and or spacing and the approach of the poetry and where to place each poem is a painstaking event.....

 

[_Land]

There's a lot of work that goes into a series that creates a chap book choosing where to put interludes and or spacing and the approach of the poetry and where to place each poem is a painstaking event.....

Also working with large amounts of words inside of the forum is a pain in the ass

 

[_Land]

Betrayal in Styrofoam

You scalded my soul with caramel lies.
Was “black, no sugar” too complex a spell?
This cup holds the echo of my demise.
You scalded my soul with caramel lies.
I sip—betrayed—while my dignity dies,
a latte foamed straight from the pits of hell.
You scalded my soul with caramel lies.
Was “black, no sugar” too complex a spell

 

[_Land]

The In-Between

There’s a diner on the edge of maybe,
neon bleeding like a busted lip.
A booth holds the ghost of us—
vinyl split,
coffee cold,
lipstick fossilized in a kiss that never came.

Rain taps morse code on windshields,
keys still dangling from the ignition
of a car that never left,
a mixtape mid-song—
our bridge,
never built.

The hallway phone rings like a dare.
Nobody answers,
but the silence hums your name
in static.

On the wall, photos of lives we never lived—
a bride blurred by motion,
a child with your eyes
who doesn’t know mine.

Outside, a swing sways in still air.
No wind. No child.
Just rusted laughter
scraping time’s throat.

And the bed—
creased at the corners
like a promise folded too tight.
Never slept in.
Only dreamed.

This place is nowhere,
and we are always arriving.
A museum of almosts,
exhibits tagged:
what could have been,
what should have been,
what still aches.

 

[_Land]

I Like Big Ghosts and I Cannot Lie
(a funk-fusion haunting)

By Bear Sage

I like big ghosts and I cannot lie—
the kind that haunt in hips,
that rattle chains to the bassline,
that linger in the corner
with a look that says,
"You still miss this, don’t you?"

She left glitter on my grief.
Lipstick-stained memories
on the rim of my regrets.
Every time I move on,
her name drops
like a low-end beat
in the back of my spine.

She was a whole-ass chorus
with a hook so thick
I still choke on it.
Boo-tay so bad it stayed
after the body was gone—
left the room,
but not the rhythm.

I’ve changed the sheets.
Burned the playlist.
Even baptized my bed
in backup dancers.
But she keeps poppin’ up
like a remix I didn’t request.

[REMIX — whisper groove]

Drop it low...
with the ghost I only know...
when the lights go dim and the beat gets slow...
She dips through shadows,
hips in stereo,
and I follow—
because even heaven couldn’t hold her flow.

~

I tell my boys I’m good.
That I’m free.
Then she moonwalks through my memory
in slow motion
with that same damn look,
like “You’ll never not want this.”

And they’re right.
I can't lie.
I like my ghosts with curves—
haunt me in harmony,
whisper in 808s,
grind in dreams
I pretend I don’t have.

So go ‘head,
roll that ectoplasm.
Twerk through the afterlife.
She gone,
but she still got back—
and I’m still possessed.

 

[_Land]

I’m Not Funny by Bear Sage
(for Robin)

I am not funny.
I am quick.
A spark in a storm.
A thousand voices
rushing to cover the one
that won’t stop whispering
when the lights go down.

You know me as laughter—
as chaos in a floral dress,
wielding frosting and fire
in the name of family.
But Mrs. Doubtfire
was armor.
A costume stitched
from desperation and love,
because sometimes
you have to become someone else
just to stay close
to the people you’re losing.

You clapped when I told boys
to stand on desks,
to rip the pages
that told them how to think.
Carpe Diem,
I said.
But no one asks
what happens to the teacher
when the bell stops ringing
and he walks home
alone.

You cheered when I told Will
he wasn’t at fault.
But I knew—
because I, too,
have stared at the mirror
and whispered apologies
to a child version of myself
that never got to be
just a child.

In Patch Adams,
I wore the nose,
juggled the pills,
prayed that humor
could heal what hands couldn’t.
But off-screen,
there were nights I couldn’t
even lift
my own smile.

And the Genie—
god, the Genie.
All magic and no freedom.
Endless wishes,
but never one for himself.
People forget:
he only wanted
to be real.
To be seen.
To be free.

I’m not funny.
I’m frantic.
I’m a firework of feeling
launched to distract
from the quiet implosions.
I gave you joy
because I couldn’t keep it.
I gave you light
because I was drowning in it.
You mistook my mimicry for healing,
my impressions for peace.
But I was patching holes
in my soul
with punchlines.

And when the ovation faded—
when the theater emptied
and I stood in the wings
waiting for myself to arrive—
I knew.

The hardest part
of being everyone’s
favorite escape
is that no one ever asks
if you’ve found yours.

So if you remember me,
don’t just quote the lines
that made you laugh.
Remember the pauses.
The weight beneath the words.
The man
who dared to be wild
so others could feel whole.
Who made the world smile
while quietly
folding into himself
one last time.

 

[_Land]

"The Glorious Mural of Saint Shit-Eater: Patron of Bootlickers & Blind Allegiance"
By Bear Sage


—best viewed while gagging.

At center:
A man with no neck.
It fled. Long ago.
Like his dignity.

His robe is made of caution tape
and campaign stickers—
blood red, piss yellow.
He calls it his Sunday best.

His tongue?
A doormat.
“WELCOME,” it says,
though it’s mostly worn out
by the jackboots of the powerful.

Eyes?
No need.
He’s had them professionally removed
for convenience.
Only so much truth a toady can stomach
before vomiting up their master's name
like communion wine.

His halo—plastic.
Battery-powered.
Flashes slogans like: "Obedience is Sexy"
"Doubt is for Communists"
"My Lord Can Do No Wrong (Please Validate Me)"

Behind him, a glorious altar:
a toilet throne,
flushed hourly with common sense.
He's genuflecting.
Choking down sacramental Kool-Aid
spiked with conspiracy and clout.

Cherubs hover overhead—
inflatable, helium-filled,
chanting tweets in Latin.
“Hallelujah for Hypocrisy!”
“Retweet if Thou Art Saved!”

At his feet:
a mob of fellow pilgrims,
nibbling crumbs of relevance
from the rim of a golden asshole
marked “TRUTH.”
Spoiler: it farts every hour on the hour.
They cheer.
They weep.
They call it divine revelation.

Somewhere in the sky,
a clown-shaped God weeps
into a flag
stitched from broken promises
and badly Photoshopped memes.

And scrawled in blistered graffiti
above the whole damn circus:
“AND ON THE SEVENTH DAY,
HE DELEGATED CRITICAL THINKING
TO SOCIAL MEDIA PUNDITS.”

 

[_Land]

The Hive Between Her Thighs
—an erotic unfolding
By Bear Sage

She was jasmine at midnight—
fragrance drunk on her own bloom,
spilling secrets like nectar
down the pulse of my throat.

I came to her garden barefoot,
tongue sticky with longing,
drawn not by sight
but the tremble of pollen calling
through sweat-slick air.

She breathed in moans—
soft,
fermented with want.
Not loud. Not crude.
But thick with the ache
of unopened buds.

My wings—
trembling with restrained hunger—
hovered just above her bloom.
Not yet.
Not yet.
The art is in the orbit.
The holy tease of hover and hum.

Each gust I made stirred her petals.
A thousand small earthquakes
beneath her skin,
rattling the soft cages
where moans learn to fly.

I brushed her edges—
once,
then pulled away.
Watched her arch.
Watched her beg the wind
to stop playing prophet
and become god.

I tasted her in the air
before I ever landed.
Jasmine and want—
ripe, undone, unreasonably soft.
A decadence that made sin
feel like charity.

She called me bee,
but I was storm in disguise,
gentle only because she deserved
to unravel in slow motion.

When I entered,
it was with reverence,
not conquest.
A communion,
a soft surrender
of wings to womb.

She shuddered—
not from fear,
but recognition.

Even her soul
spread its thighs.

I moved like syrup through her hollows,
not a pounding—
but a pour.
A slow flood
of everything I’d saved
for the one flower
worth drowning in.

Her walls were not barriers—
they were invitations.
Every contraction
a whispered “deeper,”
every pulse a syllable
of the poem her body wrote
on the tip of my tongue.

She wrapped around me
like vines around morning,
like shadows curling at dawn’s heel—
tight, claiming,
desperate to be filled
with more than just me—
to be filled with meaning.
To be rewritten
from the inside.

My wings, now frantic,
beat the rhythm of worship
against her belly.
Each vibration
an earthquake in miniature,
sending hymns
to the corners of her spine
where no one had ever prayed.

And she—
Lord, she sang.
Not with voice,
but with convulsion.
The kind of melody
that only bodies know
when they forget
who they are.

The jasmine peeled back,
petal by petal,
until I saw the god
hiding in her center—
the raw gold
only bees brave enough to love
could touch.

And when she came—
it wasn’t climax.
It was collapse.
A holy undoing.
The flower falling into the hive.
The soul forgetting
it had ever been separate
from the storm.

I stayed there,
still inside her,
not out of exhaustion—
but awe.
The taste of her
now permanently tangled
in the geometry
of my hunger.

And then—
silence.

Not the kind that begs for words,
but the sacred hush
of two bodies
no longer needing to explain
why they burned.

Only breath,
intertwined and reverent,
the hive now still—
sweet,
spent,
and holy.

 

[_Land]

Showgirl~by Bear Sage

For the Queen of Concrete Glitter in Vegas heat

She is Vegas,
spun in gold lamé and smoke,
where neon signs kneel to her in reverence,
and broken dreams applaud
from the corners of the strip.

A walking spark—
no stage, just sidewalk,
heels sharp as switchblades
clicking rhythm into pavement prayers.
She bends light
with every wink,
pulling pocket change from pockets
and secrets from shadows.

Her skin is summer asphalt,
slick with hustle.
Mascara runs like roulette dreams—
black rivers down her cheekbones,
but always symmetrical,
always intentional.
Because even her ruin is curated.

There’s a rhythm in her grind,
a gospel in the sway of hips
painted in dollar store rhinestones
and last night’s glitter.
Tourists take pictures.
Men take pause.
Children take notes.

The desert isn’t kind—
but she knows how to conjure rain
from sweat and split bills,
how to milk mercy
from a night that never ends.

She breathes in smog and spilled tequila,
exhales the scent of bravado and Chanel No. 5 knockoff,
and keeps time with the beat
of nearby slot machines
like it’s her damn metronome.

No manager.
No marquee.
Just bare skin against God’s furnace,
an act written in flesh and resolve,
with a feathered headpiece
standing taller than the odds.

She doesn’t need applause.
Just tips.
And time enough between songs
to sip from a lukewarm water bottle
like it’s champagne.

And when the sun finally slips down behind the Strip,
and the lights take their turn at being loud,
she rises
again
from the sweat and smoke,
a phoenix in fishnets,
dancing on the ashes of what could’ve been
if she hadn’t decided
to burn brighter instead.

 

[_Land]

“First Impressions Were Gods”
By Bear Sage

We met
draped in mythology—
you,
with the laugh of a demi-god
carved from lightning,
me,
spilling Persephone’s perfume
as if I wasn’t raised in shadow.

Your words
were bronze coins flipped in moonlight,
always landing on charm.
Mine
were parchment prayers burned before reading,
each syllable rehearsed
in the dressing room of doubt.

We bowed,
not in greeting,
but in sacrifice—
offering up our edited selves
like temple idols polished
for a congregation of one.

You wore confidence
stitched from old heartbreaks
and unfinished poems.
I wore silence
tailored into mystery,
tight enough to pass for poise.

We sipped stories
like fine wine
and never mentioned the bruised grapes.
You didn’t show
the scar stitched down your father’s approval,
and I didn’t confess
that my smile was mostly prosthetic.

We were gods,
briefly—
summoned from longing,
shining from angles
no one could sustain.

I loved you
in the myth of your making.
You loved me
in the fable I forced into form.

And isn’t that how legends begin?
Two liars
begging to be believed.
Two mirrors
too fogged to reflect the wounds beneath.

Still,
I remember that first version of us—
gold leaf and illusion,
before the rain came,
before the cracks hissed open
and the truth stepped in,
naked
and unwelcome,
but real.

 

[_Land]

What Emptiness Demands

when something leaves,
we don’t mourn the thing—
we mourn the echo
that keeps answering our name
with no mouth behind it.

There’s a hunger that howls
in the meat of you—
not romantic,
not poetic,
just feral.
A beast with your voice
scratching at locked doors
you swore you’d never open again.

You don't miss him.
You miss the reflex:
how your bones remembered
what to do
with his weight on top of them.
How your breath
made room for his name
even when it tasted like rust.

You don’t crave connection—
you crave the distraction from collapse.

The body is an addict.
It doesn't want love,
it wants pattern.
It wants the hit.
It wants the text at 2:14 a.m.
so it doesn’t have to admit
you’re sleeping beside a black hole
in the shape of a man
who isn't coming back.

And so we fill it.
Fuck it full of strangers,
stitch the wound shut
with drunk affirmations
and filtered selfies.
We call it healing
but it's just screaming into mirrors
hoping something answers back.

You think the void can be reasoned with?
The void is not reasonable.
The void is a goddamn addict too.

It doesn’t want your peace.
It wants your pulse.
It wants your trembling.
It wants you to build a church
from your unworthiness
and kneel.

But here’s the filthiest secret:
you can starve it.
You can let it ache.
Let the want
rot on the vine.
Let the echo
collapse into dust
because not everything
that leaves
needs replacing.

Some absences
are altars.
And you—
you were never meant
to be filled by anything
less
than your own goddamn fire.

 

[_Land]

Reflections

A belt loop torn
on the rusted fence behind your childhood home—
where you first learned
that wanting something
could draw blood.

The bathroom tile
cold under bare feet
the night you swallowed your voice

The scent of gunpowder
at the Fourth of July table
where silence
was safer
than telling truth.

A voicemail
you never deleted—
Their voice aged
like a wine that turned
to vinegar

The dust on your mother’s perfume bottle
smells like grief
disguised as grace.

And still—
the reflection holds more.

A future version of you
grinding coffee beans
at 6:14 a.m.—
in a kitchen you built
with someone who doesn’t flinch
when you cry.

A photograph not yet taken:
your laugh
wrinkling the corners of your eyes
like crow feathers in mid-flight.

The weight of keys
in your palm,
warm from someone else's hands—
the kind that only come
when you’ve stopped
knocking
on locked doors.

A night not yet arrived—
you, on a balcony,
wine-dark sky,
finally forgiving the girl
who chose survival
over storybook.

And in this very breath—
you stand
between what almost broke you
and what you are about to build.

This isn’t limbo.
It’s a mirror
tilted just right
to show the scar
and the bloom.
The bruise
and the brass knuckles
you forged from it.

Reflection is not memory.
It is prophecy
wearing the face
you are only now
learning to recognize
as your own.