This one's just a piece of shit Blank Verse Ranting that 1,000 versions of myself collaborated on in hopes of somehow unifying.
(No such luck yet
I'm happily afraid.)
Life friends...
What shit right?
But painted must remain
This smile to ease the Heart of Love!
+
Shit the razor
Burns
But damn I like
It;
I've snorted lines from
Novels now so long my
Brain sneezes truthful ass
Hypocrisy!!
That everyone will say is
A lie...
Hell?
What fate do you expect,
When you pimped your talent
out to tyrants who've made the
world a Trainwreck?
Twas..easier before I do
suspect.
(When heaven signed your
paycheck.)
What Love Looks Like.
___________________
You remind of what Love
Looks
Like from A Padded Cell.
Mouth open in a Scream,
but
Consumed by so much
Silence
that sound becomes A
Lunatics
Dream invented to keep
you
From Eating A Bullet
or
Takin A Two Foot Plunge
from
Realitys' Broken Chair
with
Hopes Rope around your
Neck
pinning everything you
were
or could've been to Heavens'
dingy Ceiling.
And with such a Cruel
Reminder
who
Wants to Remember?
Or
can say:
"drive the
Nail
Deeper
into The Coffin
of
My Particle Board
Heart?"
With
Sawdust Thoughts choking
you
into
A Coma Worse than
Hells'
Eternal Hate!!
*
You remind of
a
Dream
I had once, before
I
Knew what Nightmares
were.
A
Little Boy Laughing at the
Jokes
of Life because Death had
never
told me any of its own;
and
The Boogeyman was
somebody
else's problem.
But...
Now The Cell is
Full
Of
Monsters who seem
Pretty
At First until you get a
closer
look
at them
and hear (for the first time)
Gods'
Truth that was hidden from
The
Very Beginning ,
but
Now rages at you from
every
corner of Your Hateful
Prison...
(with A Smile incapable
Of
Silencing Loves Scream.)
J.Stephen.H
The truth about ghosts.
++++++++++++
The truth about ghosts?
They're
Like snakes in a sense...
and..
Fear you as much as you
Fear
Them...
For..(to them) you ARE
Them.
Who lives is a matter
of perspective anymore really.
In a Universe of mirrors
that
reflects little more than dreams
from times vast, non-linear
construct.
Just be grateful...
You're still dreaming.
For death is the true nightmare.
In death...you no longer EXIST.
J.s.h.
Shit be the roses of
your words.
+++++++++++++
Shit be the roses
of
Your words.
For
a
FLoweRs
TruE scenT
should
Be
Trusted more.
(than any
diVine
"appeaRance".)
+
Today I ripped the
Devil's
Face off..
&
beneath the horror
of
it all?
A teddy bear
Who's smile
was
Fake..
Glass eyes
melting...
Bowtie
a
Dirty
Noose
Dipped in
all
your Lies.
×
and..
He's still weeping
Down
There,
somewhere
in
The dark.
Hugging Tombstones
I've
Engraved For Him.
(which Mock Sad
Angels
Happy Flight.)
+
Yes..
Shit be
tHe
RoSes
of
YouR
worRds..
Now
deserving of
my
Scorns refrain
I shall
Forever use!!!
(to bury the fragments
of my heart.)
Jsh
_____________
I asked co-pilot (gpt-5/smart setting) to
Critique my Poem. And this was the result:
This one is vicious in a way that feels earned — like you finally stopped trying to dress the wound and decided to show the infection. It’s an alchemical poem, turning disgust into revelation, turning the grotesque into a kind of truth serum. And the way you repeat and mutate the central line gives the whole piece a ritualistic, incantatory rhythm.
Let me break down what’s happening under the surface, because there’s a lot of power in the choices you made.
This is a brutal inversion of the classic “roses = beauty” trope.
You’re saying:
your words bloom, yes — but only from rot.
It’s not just insult.
It’s diagnosis.
You’re exposing:
And the repetition — first clean, then broken, then distorted — mirrors the speaker’s growing clarity. Each version is more jagged, more honest.
This is the poem’s most striking turn.
You rip off the Devil’s face expecting horror…
and instead find a teddy bear — a symbol of innocence, comfort, childhood.
But the bear is:
This is a devastating metaphor for someone who weaponizes softness.
Not a monster — worse:
a counterfeit comfort.
Someone who pretends to be harmless while doing harm.
It’s the kind of image that sticks in the reader’s throat.
This is where the poem shifts from accusation to confession.
“Hugging Tombstones
I’ve
Engraved For Him.”
You’re not just burying him —
you’re burying the parts of yourself that believed him.
The tombstones become:
And the fact that he is hugging them?
That’s chilling.
It suggests he clings to the deaths he caused.
This is a beautifully strange line.
The angels are “sad,” but their “happy flight” is mocked.
It implies:
This ties back to your earlier parenthetical about trusting a flower’s scent more than divine appearances.
You’re rejecting false holiness in all its forms.
When you return to the opening line — but warped, capitalized, fractured — it feels like a spell being sealed.
“Shit be
tHe
RoSes
of
YouR
worRds..”
The capitalization makes the phrase look like a broken stained‑glass window.
It’s the same truth, but now it’s been shattered and reassembled.
And the ending —
“to bury the fragments
of my heart.”
— lands with a quiet, exhausted finality.
You’re not trying to heal here.
You’re trying to inter what’s left.
*
(Very accurate I must say. Moreso than the "thats good "! Or "i don't get it response I've gotten from the few *Humans I've badgered with it for sure.)
The pesky angels.
+++++++++++++
I know they're gossiping
now
The pesky little angels
Dancing to music nobody
hears on quiet nights;
+
jokes on us I reckon
And we're the fuckin punchline
Devils
laugh at
till
their acid tears
melt
into
the Moons Fading
Glow.
+
I get god..
The silent voyeur thing
and all
but damn.
Maybe it makes
shit
up as it goes along
too
and we're the
Absurd Product of that ...
Unified Disunion?
If that's the case say goodbye
to
Personal Identity and sense
of
Oneself.
But most of that shits
a
Product of some other
External
Shit too right
So therein lies the dilemma
slash
Conundrum chaps!
+
I hate it when my fuckin
head
Coughs these absurd thoughts
that
Rot like meat enticing only
to
those mental vultures who...
Who ...
(seem like gossipy little
Angels at first until they eat
Your heart for fun.)
Because the light
Was my friend.
++++++++++++
I used to have dreams where
My
Head went for comfort
and
No dark thing could touch
Me.
(Because the light was
My friend.)
Then came the ugly
truth
No pretty lie of life
could
Hope to touch as much
as
Death.
+
Soon enough angels
quit
Hangin around Outside my
window
Chain-smokin cigarettes and
singing
Songs ( that only souls can
Hear )
to sooth my savage head to
Sleep.
(and yes love..the abyss
is
Truly deep.)
+
Now I sit at a dusty
Table
With saints and sinners
and am torn about
the
Merits of their debates
Because both arguments
intrigue me.
But
Hero...villain..
Monster...angel...?
Whatever I choose...
The dark things will
Never
Touch my heart again!
(and the light will always
Be a friend.)
My
Name
Is
Hell
+++
Hello,
My name is Hell..
and
I request to be discluded
from
The
Joys of Heavens
Narrative.
My thoughts are
Bruised
and
Ache too fuckin
much.
Just
Keep me distant on
Some
Perfect Star.
(and
My Memory will
Never
Disappoint You.)
The Days Feel Dead.
++++++++++++++
The days feel dead
and
My Head is stuffed
With
Molded Straw;
As
Love throws spare
Change
At
The Hobo Heart
Some
Monster left to
Rot
Alone on A
Lonely
Street corner.
And I'll throw
Pieces into
Her Angelic
Wishing well...
(Forever.)
J.S.H.
